You posited a more tolerant society
when someone like you (and, may I
presume, someone like me) will have the
freedom---even the encouragement---to
follow his or her own nature, without the
interference of prudes' and haters' prejudices.
I should like to imagine a future and ideal
reader: in the full blossom of his adolescence
(having, of course, reached the age of legal
consent; walking casually on the finely formed
sand of a beach, right at the line where it
begins to become damp each succeeding wave's
final thrust forward, in that iambic rhythm of the
sea's dance, according to the moon's choreography.
Imagine him beautiful, and comfortable with such
diistinct beauty: his eyes' profound gaze which,
though often focused upon the stars, can still convey---
without the interference of segregating shames and
guilt---his innate and honest need for the Love that
feels best, most joyous and most comforting, to him.
His hair, in a profusion of soft curls, will cascade over
his shoulders. Clothe him in a bulky sweater---perhaps
some neutral color---and baggy, tan, bell-bottom
cargo pants; the frayed and tattered cuffs of which do
not entirely conceal his feet, sheathed in fawn gray
socks (seni-sheer, except for the opacity that encloses
his toes and heels). (Of course, he will dislike the
rigid confinements of shoes, except when unavoidable
conditions of weather or surfaces impose otherwise.)
May I go even so far as to describe his quiet repetition
(word-perfect, with just the right inflection and
nuance) of the some of the lines of Ad Astra---poems
inspired by the Muses, Homogeny and Eros. Thus, from
pages in a chapbook, or his laptop's screens, the
words from my soul may be received, and welcomed, by
his, redeeming part of a line from some flaccid,
flagellant poseur: ". . . lecteur . . . mon frere!"
J-Called