Teacher Cindy cares not for our suffering. She is a cruel taskmaster
who blares Katy Perry at accelerated BPM and blathers incessantly.
"Left knee to nose. Hold and pulsate. Breathe. Now stick your hips out
like you're sassy. And be still. The universe has met you in this moment."
This nonsense, its synth-pop beats and stupid rhyme schemes,
Teacher Cindy's inane words, they litter the hot air, clutter the space
between oxygen molecules. It is impossible to breathe. I will choke—
or shit these 75-dollar yoga pants. They will have to drag my unconscious body
from this room, hose me down with cold water in the parking lot
like an animal while Teacher Cindy implores the room to hold and pulsate,
hold and pulsate. Yet my ego forbids surrender. It drives me deeper
into my polyvinyl chloride mat. Around me, the walls sweat guru tears,
the floor reeks of tea tree oil and musky androgens. Laden with airborne PFAs,
the soul of Patanjali hovers above us, trapped in the studio's jaundiced light.
While, stripped of all spiritual context, I jazzercise this ancient flow—
my American heart a lotus of pure, pulsating confusion.
(1/3/25)
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