jonberger

New sky.
New trees.
New town.
New faces.
New people who don’t recognize you
who don’t know you
who don’t know what you’ve done.

Maybe it’s best to keep it that way.
If anyone asks about the past
keep to the shortest answers:
Yes, no, I don’t recall…
that sort of thing.
Don’t let them know anything.

It’ll just keep things easier
if no one hears
about who was the turkey baster king
of Whackamole County
and why.

When you blink, the world just passes you by
and the guy you thought was a newbie has mysteriously died
and you do a little research and no one knows why;
he just took a dirt nap after closing his eyes.

I’ve been rolling along, just living my life
when I wondered, “What happened to Nicholas Knife,
the theoretical mixologist at Snapper’s Retreat?”
I hadn’t seen him for a minute. Now he’s under six feet.

The Internet could tell me that he died years ago
and though I asked what happened the reportage workflow
provided no real details, and he wasn’t real old.
In fact, he was about my age, or so I was told

so the cause could not be natural. I mean: how could it
occur for someone of my years? The logic mis-fit.
It had to be an accident – or murder! Or drugs!
Or he got mugged or plugged or hit by the assassin bug.

Or maybe, possibly, I blinked, and years have passed
and in all that time, I never got off my ass.
And Nicky just died, and I could be next.
Shit, I’m wrecked.

There are things I could be doing that I’m not
but there are always things I could be doing that I’m not.
That’s always the case for everyone.
The world is in a constant state of FOMA,
and if not, then in an actual state of MA.

Still
I have not been responsible today
so I should be responsible tomorrow
or perhaps I will goof off even better
than I have today.
Decisions, decisions.

Sometimes, there are things that only the dawn
will be able to resolve.
Will this be one of them?
Perhaps tomorrow
will answer.

Reviewing the works I can easily access,
I found that I have written three poems called The Steps
and one poem called The Next Step.
I looked into this to see if it was cool
to write a new poem called The Steps.
It is not cool. It is not cool at all.

I wrote about steps of romance
and steps of dancing
and steps of composition
and steps of psychic recovery.
There might have been some overlap
in the pieces.

I see that I’ve covered a lot of ground
with The Steps.
I don’t even remember what else I wanted to say.
It hardly matters anymore.
With this review
it certainly doesn’t seem necessary to step up
with additional content.

I went to an event for my club the other day
but it was about the golden age of the club
– before I had joined.
I try not to take that personally.
I don’t think anyone is actually saying,
“It all went downhill when you came along.”
I don’t think anyone is really thinking of me at all,
which is probably worse.

I first joined the club
because I’d heard about the club
during its golden age
(read about it, actually)
and thought it was the kind of club
that should have me as a member.

I became the secretary
– or the chronicler –
maybe I was the scribe.
I don’t know. There weren’t actually formal roles
in the club. The club’s kind of a metaphor, actually.
Maybe it’s more like an analogy?
Whatever. I became important there,
but I was always looking backwards
hoping to be part of the club’s history,
the days I heard about, but had missed.

I was nostalgic for an era I had never known
which is called anemoia
which I just learned by looking it up.

I was part of something pretty great
and I’m pretty sure there are people
who think I experienced the golden age
of the club myself, and they may experience anemoia
over my early days, too.

Everyone might be nostalgic over a period
they never got to enjoy,
forgetting the awesome days they lived through.

My time at the club was pretty cool,
it’s true.

The Avenue A Irregulars meet again
far away from their original stomping grounds
to stomp again
with less strength
and fewer members.

They have found a location
more convenient
with milder acoustics, softer food,
and an earlier closing.
They all have early wake-ups to consider now,
unlike the old days.

Now, it is not just the days that are old.

The Irregulars sing songs of the glorious past
and recall how much better it was
before the lyrics got so fast
and the men dressed at half-mast
back before the century’s turn
prior to when everything burned.

The Avenue A Irregulars meet again
somewhere new.
Things are different now
same as it ever was.

I thought you should know.
I have just passed your apartment
the one you had before you were wed.
The one I passed on my bike for many years before,
worried when my lease was up,
that I’d have to move
and no longer have a view of you to look forward to
on my way home
until I found a new apartment on the same route
and was able to ride the same way
for many years more.

Of course,
when you got hitched
you moved to a new place
so I stopped looking up to you the same way
but all good things come to an end eventually,
don’t they?
I guess they do.

I thought you should know about this momentous occasion.
I don’t bike this way anymore
so it’s rare for me to see your old apartment.
The lights are on
like they used to be.
You, of course, are long gone,
as you probably know.

I wonder where you are now.

And it happened in a land
across the ice, beyond the sand:
a summoning!
With the powers at command
a creature’s use was thus demanded
for a purpose.

And so it was that the palace
got really shiny floors.

From wide and far
people would come
to find their amazed reflections
looking back at them
from the floors of the palace
and, as it was mentioned above,
they were amazed.

Of course
it was difficult
to traverse the floors
for anything so bright
must also be slick
as some wise one
must once have warned,
but when flying so close to the sun
one must be prepared
for a bit of waxy wing.

The Queen was asked
why she didn’t summon peace
for her lands
or a larger estate
and she snorted.
“Where were you
when we had the creature?”

And in a land in days long past
a work request had been well-cast
into a summoning.
With powers that were vast
a creature used them for a half-assed
purpose.

Winningly, maybe with a little wink on the inside,
she says, “When are you gonna write a poem about me?”
“Oof,” I say, “If you knew how many poems I’ve written about you…”
“You’ve written about me?” She laughs, hitting me, “What poems?”
“They’re all about you!” I shout. “The ones written in the nineties, too,
before I knew you! No,” I continue, “You have to figure that out for yourself.
They’re all available at the website”
She pouts, but I don’t mind. Maybe this way,
I can get her to actually read my work.

I like myself. I do! I’ve got self-esteem issues,
but I think I’m a smart, funny,
caring personality,
I’m engaging, and if I’m interested in talking to you
we can have a lot of fun.
I’ve come into myself over the years.

Still, it bums me out to think that
if my big crush in high school were to see me again,
I’d probably be the same bumbling fool I was all those years ago.
Some patterns are hard to break.
I was creepy then.
I’m much less creepy now,
but I’m sure it still comes out.

I’m sure she would remember me that way.
I’m sure writing about her
generations later
would not help me
in being less of the bumbling fool
should we ever meet again.

There’s little chance of us catching up.
A private eye friend
couldn’t find anything on her.
The trail is just too cold.

So it’s just as well
that I haven’t kept up
on my rehearsals
of what to say for our eventual reunion.
The clothes I bought for it
probably wouldn’t fit anymore, anyway.
The outfit for her was maybe a little inappropriate.

So the fact that we won’t meet
is probably for the best.