Practicing My Imagry

The curve that adjoins my neck and my back

Catches the droplets salt water

That I spray into my underdeveloped dreadlocks

They appear, to me, as the gross bush of an 80's perm

My pink face is a canvass for

The paint splattered zits of

A drunken abstract expressionist

And the nose that my grandfather

Handed to two-year-old me promptly before he died

Sits awkwardly symmetrically.

It curves down reaching towards my red upper lip

Stretched uncomfortably over obtrusive braces

In two years, when I am twenty,

On my teeth they will remain,

Juxtaposing my full-grown beard.

My masculine Adam's Apple

Feels like an erect turckey's gaggle.

Lanky and tall, I loom over my friends

Who ponder the experience of being so tall.

They ask obvious questions

And coo over my lean build.

A build that invites various tasteless jokes regarding anorexia.

A build that invites my motherly friends to tell me I do not eat enough.

I can observe the texture of ribs

Covering a pasty landscape like sand dunes.

My stomach sits out awkwardly and I have no a*s.

Tiny thick black hairs cover it, my chest, my arms, legs

Longer ones are found in obvious locations.