jonberger

Cynthia doesn’t like the looks she’s been getting.
Since starting Sophomore year,
she’s been getting ugly looks
from girls who never paid attention to her before
weird attention from boys in her class
and hungry stares from men.

Her father’s friends are listening to her.
It’s weird. It’s uncomfortable.
She doesn’t think she can continue with track
because of her shape
but some of the cheerleaders have invited her to try-out
– despite the looks.
Her old friend group seems to be splitting apart.

Her mother says these kinds of things happen
“when people change,”
and then she holds Cynthia’s head in her hands
and gives her daughter a squeeze.

Cyn thinks that’s probably it,
this is just a turning of the seasons,
and everybody’s growing up,
but she can’t help but notice
that she’s grown up quite a bit more lately.
And she’s not the only one who’s noticed.

The party was going great
everyone was having a blast
and a lot of folks were helping
so nobody was getting stressed out.

It was hard not to notice
an interesting tension that was building, though.
There was an energy between Danny and Angela.
You couldn’t ignore the element in the room:
fire.

“I think she likes you, Dan.”
“What? No!”
“Bet you a quarter.”
“I can’t lose that kind of money!”

They kept on flirting, playing around with dishes, going on chip runs, it was adorable.
When the sleepover happened
is when things really clicked.
They were an item
for all of Spring Break.

I guess the release of some tensions
only work for certain measures of time.

You may be asking
why I’m telling you this story now…

Chilly and moist,
I hear an orchestra of highway and television.
The neighborhood below and beside me
generates the soundtrack.

The stars visible from the roof
are few and far between
above the clouds
but still
there are so many more
than when I grew up
in Manhattan.

I watch them
in my sleeping bag
as I will my eyes to close.
They are simply not ready.
Perhaps the light excites my imagination.
In my youth, there was so much more pollution.
In my youth, I could never sleep outside.
Of course, in my youth, my family had air conditioning.

Sweat trickles down the small of my back.
Sleep will come.
Hopefully, tonight.

It could have gone disastrously
and it did.

I saw you again
at the usual place.
I was taking up space.
You were taking my breath, as usual.
You were taking in drinks at an unusual pace.

I don’t know if you just needed to let off steam
or if you were upset
or if you were just really thirsty
but I saw you bumping and winding yourself around the bar.
Normally we get to chat a little
but you were poured into a cab,
vomit-splashed, within an hour.

This will not be the day
I take your picture.
I do not wish to remember you
in this state.
There will be better times
to record you for posterity.
This night will not do.
There will be no dances
no fair embraces for me and you.
The chase will go on from here.

We will continue elsewhen.

She was saying how you gotta get paid for your art.
You gotta take a stand.
I nodded, excited by her words, by her enthusiasm and integrity.
Artistic integrity is easy to maintain on Sixth Street.
I wondered, though, if it would pass the sniff test.

“Standing up for your worth is totally laudable,” I said, “If you insist on being paid to read poetry, though, then if they pay you, you won’t get to read poetry.
“Me, I don’t know if I can live with that consequence.”
“You make a good point,” she replied, “but if you don’t take the stand, you’ll never get paid. I happen to be earning a living through poetry now.”

“Shit,” I said.
“I know.”

You take a risk, you live with the consequences, I guess.
Just like she did.
You gotta get paid for your art.

The dove flies, free of borders, free to travel where she wants
but she is a slave to the wind, and prey to the hawk,
and in desperate need of rest after too much exertion.
It’s true that freedom has a price,
but even the free must serve something.

Everybody is somehow beneath.

When next I travel to the reality next store, I’m bringing a rubber band
strong enough to spring me back
if necessary, so if I don’t like this one,
I’ll have an equal opportunity to switch back.

I mean, boldly going to new civilizations is all well and good,
but when you hit a reality where Western European Men
found a way to live equitably with everyone else on the planet
– but didn’t create salted caramel?

I’m not sure that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.
So I need an exit strategy for my next trip,
just in case.
And you? Are you making any preparations?

In the quiet space, mediate,
and let the silence overtake you.
Allow the stillness to settle
and the lowly voices to command.
Listen carefully, be patient with the light of the soft words available.
Let them flow.
Knowingly absorb something new.

With that new information,
write something wonderful.

If you’re heading North on the Six train at One Two Five
look for the shiny bald head and pull him off his phone
offer him a peanut butter cup.

If he says “No,” ask him what he did with my body.

She laid the claim long ago
and no one said a word.
They simply let her twist in the wind,
her wounds unprotected
festering, dripping away.
Rose had been bleeding ever since.

When others spoke,
they began to believe,
and her words began to ring true.
We harkened back, and listened
and someone got someone thought to throw some cloth Rose’s way.
Her wounds have healed a little in that time,
the blood collecting slightly,
scabbing over a bit.

Still, she feels pain when the subject comes around,
when her time in the desert is discussed.
She prefers to focus on the resolution
than her isolation.
Rose doesn’t like to think of all the pricks made against her.
She chooses to move on.