I will never love a young boy again

(Title is lowercase legitimately, the song's title is really lowercased, I swear)

So. Literature.

Uh.

Read these people.

Theodore Roethke.

Frank O'Hara.

Sherman Alexie.

Audre Lorde.

Ishmael Reed's "The Neo-HooDoo Manifesto".

And there are, without a doubt, many more you ought to read, like:

Cummings, Plath, Ginsberg, Kerouac, etc, etc, etc.

Well.

I guess, read this:

The Boy on the Train Platform E

Somehow amidst fluttering pages

there are glimpses in mirrors

of the face I recall to belong to

the rail-thin body of some boy

standing in some train station.

Somewhere along a long stretch

of homeless rails. The continent

is not important. The wind grazing

the platform is miniscule,

though it breathes in my hair and leaves

it smelling of a faint musk of the countryside.

From which this plain boy has journeyed.

-

Watching his eyes watch a board which

plays funny names of towns small

and distant like stars with names

with lots of zeros and capital letters

that nobody ever remembers.

He searches blindly for what might be

A009CZ-X3.

I like how his eyes gaze with less effort

than it takes to stalk the glossed pages

of a magazine in a rolling train car.

-

He is a short little thing, head tilted

towards his enchantress, that board,

which I am wishing I was, to better

glimpse his wide-eyed blue stare.

His suitcase sits at his feet,

the ever-patient lap dog,

quiet and docile.

His glasses tilted down his

slight nose, like rain down

the spout, and I wonder.

-

I know this face,

from when the papers always come

whisking down the terminal

at half-past-two.

And I know he's there,

from some exotic city

in southern wherever,

perhaps Franjegeten,

or Hirandi and Larinx.

Perhaps he rides the train

to his weirdly named

science-star. But I know

from the look that pools

in his languidly busy eyes.

-

This slight boy on these

windy platforms with a

suitcase dog and the

rainwater glasses.

His blue eyes, exotic

and I will follow them to

their source.

And this, for good measure:

Sunshine.

-

Since sunshine seems as

the life itself that courses

through our veins, and over open

window panes, I drink it in

and watch as it washes in

liquid columns of light

over your thin body,

lying in fields of sunbathing grass.

-

It is like drinking nectar

poured by the gods; Helios'

own elixir to make the soul gasp

in an awestruck chord of wonder.

My dearest in the shafts of light,

which weave themselves like

drunken bees through your hair.

-

And you, the color of sunshine itself,

a flax golden thing, so gentle

like a stirring breeze,

moving the syrupy air

into great languid tangents.

It spills itself from you,

this being in the grand azure,

it has bent down to bestow

you with these royal gifts.

-

This rapidly sunny disposition

that plays itself like a

small ukulele, the chords

like strands of fairy floss,

catching these sunbursts

that drift like happy dust motes

down to nest in your hair

and radiate golden warmth,

like none known before to man.

-

And so it is, that you are

sunshine. An all-encompassing thing,

warmer of earth, with this aura given by

the ambrosia-cradling gods, to you,

this one wrapped in a halo of light.

There, now you have lots to read.

Go do it, now, will you?