cool

I stutter, briefly, in the hallway.
it’s a fine line between the dance room and the bar
where the awkward odour of those who belong
and those who are just trying to mingle here unnoticed
but present
is a little overwhelming, even over the spilled beer.

this freedom that comes from a night on the town
in the most free-spirited place we can find in our city
happens to be restricted.
harshly.
by the purveyors of cool.

I stutter because it’s a necessarily evil
the way conformity inflicts so much pain and heartbreak
on those trying to escape the norm.
it’s a whirlwind of sights and sounds and yet it’s a blur of sameness.

hair? jagged, or swooped, or curled but never plain.
boots? high, or dirty, or bleached clean, or goth, but never regular runners.
unless regular runners they are.
clothes? trendy, or goth, or t-shirts, or geek, or trash, or sporty,
but never just there, clinging to bodies as if they were mannequins.
they must be worn.

I stutter because the forces of cool are pretty intense.
it’s more than peer pressure
it’s the way that insignificance seeps into my veins and jolts me
from whatever lull I’ve reached
into a subliminal depression based solely on the fact that,
well,
we all aren’t cool, so who is going to be the cream rising to the top?

I stutter because I am worried.
I came here, looking for adventure, seeking a good time,
and yet I’m enraptured by all that is here.
cool hunting is a sport that leaves much blood on the walls
and sweat on the lips of those running and chasing and frantically
pacing themselves
to be cool.