Sonderman

by Kevin Mercurio

Tick tock. Tick tock.
I continue to stare at the clock.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
The teacher keeps scratching the board with chalk.
Just more meaningless letters and numbers.
I slumber.
Lecturing rather than teaching, I’m in constant wonder.
Outside, the weather flashes lightning and thunder.
I shudder.
Tremble at the fact that I couldn’t even muster
up the courage to say hello
to the girl in the third row.
There is so much to think about,
at a time when I’m supposed to be en route
in preparation for my future without
so much as a “good luck”.

Do they even notice me?

Wishing that there won’t be a fuss,
hiding from the assholes at the back of the bus.
I finally get home late,
hoping that no one is there to exacerbate
the events of today.
But there was mom, “Do you want to eat dinner?” She would say.
“I want to go play,” I would relay.
But that was a lie.
I just wanted to survive one more day and cry.
It’s not until I get ready for bed,
that I see the man in the bright red cape
waiting by my door.
And before I begin to tear once more,
he extends his hand to mine.
And suddenly without so much as a sign
I lose all negative emotions,
untrue suppositions,
adolescent superstitions.
Replaced by radiant optimism,
like a sense of final fruition
to a successful day.
Sonderman was here to stay,
to carry the bad away,
so that children would be able to say,
“I survived another day”.

 

Type, type, type, type.
I strain continuously to read and write.
Type, type, type, type.
I resist to resign with all my might.
Just more redundant emails and reports.
I sort.
Statistics on government imports and exports.
Outside my office, my colleagues laugh and snort.
I participate.
I attend meetings and try to relate
the data I extrapolate
to determine the national candidates that would cooperate.
There was so much to do,
at a time when I was supposed to be reviewed
for a promotion; something new
and outside of the general point of view.

Do I even make a difference?

Desperately trying not to self-reference
the author’s short story, Synergy.
But I can’t overlook that we were placed systematically,
almost after mathematically
calculating our capabilities for anarchy.
On my way home, I try and anticipate the traffic,
and curse when the movement becomes static.
I do it unconsciously,
as unfortunately it has been occurring automatically.
It’s not until I get home,
that I see the man in the bright red cape
sitting on the couch.
And before I complain like an elderly grouch,
he extends his hand to mine.
And suddenly without so much as a sign,
I lose all negative emotions,
impulse propositions,
preposterous conclusions.
Replaced by lustrous ambition,
like a sense of initial determination
in a new occupation.
Sonderman was here to steer
the madness that comes before the cheer,
so that adults won’t have to fear
unhappiness in their career.

 

Cook, clean, sex.
I continue to lie even with context.
Cook, clean, sex.
We continue to fight without knowing what’s next.
Just more expensive bills and tedious chores.
I mourn.
I long for the days that were empty of scorn,
the times before my son was born.
I prepare.
I organize their clothes for what to wear,
because at one point our relationship was fair
and full of love and care.
There was so much discussion that needed to be had,
how much I wanted him to be a partner and a dad.
But he’s always mad,
and I feel sad.

Does he even appreciate me?

Because really all I desire to see,
is honestly just some common courtesy.
I dust the house, I clean the laundry,
I finish all my shows on TV.
It’s just afterwards I sit and wait,
trying to anticipate
what awaits me at night.
Will we shout and fight?
Or skip the seemingly inevitable plight?
It’s not until the afternoon ends,
that I see the man in the bright red cape
stepping into the living room.
And before I continue to wait in gloom,
he extends his hand to mine.
And suddenly without so much as a sign,
I lose all negative emotions,
unrealistic intuitions,
detrimental ideas of division.
Replaced by gleaming restitution,
as if finally given true affection
by another person.
Sonderman was here to steal
the anger and despair I have concealed,
so that spouses don’t have to deal
with a partner who chooses not to feel.

 

Eat, crap, sleep.
I continue to live but barely speak.
Eat, crap, sleep.
I try and move but I feel extremely weak.
Just more routines and issues with pain.
I refrain.
To go out and grab the next plane,
to take the Lord’s name in vane.
I forget.
The past choices I tend to regret,
the present factors I’ve labelled a threat,
the future possibilities that make me fret.
There was still so much to see:
the Sequoia’s Coastal Redwood trees,
the Black Sand Beaches of Maui,
but yet all I can think about is how hard it is to pee.

Did I even try to do as much as I could?

Because sometimes I feel like I should
force myself out of this hospital which would
allow me to experience all that is good.
I try and make an effort to stand,
but it’s even hard to reach out my hand.
It’s hopeless,
as I discover I’m afraid,
of the path that was laid.
My dues were paid,
yet I simply remained
burdened with strife,
while waiting for the scythe.
It’s not until I catch my reflection,
that I see the man in the bright red cape
laying down on my hospital bed.
And before I pass into the night,
he extends his hand to mine.
And suddenly without so much as a sign,
I lose all negative emotions,
thoughts of missing occurrences,
thoughts of painful bodily functions.
Replaced by fearless acceptation,
as if finally granted comprehension,
of inevitable expiration.
Sonderman is far and near,
waiting for moments to appear,
so that people will have nothing to fear,
and realize that he was always here.

_____

“I’m not a prophet or a stone aged man, just a mortal with potential of a superman.”
David Bowie

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