Journey Crisis

by Kris Janvier

Photo by John Moeses Bauan on Unsplash

I’m nearing the end of my 20s. 
My stomach is pulled down 
by the gravity crushing my intestines 
and my liver along with it. 
My femurs are not comminuted. 
Yet, I’m unable to walk. 
Unable to pull my weight. 
Unread books and unfiled taxes 
are filling up my baggage 
and they were things 
that I picked up along the way 
and now it had become 
the past that I’m holding on to 
on my back. 
“Where am I going really?” 
I asked myself 
as I projected from my body 
in the middle of Grand Ave. 
and traveled 50 miles over the  
Southern State, Cross Island and  
Queens-Midtown expressway 
to the KGB bar at the speed of light. 

I sat by the corner 
while we watched George Wallace 
some of his poetry from his 42nd book, 
drank his beer 
and ate his 76th birthday cake 
in the red room with his friends 
who are also poets and musicians, 
not geriatrics, hopefully though. 

“Will I be able to stay committed like him?” I asked myself. 
“You will.” I turn my head to the wall to see who’s talking. 
“You will.” The fly repeated the phrase. 
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. You’re just witnessing 
a celebration from someone’s journey. Watching old people grow 
more older must be nice.” The fly said. 
I responded. “Well, from you’re perspective, it’s sure does ma-“ 
“It doesn’t matter.” The fly interjected. 
“If I were to borrow your time, I would’ve mine my business….like him.” The fly continued. 
“What do you mean?” I asked after being consumed by the perplexity of its statement. 
“Y’know what I mean. Look at this calm face. His low eyes. You could tell he has lived a lot. 
He remains present doing so. That’s what I call an achiever.” The fly continues. 
“There are so many of you living with regrets with the time you have. Always worrying about  
what everybody is doing. That’s what your journey is becoming. You looking at me like I’m dumb, but you’re realizing that you’re a ghost.” Said the fly with its compound eyes fixated 
at me and just me as I simultaneously looked back and forth at George and a stranger talking to me. 

“You’re right. I get your point. I was supposed to turn 30 next week…….it’s just that…… 
I don’t feel like I’m going anywhere………don’t get me wrong, I worked a job and published books, but……” 

A loud round of applause 
shook away my struggle to find 
words to complete my thought. 
George and friends putting on 
their overcoats. 
Warm hugs, pounds and kisses 
as they leave their condensed, small tables 
with empty glasses 
leaving no traces of beer and wine. 

Moments later, 
a bartender that I talked to at times, 
but always forgot her name 
was picking up glasses, 
wiping water off the tables 
and mopped the spills 
around the chairs 
not knowing she was 
being watched by an apparition 
and a bug. 

“Anyway, I getting out of here.” Said the fly. 
“Where will you be heading after this?” it asked. 

“I don’t know. I’ll find a place…..somehow.” I said with uncertainty. 

2 weeks later, my clothes and bag 
were hung over the power lines 
at Grand Avenue 
as a sign of honor in Baldwin. 

The doctors told my family that I died of natural causes, 
although they couldn’t find them.