LJ Idol Season 10: Week 14
Topic: Campfire stories
Climbers’ campfire
The Asian girl is German
and is saying something
about research
and laboratory work
to the soft-spoken
buff guy
who descended the cliff
from seemingly nowhere,
undaunted by trusting
ounces of metal protection
in questionable limestone
yet unequipped to penetrate
our bedraggled band
of weekend warriors
without an explicit invitation.
Next to him
there’s the teapot guy
who’s been hitting on Amaia-
short, stout,
slowly layering
his subtle aggressions
into overt ones-
she, as usual,
does well at appearing
to pay him no mind,
flitting from one social perch
to the next, sewing
feeble threads between
the misfits of the cluster,
island-hopping
every few minutes
to the stranded isles
in the archipelago.
Jo is aloft in her cocoon,
jovial in her withdrawal,
polishing off a second pale ale
while issuing hearty chortles of approval
to the bits and ends of conversation
knotted beneath her in heaving tangles.
Philippe is standing, sitting, standing,
crouching, leaning, standing,
feverishly scrawling combinations
of English words
that none of us would think to say
into a well-worn notebook
by the light of his headlamp,
never missing a cue
to pierce the conversation
with the most ridiculous
and best possible punch lines
that have our abdomens
heaving.
Muscle spasms at the end of the day.
He’ll invert the levity
into poetry
in a short while.
Derek listens to Amaia
and listens to the German,
highlighting their insights
with appreciative recapitulations
and an oddly alto guffaw,
slapping Philippe on the back
with open palms
and mangled skin-
he is always
at the right level of buzz
like the fire
he’s cajoled for the past hour.
I am still
fear
bones
tissues
nerves
twitching in a flesh sack
rotting with adrenaline
so since I can’t
share catharsis
with my friends
I’ll just pluck these strings
and let them resonate
in ways I never will.
Climbers’ campfire
The Asian girl is German
and is saying something
about research
and laboratory work
to the soft-spoken
buff guy
who descended the cliff
from seemingly nowhere,
undaunted by trusting
ounces of metal protection
in questionable limestone
yet unequipped to penetrate
our bedraggled band
of weekend warriors
without an explicit invitation.
Next to him
there’s the teapot guy
who’s been hitting on Amaia-
short, stout,
slowly layering
his subtle aggressions
into overt ones-
she, as usual,
does well at appearing
to pay him no mind,
flitting from one social perch
to the next, sewing
feeble threads between
the misfits of the cluster,
island-hopping
every few minutes
to the stranded isles
in the archipelago.
Jo is aloft in her cocoon,
jovial in her withdrawal,
polishing off a second pale ale
while issuing hearty chortles of approval
to the bits and ends of conversation
knotted beneath her in heaving tangles.
Philippe is standing, sitting, standing,
crouching, leaning, standing,
feverishly scrawling combinations
of English words
that none of us would think to say
into a well-worn notebook
by the light of his headlamp,
never missing a cue
to pierce the conversation
with the most ridiculous
and best possible punch lines
that have our abdomens
heaving.
Muscle spasms at the end of the day.
He’ll invert the levity
into poetry
in a short while.
Derek listens to Amaia
and listens to the German,
highlighting their insights
with appreciative recapitulations
and an oddly alto guffaw,
slapping Philippe on the back
with open palms
and mangled skin-
he is always
at the right level of buzz
like the fire
he’s cajoled for the past hour.
I am still
fear
bones
tissues
nerves
twitching in a flesh sack
rotting with adrenaline
so since I can’t
share catharsis
with my friends
I’ll just pluck these strings
and let them resonate
in ways I never will.