AND THEN I CONSIDER THE DELIGHTFUL ANDROGYNY OF THE RODEO — timothy l.l.s.h.
because transsexual desire exists in rural towns just the same as cities, and because we love our roots just as much as our queerness.
may be easier to read if you click on the image :)
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image description underneath the keep reading
[Image Description: a poem that reads
Well, lookit those lovely chick-a-dees, a-meanderin’ and amblin’ and
Ignorin’ the Sun shining mightily in their eyes when they’re unlucky,
And soaking tan with a red-underbelly into
Their neck and shoulders when Lady Luck loves them once more.
My! What a sight, what a thing to love!
These young birds take their fistfuls of cash and wads of green
And scramble their way up dusty-side just to reach glory.
Oh heavens, the glory of a soda fountain when you have a sweat-soaked
Ten-dollar clutched in all ten fingers, the glory of pointin’
With dirt under your fingernails
At the largest size they have displayed, and sayin’ your please and thank you ma’am’s
In the softest voice you got ‘cause your mouth is already
Waterin’ something awful at the anticipation of the cool, fizzy drink.
Don’t guzzle it now, sweet things!
Wait for that blessed relief-giving condensation to
Settle along the sides of your plastic cup, little pearls, little water-snails
Racing down to plop themselves bodily to
The boot-ground dust of the Earth.
Let them swell their little round shells and then quick! Gather
Them up in one swiping palm, one heaving hand,
And smear that dripping prize across your salt-flecked forehead;
Let its rivulets tumble over your brow and into your eyes, and
Squint against the salt-sting of foreign tears caught
In your thick calf-lashes.
Oh, pretty little darlings, have you tasted it?
The sugar and dye, sweet-soft and fizzling in your stained mouths,
Headaches already beginning to worm low and aching behind
Your squinting eyes.
Have you memorized the shuffle-step it takes you to alight on your stadium seat?
Look away from the water truck soaking the ring,
Tear your eyes from the rainbow rising with the dust,
With the water vapor,
With the murmur of your dozen, dozen voices.
Playfight ball-caps versus cowboy hats and add a point for each fancy belt buckle,
Count the church-worthy button-ups and remember that
Everyone has different places
To worship.
And ah, what fat luck, arriving early enough to pick your seats when
The stands are still so empty!
Take the chance you have to feast yourselves on watching people stream in;
Drink them down, the tired-eyed mothers, forehead-wrinkled fathers,
Satiate yourselves on numbering the children wandering listless and over-excited around you,
And carefully avoid looking too long at
The young people with their soft-slender hands and hand-me-down boots,
Their pink-open mouths, flashing teeth as they talk, sweat, swallow down lemonade.
As they speak in voices that don’t lend themselves
To being masculine or feminine, too caught up in the fat enjoyment of
Being young and
Alive.
You’re starving yourself, dear things, by choking down the desire while you
Suck down the saccharine corn-syrup molecules just the same.
Go ahead, grow into your own shoulders and make eye contact with warm brown and rosy red,
Tilt the brim of your hat and let the actor in you embody it as full confidence and
Not half-shame.
When you shrug beneath the bleachers all too-long legs and too-hunched back,
Let yourself taste the tart lemonade on their lips and ask them to call you something softer
Than the name your daddy gave you.
Let them place broad palm on the goose-flesh of the skin of your ribcage,
Let yourself be taller than them and let them treat you porcelain-fragile anyways.
Say it with me now,
The thunder above your heads is not Sodom and Gomorrah, it is a thousand feet,
A thousand hands,
A thousand writhing bodies stomping and hollering for
The best bareback bronco score so far tonight, and no one cares that you are missing.
No one cares that you have found your existence
In the arms of a sexless young thing just like yourself, surrounded by cigarette butts
And a handful of discarded and crushed Bud Lite cans and
Dust that just won’t die.
What’s the name of your soul, sweethearts?
What do you hide away when you’re where the people can see you?
The knees of your lightwash jeans are dirty when you crawl back into the world.
The cheers of the crowd have gotten just a little less sharp in your ears.
You share a drop of your soda with a puddle of gnats and scream for the Oklahoman rider,
And no one looks twice
At the shape of your hands and jaw.
When the Sun sets in your eyes tonight, you’re too busy putting
Your two fingers to your lips and whistling louder than a trainhorn’s shriek
To care that your drink has gone flat and
Lukewarm.
if you enjoyed this poem & would like to read the rest of grit, you can for free in PDF format right here (hosted by transreads.org, uploaded by the author)
Old writers used to be like ohhhh geeee i hope no one finds my private letters. ohhhhh my little letters they’re so beautifully written and personal i hope no one gets a hold of my big stack of personal letters ouhhh
