gay rights
Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?" - Ernest Gaines
We would like to know who really believes in gay rights on LiveJournal.There is no bribe of a miracle or anything like that. If you truly believe in gay rights, then repost this and title the post as "Gay Rights". If you don't believe in gay rights, then just ignore this. Thanks.
reposted from sunnysky
Boys on the Bus
(Cambridge to Boston, March 9, 2003)
Sometimes I like the world I live in;
moments make it safe.
I want to photograph this,
to bring out and hold when things spin from axes.
I.
Two boys on the back bench against the engine block:
the baseball-capped blond leaning back into the corner.
The black-haired boy drowses against his chest, shoulder in lap.
The fingers of their left hands curl together, twined against the blond's blue jeans.
His fingers move unconsciously, gently through his boy’s dark hair, neck, nape,
the fingers of his right hand, the arm that wraps around, holds close, those fingers
swim through black.
His throat resting on crown of lover's head as he, too, begins to sleep.
They are casual, sweet, at rest.
No one notices them except me,
and suddenly the hell of this day has been worth it
for bringing me to this moment.
II.
Two women hand-hold him, lift him to the seat perpendicular against the window;
his jacket takes up more room than the rest of him. He has the fattest cheeks I've ever seen;
his face broader than high, a portion of curls are ponytailed atop his head.
Aunt or mother sits between him and the sleeping couple; his father flanks
his left side. Pudgy fingers snag dad's tweed cap.
He peekaboos me from underneath, fingers ballerining brim-fifth position-so I play back.
Hide and seek him behind German textbook.
I bug my eyes and we stick out our tongues at each other. The woman next to him
says he wants you to the woman next to me, so they switch seats. He puckers his
lips, so I puff my cheeks as big as they can get-no match for his,
then pull them sharply through their bones till they touch inside my mouth,
and flap my lips goldfishily, at which point
he completely loses it.
I see what's going on now! exclaims the woman next to him, his mom, I think,
catching sight of me smilingly.
I look up at the boys, try to harness attention gained by giggles,
attempt to transmit a recap of the smile
they gave me unawares.
They notice the child, not registering me, for a moment only.
Then, they are reensconced in themselves, and my stop is out the window.
I gather my books, my bag, feel pang of I've forgotten something
but stop myself from turning round.
We would like to know who really believes in gay rights on LiveJournal.There is no bribe of a miracle or anything like that. If you truly believe in gay rights, then repost this and title the post as "Gay Rights". If you don't believe in gay rights, then just ignore this. Thanks.
reposted from sunnysky
Boys on the Bus
(Cambridge to Boston, March 9, 2003)
Sometimes I like the world I live in;
moments make it safe.
I want to photograph this,
to bring out and hold when things spin from axes.
I.
Two boys on the back bench against the engine block:
the baseball-capped blond leaning back into the corner.
The black-haired boy drowses against his chest, shoulder in lap.
The fingers of their left hands curl together, twined against the blond's blue jeans.
His fingers move unconsciously, gently through his boy’s dark hair, neck, nape,
the fingers of his right hand, the arm that wraps around, holds close, those fingers
swim through black.
His throat resting on crown of lover's head as he, too, begins to sleep.
They are casual, sweet, at rest.
No one notices them except me,
and suddenly the hell of this day has been worth it
for bringing me to this moment.
II.
Two women hand-hold him, lift him to the seat perpendicular against the window;
his jacket takes up more room than the rest of him. He has the fattest cheeks I've ever seen;
his face broader than high, a portion of curls are ponytailed atop his head.
Aunt or mother sits between him and the sleeping couple; his father flanks
his left side. Pudgy fingers snag dad's tweed cap.
He peekaboos me from underneath, fingers ballerining brim-fifth position-so I play back.
Hide and seek him behind German textbook.
I bug my eyes and we stick out our tongues at each other. The woman next to him
says he wants you to the woman next to me, so they switch seats. He puckers his
lips, so I puff my cheeks as big as they can get-no match for his,
then pull them sharply through their bones till they touch inside my mouth,
and flap my lips goldfishily, at which point
he completely loses it.
I see what's going on now! exclaims the woman next to him, his mom, I think,
catching sight of me smilingly.
I look up at the boys, try to harness attention gained by giggles,
attempt to transmit a recap of the smile
they gave me unawares.
They notice the child, not registering me, for a moment only.
Then, they are reensconced in themselves, and my stop is out the window.
I gather my books, my bag, feel pang of I've forgotten something
but stop myself from turning round.