he is firetruck red
firecrackers lit at dawn
a flittering floating diamond against
the gold of forgotten stars
he is bursts of Technicolor brilliance
a blinding, winding skirmish with
washed out watercolors
wiped like tablas rasa
he is cursive calligraphy
a nimble, limber hovering of lust
throwing himself at blank verse
and blank stares
he is silhouettes of snow flakes
smiling first graders on snow days
and hot fudge sundaes
he is erotic dreams and laurel wreaths
religious beliefs and brass rings
and he will always be just out of reach
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.
