A Beautiful Dancer Magnified

What is it like to be a beautiful dancer

Of ballet, of jazz, of modern dance

The traditional tutus and gowns the midriff and scantily-liberated playfulness of

Dance shorts booty shorts and gymnastics leotards

Lace, bobby socks, stockings and stocking-less-ness

And dance shoes, boots or bare feet

The celebration but visual dissection of the body, tightly clothed, barely clothed

Translucent in its femininity and grace but ever present in the instant

Wonderfully natural in free movement and tauntingly fluid

In being unnatural-classical?


The pointed toes, developed calves, but the lovely long legs,

Kicking out legacy after legacy

The feet in the air, toe-tips holding the body

As if boneless but still standing

Strong, taut stomachs glaring with sweat

The pumping pelvis, swaying hips and the booty popping

Never stopping but hardly once only to smile in blazing lights,


 The heat of being viewed under visual amplification

And through the makeup and the tears of perfection

I see her then in the “preamble” the still pose in the beginning before the dancing

She is statue like, glares at the audience with a surety, with a classical confidence this time

And she holds out her hand so much so that one often misses that she does not have one.


Yet, she’s the premier ballerina, center on stage, under the magnifying glass

I am moved with I-cannot-help-it tears

This is what it means to be a girl on “being-seen steroids”

But she handles it with handless arm outstretched

In a beautifully vulnerable but tough as steel moment

 While her parent seems doubtful, unsure, and protective

Whisking the girl away after, a blur of peach-colored nylon

A glimpse of a blushed face and double eyeliner

An act of being tentatively unseen-seen 

She was there, she was classic-classical but intriguing

Boldly confident within the confines of adolescent uncertainty,


But with a poise of a mature women

Where we peer at her, magnify her, and assess

If she’s good or not, cute or not, pretty or not,

Fat or not, skinny or not, or noticed or not


written by Earl Yarington, @2019 all rights reserved (also published under “yogiortner”).

Canine Mindfulness

If I were a canine only,

I could live by olfactory

And smell my way to mindfulness.


I could sniff any crotch I like,

And bite anyone’s ass in spite.

I could slobber all over your beautiful face

And dry hump anyone in your private little space.


I could lick my privates in public,

then thrash your pretty toes

and go out and urinate, even in a school zone.


I can bark when I like,

Without disturbing the peace,

And you would always take me for walks,

Never being too busy for me.


I can devour that sweet pussy,

Cat, but no blame in that

Because old dogs will always be just like that.


So, if I were a canine,

I could live the American Dream

Without making a damn thing,

 And no matter what shape or color,

I would never be called a “stupid motherfucker.”


I can caress drunken homophobic balls,

And only you would be accused

 Of having gay sex with a dog.


It would be no matter to me

Because we love dogs unconditionally,

So when I imagine a pretty girl holding me,

Even when I bite,

I’m in the mood for canine mindfulness;

Just wanting something impulsively nice.


written by Earl Yarington @2019, all rights reserved. Also published under pen name yogiortner.