Yoga-quick : Bryant Park, NYC

The yoga has begun and the babbled amalgamated voices are usurped by the voice recording through the speakers. Grey gravel shuffled by feet, unnumbered, walking encumbered. Feet on chairs resting in black shoes. A field of people inhale and exhale in unison, lie on their backs. The fountain: sprinklingly weak, unassuming. Trees, traffic, buildings. Satchel and a man walking, coffee-holding. Waving bald man. Backpacked companion takes a picture. Black dress, bare-back triangles showing.

Right hand to the left and hold.

Wow, that big green building with two runners in the window. Like a big aquarium. Aquarium green, housing so many ecosystems and recirculated air.

Everyone in the field on their hands and knees, looking up to the sky. On the exhale they look down. I look around. I look around. For what? for what is quick. For a glossed description. Ah! there is a Goethe here, by the carousel. And a Gertrude Stein sits among her rolls of stone girth, silent.

If you want to do yoga here, prepare to get your picture taken. If you are a building here, prepare to get your picture taken.

When they exhale, they raise their rumps to the sky, towards me and all who are behind them. They all look quite good from this distance. Good, fit and flexible, but this is only distance's deception. All right legs up! Some pigeons hold a pow-wow while tearing up stale bagel strips. Screech metal breaks, low rumbled bus moans, big truck mumbles, bark of the cop cars, dopplered honk. Rattling bag, skiffing step. The wall of buildings split in one place, through to the sky towards Port Authority, marked by the weak fountain.

Yet still we have not arrived at what is quick., what is essential, living, viscid. It is my own fog, my own haze, my own intentionality of method. But! there is a lazy security guard stroll. His lazy jaw chewing gum, sweat-wiping towel, blue-green, tucked in his blue shoulder-strap. The trees are always the quickest. They abide by the breeze, are rooted and flow naturally, while all around is construction.

Up hands! Fingers stretched. Others just lie on the grass. I would quite like a cigarette to put this all in perspective. Here we are! The carousel has been caroused! And there we have all the fun of life. Around, with no destination, up and down on a frozen animal, up and down these yoga breaths. With lights and sound the carousel turns, a tired metaphor before it even began.

Two lovers lie, the man's head on her belly her hand on his chest. Eyes closed resting against the grass. A girl in a blue dress photographs what she sees. A much clearer picture than these black and white odd shapes. Now she strokes his hairs. Light, wired curls. The woman in the black waves to the black building holding to her ear a black phone. a pink-shirted stretch. Do these humans on this page have necks? breath? yes, the inhale and exhale, the turning craned looks of walkers and passers by. The graying hair on the man who just sat down, wide, sloped nose and perma-scowl side-mouth lines. The girl now has a book as someone asks where they are eating. She is not as resting as her blue-jeaned lover with the wire-curly hair, though she still finds a hand to stroke his face, the goatee and the brow, specifically. Large leaves, green leaves, red leaves, vines in a big pot.

Slovenia is the only country that has 'love' in the name.

Blue skirt Alenka now has a name and is taking pictures again. Green white weathered tent top, carousel stopped spinning. And another, a man with a gray pony tail. Grey under auburn. The ding and we are done with another line. Big brown bag strung across the shoulder. These heavy words are not so quick, they fall heavy, unflowing. Today has been a sweaty day for words.

And now they roll up their mats, fix their wedgies, adjust their leotards. Burgundy colors on the umbrellas. A pale yellow folding from the long brunette hair. Both flowing and flapping in concordant motion. Little pink shoes trip and fall. All the fit women now yoga-walk themselves over to their new destination, spiritually cleansed and deflatulated. And all the while the constant churning noise of people. People, cars, and horns.

The sun is pale yellow, like the flapping brunette's blanket sinking in the split between buildings, soaking in haze and cloud. The old woman, neck-clinging hair, hoola-hoops black orange stripes and rotates slowly clockwise as it wobbles and falls around her knees. The little pink shoes play in a purple dress, being photographed playing with a tab from that food-trodden grey gravel. A dog and a toddler. My good god. How wholesome. The dog is brimming with affection. The toddler loves the dog. Alenka loves to take pictures. The dog wags nervously and looks to his owner. Everyone has fun at someone else's expense.