‘Round the Corner

‘Round the Corner

By J.R. Kuwanksi

Walking on glass ceiling. The cracks are there.

Above: sunshine, conversations with girls; weekends away with friends; out to dinner and discussions of politics. Clean open homes with triangle couches. Casual games of tennis and independent film. Wholegrains and white wines. Pride and sympathy and liberal leanings, charity in good measure. Fall back funds and extended family homes. Elongated career searches and consideration of Masters programs. Fun nights out and talk the next day. Healthy bodies and good looks. Four limbs, white teeth. All is well. Struggle only in the abstract.

On single plate glass. How could you not look down. The sign reads ‘Take care. Be Aware.’ When will it break.

Below: A corner too fast. Biological mishap. Drooling now. Wipe your mouth. Mother helps. Darker room. Medical dictionary. Nerves awray, muscles wither. Avoid eye contact. Thought of pretty girls only hurt. How would you explain the brown bag. Whole in your stomach. Be judged.

Uniform job. Smile for the customer. Move again, how are you going to pay? Crowded now, little sleep. Dangerous. Pain there. Numb embarrassment that always stays sharp. Consider taking the chance, violence pays. Need is heavy. No time. Too tired. Where’s the peace? Disease running through your veins. Dirty and mouldy in here. Can’t see out. There is none. Debt in arrears. Threats are made. Do you opt out? What about the others though. How much longer? Up early, work late. Told it’s your fault. No rest when lying down. Shallow breathing, hollow eyes, hospital beds. Shame. Wait in line, come back tomorrow.

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About jrkuwanski

Born of an Inca tribe in Peru, J.R. was raised by silver-tailed wolves in the Amazon rainforest. At age 7, J.R. departed on a treacherous journey to the Nepalese Himalayas and, following a lengthy debate with the Dalai Lama about the merits predictive texting, moved to Brooklyn, New York. For the following decade the writer learned the street poetry of 'the corner', becoming a familiar face on brownstone stoops, housing project courtyards and anywhere where a good salad dressing was sold. At age 17, when riding home from a 12 hour bowling marathon with his friends Mr Def and Mr Tip, J.R. was greeted by a Sri Lankan wizard who was wearing a bright purple velour tracksuit. The ghetto preacher told him he was destined for great things, ranging from baking one hell of a pumpkin pie to Nobel Economic accolades. Another fate was to craft the world's best blog, writing on topics of social and political commentary in a style of creative non-fiction. And the wizard promised him if he tried hard enough, really tried, one day, someone, somewhere may consider publishing his work.
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