encrefloue | Entries tagged with lj idol

Topic: Nadir

Ballet Lessons

At 4,

she took me on a safari:

her arms, her eyes, her voice

lifting our heels

“Up!

Up!

Tippy toes!”

to reach for birds of paradise

flapping freely

through the bleeding oil paint sky

that was surely

just beyond the ceiling,

just beyond the air pocket

between my grasping fingers.

At 5,

she was a funny witch

(not a mean one—

cross my heart X);

she turned me into a frog!

“Ribbit!

Ribbit!”

we cackled,

our froggy legs bending,

hips dropping

“Lower!

Lower!”

until our heels lifted,

only our slimy

webbed toes

balancing

on surfboard lily pads

until we lost our sea legs

and plunged into the oily depths

beyond Monet's vantage point.

At 10,

she was a drill sergeant,

cruel, thin lips

pulled as tight as her bun,

jaw unclenching

only to yell at us—

at me—

“Chin down!

Shoulders back!

Suck in that gut!”

But I didn't mind;

I had seen

the glory of her warpath:

heels lifting,

toes carving the battle lines,

one long cannon of muscle

piercing the sky.

She was

all the strength

of the world.

I vowed

to always

march

behind her

since no one

could walk

beside her.

At 11,

she was a bitch.

I told her I wanted to quit

and she just said

“No.”

At 12,

she was Gepetto.

All the real dancers

had been turning for years—

their robotic bodies

executing inhuman feats,

well-oiled

overly shiny

automatons

whirring and whirling

in a perpetual motion music box.

My peers and their pirouettes.

Freaking perfect freaks.

One class,

I held it in

until they left

and sobbed to her

“Why can't I turn?”

She wiped my cheek

and led me to the barre.

“Let's see what we see.

First position.

Plié.

Relevé.

Passé.

See here?”

The lightest touch

on my side.

“You're caving just below the ribs.

Readjust.

Find your center.

Stop thinking

about the momentum.

Stop thinking

about failure.

Stop thinking.

Feel up.

Feel down.

Feel the crown of your head

pulling you into the sky.

Feel your weight funnel

into your toes

and push down

into the floor.

No, really push.

Push the earth down

and away.

Pull up

and push down.

Balance

through opposition.

Stillness

through conflict.

Pull up

and push down

and become the line

from Earth to Heaven.

Now.

Fourth position.

Plié.

Go.”

I turned

and the cosmos

did too.

At 15,

she was my sister.

When Degas

looked at me

a little too long,

a little too closely,

she pulled me in,

her lips rustling

the hair by my ear

as she murmured

cuttingly

“Let me know

if he needs

a front row seat

to The Nutcracker.”

At 17,

days before my audition,

days after my accident,

she was my visitor.

She stood tautly beside my bed

and I could barely look at her.

“It's bad,"

I managed.

Someone smeared

my legs

in garish hues

of oil paints:

Burnt Sienna,

New Gamboge,

Cadmium Red.

“I won't dance again.”

I could almost hear her

shake her head.

“Nonsense.”

“It's not humanly possible.”

“We're dancers.

We don't have to be humans.

We can be swans.

Or fairies.

Or Valkyries.”

At 46,

I was her visitor.

I sat beside her.

She was so small—

skin sinking into air pockets

between bones.

Bones sinking into

sterile sheets.

Heels sunken.

She stirred.

“Oh, it's you…

my little frog.”

I rolled my wheelchair

to the foot of the hospital bed

and held her feet.

“Do you feel that?”

Her ribs barely rose with breath.

She didn't respond.

“Chin down.

Shoulders back.

Breathe.

Readjust.

Find your center.

Feel the crown of your head

pulling you into the sky.

Feel the weight

funnel into your toes.

Feel up.

Feel down.

Up.

Tippy toes.

Push the earth

down

and

away.”

Topic: Sucker Punch

Merriam-Webster defines “change” as…

“HA! You owe me twenty bucks, Lisa!”

“Oh my god, you are y e l l i n g. Also, fuck you.”

“Only when we’re full-blown sex workers living the millennial American dream.”

“Okay, one: ew. Two: shut up and listen to Billy.”

“But he seriously just pulled the cardinal sin of graduation speeches.”

“Yeah, Maisie. I know. I lost the bet!”

“I mean can you believe--”

“SHHHHHHHHH!”

“Fuck off, Gavin.” The girls intoned unanimously, their huffish timbres quickly cropped by a surge of snorts and giggles, abdomens and tracheas contracting madly to suppress the threat of full-on belly-bursting laughter. The faces the poor boy had flashed them before and after being resoundingly blown off were too theatrical, too bombastic, just too much for the two critics who, for the past forty-five minutes, had been *low-key* roasting the hell out of the pomp in this circumstance, this final, overly important ritual of high school. Oh, Gavin. Always good for a punching bag. His typically pasty face had become flush, blood suffusing the pores with rich tones of anger and embarrassment, embouchure pulling the fat of his baby face ground-ward in a sullen scowl. And then with the graduation cap on top? A priceless image neither girl would ever forget. An indignant lobster being boiled alive, the pot lid a hefty top hat, one might say. Gavin unceremoniously spun back in his chair, literally putting the hecklers behind him, vowing to himself that they would live to rue this day when, at the ten year reunion, they would see just what kind of man they had belittled.

Despite the disgraceful exchange, his intent was fulfilled. After coming down from the high of their snicker-fit, Maisie and Lisa de-escalated, settling in to the oratorical cadence of the boy at the podium—Billy, their third musketeer, the conspicuously coiffed and absent element of their triumvirate.

“I mean, I told him I would help him with the speech. You know it’s not his thing”, Maisie muttered. Lisa silently dropped her head a notch, a tacit affirmation as she kept her eyes fixed on the raven-haired boy they had taken under their collective, nurturing wings in freshman year. Lisa noted how far Billy had come since then.

...and as I look on your faces, my fellow classmates of 2019, I know that you are the change the world wishes to see...

“Hey, co-opting Gandhi. Despite the dictionary *don’t*, he isn’t doing too badly.”

“...yeah. I’m going to miss him. I’m going to miss us.”

“...”

“...but no way in hell am I going to miss high school.”

“...heh.”

Now, more than ever, we have to show the world that we will change things. We truly have the power to shape the future.

As Billy’s words permeated the arena filled with thousands—family, classmates, faculty, staff—a recent memory wafted through Maisie’s thoughts. The three of them, the triumvirate, sprawled in a drunken tangle on Janet Horne’s living room floor, the heady pulse of Ariana Grande’s “God is a Woman” reverberating through the chatter and the mingling bodies at the not-so-PG-13 cast party for the spring production of “Into the Woods.” As they laid there, entwined, laughing at everything and nothing, skin sticking with dried sweat, eyes crinkling with mirth and stage makeup, bellies full of brownies, Cheetos, and more rum than coke, Maisie felt like this was what it meant to exist. She looked at Lisa, her confidant, her number one, her bestie. She looked at Billy, their adoptee, their little baby bird who had just flown on his own wings—as Jack, he had transformed that evening: his voice, his being had soared up the beanstalk, encountering unseen giants shrouded in unknown horizons. Lisa and Billy were gazing up at the ceiling, but all Maisie could see was them. She wondered if this was what love was, and if it was possible to feel it for them both. Despite the questions, the fear, it might have been the truest thing she had ever felt.

Maisie was disconnected from her memory with the roar of her graduating class cheering Billy on.

...and we will show this administration that we are the ones who decide where this country goes!

More deafening applause and cheers, as Maisie zeroed back in on Billy, her heart leaping with pride and exhilaration.

We will not sit idly by after Parkland!

The arena could not control the decibels gushing from under its roof.

Our silence will speak infinitely louder than their actions did! Our silence will be the voice of change in this world!

And indeed, there was silence for a moment as the words seemed to lose the crowd, though the quiet was soon to be supplanted by a building influx of gasping lungs, then a crescendo of shrieks, as Billy pulled an AK-47 out from beneath the podium.

Topic: Sprezzatura
Disclaimer: Language

so fucking pretentious

and derivative

and predictable

and nauseating

like where do I get off

who gave me the right

have I not grown

in all this time

indulgent

that’s what it is

attention-seeking

deformity of matter

like what was it

that line from x-men

the slurs

right

mutie scum

gene joke

fuck I'm alive

fuck I'm dying

fuck I’m pointless

I didn't ask for this

body

brain

name

neurosis

solitude

fear

paralysis

arrogance

want

like thirst

like having to tell the lungs to move

move

as if I ever could

as if I was ever more

than the fetus that didn’t kick

I mean what the fuck

kind of fucking baby

doesn’t kick in the fucking womb

like hey

this clotting mass of cells

already knew

that it was pointless

already gave up on itself

long before anyone else could

and boy howdy

did they ever

but you really did

buy into that

noble hero

righteous protagonist

grand destiny shtick

huh

fucking insufferable

how the hell

can you be

an elitist

an egotist

with no self-esteem

what is that

how does that happen

like you’re entitled

to be the conduit

of untouched realms

of human potential

while everyone else

is just a lowly normal person

like you’re in touch with something

ineffable

bullshit

and somehow

you make it even worse

you crave external praise

affirmation

acknowledgment

yeah you’re so above it all

while you grovel

for a kind word

a kind look

a touch

I thought we were past this

I thought we had evolved

moved beyond the husk of a human

past the frigid golem

let those other Ryans die

the gruesome deaths they deserved

as forgotten and unloved

as they felt

why is there

this glimpse

of a being

innately

blithe

fluid

unfettered

pure

interred

so deep

in this

putrid

mound

grief

what happened

to the boy

in that year-long window

before you ate

your weight

in despair

the boy

who danced

freely

readily

under Lola’s coconut trees

while singing Tiny Bubbles

without a care

to the derisive laughter

of the family

who danced

to C+C Music Factory

in an oversized shirt

for PJs

whose go-to move

was the back of the hand

to the forehead

and an exaggerated sway

as if

to faint

at a moment’s notice

overcome by

the flood of music

why don’t you have

more memories

as this person

this boy

so happy

so flamboyant

so himself

why does he exist

solely in unguarded photos

of that lone family Disney trip

where he was

mugging for the camera

like none of the cousins

serving model poses

hips jutting fiercely

as if the Epcot ball

was not a big enough stage

isn’t he the person we were supposed to be

wouldn’t things be better if we were

more truthful

more fulfilled

more us

why was he the only Ryan that got buried

why didn’t anyone put his picture on a milk carton

why didn’t anyone mourn him

why did we accept unhappiness as a personality trait in the second grade

can we please bring him back

please

even just a little

can we see him

if we look

close enough

We unfurled fingers from our ruddy lips

and in exhaling were awestruck

that Air itself

would stoop to accept our hot tufts of spitty molecules

as its newborns, its grandmothers.

The Sun was too hungover to witness our masterful infancy,

and in that moment, we were the only audience to our being—

we gave each other knowing looks and played it off casually

by hurtling through the bedsheets of grass in fits of vocal everythings,

collecting each possible friendly drop of dew upon our gasping, sentient skin.

Topic: "Tsundoku"

Note: The first stanza is to be read horizontally, left to right. The second stanza is to be read vertically, right to left. If you're not keen on this, I've posted the poem as plain text in the first comment on this post.

t	s	u	n	d	o	k	u
It	sp	un	an	d t	oo	k o	ut
the	shr	oud,	sen	din	g ro	ck d	ust
into	fres	h wou	nds a	nd a h	omes	ick m	outh.
After	it sur	round	ed any	dolef	ul, onl	ookin	g curs,
it sate	d itsel	f with u	nlatch	ing nod	es from	unkemp	t tufts
of palm t	rees and	jumbled	nori, dis	carding	them alo	ng Tohok	u's coast.

t	s	U	N	D	O	k	U
at	o s	nu	in	id	ol	ak	nu
too	ets	sua	e en	Edo	ong	is, k	su a
ed to	a squ	l tum	ds ne	endu	pour	oi, ki	l rup
tacit	all as	ults, t	ver kn	re as d	ed ont	cking	tures
mouths:	animus	umesce	own by a	ire a dr	o Obasa	askew a	surged,
tsunami.	asunder,	nt furor—	kitsune.	eam's end?	n's books.	katsura.	hurling

Topic: "My Mount Rushmore"

David

It’s right now and it’s ending.

It’s right now and it’s long gone.

Where are were they?

The honeybee:

tucked innocuously

behind an earlobe,

thrumming joyously

against my tongue.

The heart:

worn audaciously

below the sleeve,

sewn between

the thumb and forefinger,

jolting smoothly

beneath my chin.

Socrates:

etched overtly

across the canyon

of the back,

the words absorbing

in reverse

through my fingertips

which traverse

mindlessly

sense-fully

through the ravine of the scapulae,

down the dale of the spine

to the foothills and crests beyond.

The fruit:

plucked ripely

along the hipbone.

Pride:

shown bravely

upon the breast.

O Ganymede,

let these be

the points in your constellation.

Let them blaze as brightly

upon my stricken eyes

as you once did,

that I may

forever return

to your celestial body.

O Hyacinth,

scarce have I invoked

your name,

your image,

your memory,

for fear

that the jealous zephyr of time

would blow

your fading petals

from my clutching fists.

O my Achilles,

would you scorn

your loyal Patroclus?

O my Sleeping Faun,

my Dying Slave,

did do you

fear me

to be

the eagle

come

in a storm

of brutish thunder

and cloying feathers

to bear you

too soon

to the heavens,

too far aloft

from mortal pleasures?

Who was am I, then?

If nothing else,

if no one else,

I can be

Pygmalion,

crumbling

my mind

my heart

to dust,

soaking

my tears

my seed

therein,

and with the resulting clay,

and with the resounding void,

I will bend the malleable folds of time,

I will mold the fallible curves of memory,

I will forge the terrible arms of need

to chisel myself away

into a moment
of us,
unending.

O Adonis,

erode.

O Narcissus,

look up from the waters

and see me.

Topic: "It's hard to beat a person who never gives up."

"giveup" (Watch on YouTube)

Hey it’s not a game

You can give up

There’s no shame

Hey it’s not a game

You can give up

There’s no shame

Always someone to beat

Let’s laugh at the loser in utter defeat

Always something to prove

Why do anything without someone who approves?

Hey it’s not a quest

You can let go of your unrest

You don’t need a goal

To prove to yourself that you’re whole

Hey it's not a game
You can give up
There's no shame

Hey it's not a game
You can give up
There's no shame

Trapped by the Capital C

So apt to adapt to the clash for currency

Unhappy Capitalist friends

No mirth! Where’s your worth if you can’t pay the dividends?

Hey it’s not a fight

You don’t always have to be right

Hey it’s not a brawl

Don’t have to compete to stand tall

Imagine America

Where it’s allowed

To lose, to refuse

The regard of the crowd

Where rom coms of Hollywood

Don’t teach our men

After eighty NOs

Eighty-one could be consent

Where imaginary

weapons of destruction

Were not an excuse

For a bloody production

Of vile hostile takeover

Civilian massacre

Presidents’ makeovers

As peace ambassadors

(Peace can be Image

But Peace can’t be Winning

And Winning’s America

From the beginning)

Where Peace is not Image

Not gain, not illusion

Not 330 million in delusion

Where people can realize

When we’re at War

Where people can realize

When we’re at War

Where people talk about War

When we’re at War

Where people talk about War

When we’re at War

Imagine America

Without a War

Can you

give up?

Hey it’s not a game

You can give up

There’s no shame

Hey it’s not a game

You can give up

There’s no shame

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