August Evening ’73 (Supposed)
Poem written by Ned Buratovich on January 5, 1974 about expectations leading to confrontation one August evening in 1973.
Ned’s reading of the poem, recorded sometime in the summer of 2004:
August Evening ’73
The timing’s off on my goddamn bike, nothing I try can make it right. I just want to get it done and get to Starmer’s tonight and I am supposed to be there soon.
Supposed by whom? Supposed by her, I suppose. No one really ever knows.
And then my cousin comes a-Sportster riding to flush me from my hiding so that we may go a-riding right away. A-riding right away? That can be no way—my engine timing is uneven and even if it weren’t, I’m still supposed to be with Janice soon.
Supposed by whom? Supposed by her, I suppose. No one really ever knows.
“Oh, that’s a pile of shit,” my cousin, Marty, says. “Don’t let that woman tell you what to do. A-riding’s where it’s at, so fix your bike and I’ll be back tonight, I want to cruise the strip with you.”
So up the stairs I go to let my Janice know that I’ll be there, but I’ll be late and would she mind to kindly wait until I got my bike in tune, ‘cause I’m supposed to go a-riding soon.
Supposed by whom? Supposed by him, I suppose. No one really ever knows.
“Oh, that’s a pile of shit,” my girlfriend, Janice, says. “You never want to see me anymore. I’m tired of waiting just for you, wasting the night, nothing to do. You said you would be here hours before; you’re supposed to be in my room.”
Supposed by whom? Supposed by her, I suppose. No one really ever knows.
I feel so alone to hang up the phone, not alone from my friends, but alone from myself in the end.
“Was that Janice you called?” my parents would gripe, “Why drag her around, she’s just not your type; and tell that kid, Marty, out in the street to stop revving his engine; we’re going to sleep. Sometimes it’s no wonder you can’t be as you should. Just look at your friends, they’re not any good. Why listen to them or do what they say? Don’t be so weak, do things the right way—the way they’re supposed to be done.
Supposed by whom? Supposed by them, I suppose. No one really ever knows.
Marty is edgy, in a hurry to split, edging me on and giving me shit. I keep my balance ‘til he pulls out his blade and then—my last supposition is made.
One hand on his wrist, the other a fist at his collar and “Don’t you ever pull a mother-fucking knife, ever in your life, on me again.” And then, eyes burning, face to fiery face for ages ‘til tension is all that is left—naked, knife-edged tension, unsheathed of “supposed to”s.
That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Supposed by whom? Supposed by me.
Ned Buratovich
January 5, 1974
Very powerful poem Ned
It leaves me wondering what the 70 year old Ned has to say to the 30 year old Ned
Another poem?
Good question, Louise, let me dodge it (about 70-year-old Ned writing new poems) by noting that I have an abundance of poetry and other pieces to post from the past.
With all this coronavirus isolation, publishing my past creative work is what will have to sustain me for now. I have thousands of pieces from over the decades in a digital deep-freeze that need to be thawed, sautéed and served steaming hot for everyone’s nourishment.