Whether It’s In His Mind Or Mine

.Past my body is 

.Behind you dangerous; I’m 

loaded, cocked 

(won’t be) Coming around. and ready to 

shoot. 

ass of champions

My Subject

Painting Carving 

Drawing 

Sculpting 

Taking a picture 
The clothes you where.

The way you mess your hair 

The scent of boys, riding through the air. 

At the end of the row in the final booth, he looks straight at me. Up and let his lip fall agape. Violent green eyes framed by a chin strap on his relatively square face. A mole I think; and a blue shirt. 

Looking back,… 

With your ring in your ear sing

THE NEW-NEW

memorize my lines as I read them 

I realized I was beginning to be. 

 

This, The One Thing My boy friend 

I still want to have is right 

A seat… behind you. There. 

Since this is one of my last chances, 

I want to note the exact color of your eyes. 

Green, but an autumn green, 

Brighter than hazel. More 

enduring somehow

Saving the Dung Beetle and Why I Want to Be a Fireman.

A new dangered species. Habits: who; what dung beetle underfoot; where crushed during; why fire operations; how when not only put out the fire, but the lives of these poor dung beetles. Childhood memories: shiny red engines. My father was one other early “dung-conscious” firemen. He began the Fraternal Order of Dung-Saving Firemen. All this really looks nothing like what I’m trying to say. I’m altering it as I go. (just wait my mind is spinning) And being threatened on all sides by authority, meaning you. The theme of my paper revolves as follows: “Who are you to question my future?” As we speak, my content seems prophetic (because) so this, is an assault on you. “Why do you think you know my past?” Did it ever occur to you that this is exactly what I want to do? That I want to do something that nobody else does.

TEMPORARY FACES OF NATURE

the greater your anonymity 

the more beautiful the masses 

the more you, desiring 

his buttock, with a youthful indent, 

bobbing left to right, 

as he trotted down a sun-drenched hill. 

This is my last chance to see them all. 

Again, and to see what I never saw all over: 

The Brat (military) 

The Brute 

The Player (soccer) 

The Silent-Type 

The Scented and The Sensual 

All the colors they where. The bitter expression on their faces and the way I want to pry them apart. 

The One-I-Never-Noticed-Before 

And the Names I still don’t know 

The Search for Better Adjectives to Describe Them, 

all-over-again 

Arms, no other words to describe them, 

But, encompassing.

[The Uses] of Great Youth

Fucked up as you 

Sucked up his juice

I don’t care who was there 

If it was up to me too

And I don’t think your as fucked up as you want to be too.

The Interchangeability of Men

The boy-god discovers his man abilities.

Growing toward my infancy 

Living successful childhoods

If I don’t say something I am going to explode

His youth makes us younger.

Re-Writing the Words I Wrote Before

There is a swallowing. All the world is awake. You are the one who sleeps. I should tell you I am the one who is a disaster. I will not live in this anxiety forever. Losing my virginity was over heard by four people; they gasped when I lost it. So I had to expanded the definition of sexual activity to everything your not supposed to do to your little brother. He’s not wearing anything.

The Changing Room

There are not many things that men complete.

One is a word placed at your feet.

I sing the songs and signs verily to men.

You are an ideal future .

And a chance to converse with myself.

A Series On Unknowing

My name is Melinda. And if your arms just happen to be flowing, then this city is always moving like an ocean. For personal anecdotes and happenstances, this has become a place to put all of paradoxes and revel in synchronicity. Here is a program in masculinity in the city:

There is this  boy; I’m in love with him. That is why I walk in front of his house. Then to suddenly feel connected to the sky. If I had a piece of paper I’d write. I’m something I’m not supposed to be. I have the body of man, but I am woman. From birth, when I was born, my cup was full and it ran over and broke into thousands of pieces. I may not be able to find them all but I’ll keep looking. I am in love with a boy who is dying. Maybe if my father had raised me, I would have been a better person. My throat is just for a social life. To link back to a form of worship and self-esteem, to whom it yearns to be said:

I just want to fuck you.

I just want to give you head.

And I’ll probably dump you

Unless you love me forever in this dirty bed.