In Love With
Shontay Luna
I’m in love with enraptured with sensations
immersed in frantic and extreme fascination and
adoration with them. With men’s joggers. If I could
extend my hand back into the remnants of time,
I’d reach; extending my arm through the decades
to find me. And slap me for not buying them sooner.
For they are built of a thicker consistency that skillfully
extracts the bark out of a winter wind. The material
warming like fireplaces in brocaded bedrooms before
the bodies of lovers extend themselves to the abysses
of sensation.
They have a cut that’s relaxed and self-assured. A fit
that doesn’t try too hard because they know they don’t
have to. Full of a tranquil air that brilliantly borders on
the edge of arrogance. Because the know the wearer
will be able to breathe and move freely.
More freely and free me from the shackles of Society’s
pre-conceived and bruised notions of how clothing works
for me. It’s not a life goal for my pants to appear or go into
the crack of my ass as I wear them. Nor to wear jeans so
tight, I can’t sit down. “I love standing up all night.” -
said no one EVER. As well as one-inch zippers, fake
pockets or pockets I can barely get my fingers in.
Because my HANDS, forget it!
But with men’s joggers, the pockets are DEEP. So deep,
they could move furniture. House a revolution or make the
state of Texas look like a postage stamp. So deep that if I open
one up and say ‘Marco’ I’d live my entire life and never
hear ‘Polo.’ So orphic in its profundity, they may contain
the very meaning of life somewhere within the furthest
recesses.
And for every man confounded by what I’ve just said, there are
a multitude of women. Nodding, clapping in agreement.
Shontay Luna
I’m in love with enraptured with sensations
immersed in frantic and extreme fascination and
adoration with them. With men’s joggers. If I could
extend my hand back into the remnants of time,
I’d reach; extending my arm through the decades
to find me. And slap me for not buying them sooner.
For they are built of a thicker consistency that skillfully
extracts the bark out of a winter wind. The material
warming like fireplaces in brocaded bedrooms before
the bodies of lovers extend themselves to the abysses
of sensation.
They have a cut that’s relaxed and self-assured. A fit
that doesn’t try too hard because they know they don’t
have to. Full of a tranquil air that brilliantly borders on
the edge of arrogance. Because the know the wearer
will be able to breathe and move freely.
More freely and free me from the shackles of Society’s
pre-conceived and bruised notions of how clothing works
for me. It’s not a life goal for my pants to appear or go into
the crack of my ass as I wear them. Nor to wear jeans so
tight, I can’t sit down. “I love standing up all night.” -
said no one EVER. As well as one-inch zippers, fake
pockets or pockets I can barely get my fingers in.
Because my HANDS, forget it!
But with men’s joggers, the pockets are DEEP. So deep,
they could move furniture. House a revolution or make the
state of Texas look like a postage stamp. So deep that if I open
one up and say ‘Marco’ I’d live my entire life and never
hear ‘Polo.’ So orphic in its profundity, they may contain
the very meaning of life somewhere within the furthest
recesses.
And for every man confounded by what I’ve just said, there are
a multitude of women. Nodding, clapping in agreement.
