"Party in the USA." -Abe

You know what I'm really starting to like? When people say, "Write about me." You're all such nice muses. It makes my job so easy. So here's for Connor White, because he asked me to, and because I missed our goldfish/hummus lunch date.

For Connor

I imagine that when you're older you'll be the sort of man who sits in the front seat of taxi cabs.

I know what you're made of.

You know what you're made of.

It's no secret.

You count things, don't you?

One, two, three, four, five, five, seven, nine, eleven,

you aren't a secret.

You are such a secret.

I know what you keep in those pockets of yours --

ID, a few dollars, some sarcasm (used as a defense mechanism), a little bit of paint.

You've gotten this far, love, don't look back, love,

one, two, five, skip, skip, skip.

You like control. You're honest, and it's beautiful.

You know when you've been beaten, you realist, you,

but you know how to win, you perfectionist, you,

and you know it isn't over 'til it's over, 
you competitor, you, you and your third period wit.

You're outwardly patient.
Here is something that I love about you:
You understand that you control your own universe.
You know about your own fate.
You make your own joy.

You'll say goodnight never, goodbye never,

stop counting never.

You know what you want, go get it,

I understand you.

Don't live for anyone else, okay? You know what you want.

Go get it. This is for you.

Count your own fingers and keep your hands in front of you and remember who loves you.

You deserve all good things: love and warm blankets and good snacks and a long life,

those are things you deserve.

Sleep well (when you sleep).


Someday I'll stop writing so much in the second person around here, but not yet.
All my love,
Addy

"A decent love poem."

This morning my English teacher told me I could have extra credit if I wrote a decent love poem (and extra extra credit if I gave it to the person it was about, but that's another story). I like poetry, and I like extra credit, so it's finished already.


It started out as one poem about one person, but it became one poem about more than one person. Then it was six poems about six people, even though I wanted to write about seven people, but I couldn't figure out how to write poem number seven, so I didn't, and then one person got cut because they were fouling up my poems, and then it was one poem about five different people at the exact same time.


I think all poetry means one thing to the writer and a thousand different things to each and every person who comes in contact with it. So this is my valentine to you, each of you. Take a piece of it, make it yours, from me. This is about you. Happy Valentines Day.


Untitled (But About You): by me


You have eyes like stars and a voice like the sun 
and fingers that become hands that become wrists that become shoulders 
that become you. 


This is about how I don't really know you, but I think I do. 


I always know when you hit the door, 
because you smell like coffee and like the weather, 
sometimes like sunshine, but usually like rain, 
which is fitting and also good for when I write poems about you. 


You're not beautiful, but you're beautiful -- 
it's what you do; it's what you are. 
You don't want your name on any records, 
but I think you still think about God, 
like I still think about God, 
and I can't count how many times I've sat down and 
written the words "This is not a love poem," 
and then written a love poem, but this? 
This is a love poem, and I'm saying it all, 
because life's short, dang it, life is so short. 
This is a light, weightless love poem, 
because I don't want it to weigh anything right now.
I just need it to be something beautiful and made of feathers,
so don't take me too seriously.


I do this thing where I say, 
"I love you," before I hang up the phone, 
like my parents always say to me, 
but I do it no matter who's on the other end, 
and do you know that you're the only person who 
makes me think before I say it? 
Maybe just because it's true (simple as that) 
or maybe because it isn't -- yet? 


I like it when you laugh at my jokes. 
Do you think I'm funny? 
Do you buy your music legally or download it illegally? 
Do you read the bible, do you read books, 
do you like dancing, do you like chemistry? 
This is about how I don't really know you, but I think I do. 


I'm thinking about the way your fingers played my sides 
like a piano, and this is about that moment 
when you smiled very suddenly about nothing at all, 
and this is about how I can't stop thinking about that. 
This is about how I don't really know you, but I think I do. 


I'm thinking about your hair and the line of your jaw and
your skin and the way it's warm against mine. 
I'm thinking about your hands and 
I'm thinking about the way you laugh 
and how it doesn't happen often enough, 
and how I'll think that no matter how much you laugh. 
I'm thinking about the way your lips might feel, 
how they might taste, 
what do I have to do to get them to find mine? 
This is about how I don't really know you, but I think I do. 


I'm thinking about the way you move in the light and the way you
move in the darkness and the way you move when I'm around,
the way you move. 
I'm thinking about the way you look on Saturdays 
and the way you probably greet strangers and the way 
you complain about serious stuff, 
but the way you don't sweat the small stuff. 
I'm thinking about the way you eat, which isn't as
weird as it sounds; it says a lot about you.


I'm thinking that I'm very happy I met you.


I'm thinking about the way you played the guitar, 
the way you play the guitar, 
the way you may never pick up a guitar in your entire life. 
I'm thinking about your universe, 
how I understand it, 
how I don't understand it at all. 
This is about how I don't really know you, but I think I do. 
It's you, you know? I'm thinking about you. 


I'm thinking about you the way empty gloves think about empty hands
and the way empty hands think about the stars: 
my hands want to be filled with stars. 
I'm thinking about you like school children think about summer,
and the way summer children think about 
becoming school children again. 
I'm thinking about you the way someone 
who's never taken a sip of alcohol 
thinks about alcohol, 
the way an alcoholic thinks about alcohol, 
the way someone who is genetically programmed to be
an alcoholic thinks about alcohol. 
I'm thinking about you the way Kennedy thought about the 
missile crisis and what was he supposed to say? 
I thinking about you the way the Trojans thought about that horse. 
I'm thinking about you like silence 
thinks about sound and vice versa.
I'm thinking about you like the whole world thinks 
about waking up on Monday, 
how the sun thinks about waking everyone up on Monday. 
I'm thinking about you the way ice cream parlors think 
about keeping the temperature down in there, 
the way the women on the subway think about changing their shoes, 
the way December thinks about snowing,
the way angels think about playing their trumpets in tune. 
I'm thinking about you the way giants think about ants. 
I'm thinking about you the way a blind man thinks about sight, 
the way a paraplegic thinks about dancing, 
the way a deaf man thinks about music, 
the way old men think about being young, 
the way old men think about death, maybe. 


So here: my fingertips and my words. 
This is about you. 
This is about how I don't really know you, but I think I do. 
This is about you.


What if I had three eyes and a lot of wisdom?
All my love,
Addy

Anyway.

I wrote this as I thought it. For that, I both apologize and refuse to apologize.

Untitled

I try to memorize the periodic table, 

but I never can,

so I'm asking for your help,

and in return I'll lend you some words,

because I've got such powerful words,

and with them I can take down small armies,

small armies made of just about anything,

of men,

and of plastic,

and of large molten bubbles,

and armies of other words --

I'm especially good at taking down armies

of other words --

so I'll lend you some of this chaos found inside,

and you can run with it,

if you'll lend me some numbers,

but maybe you ought to stay,

because together,

with my words and your numbers,

we'd be unstoppable,

and I'd be okay with that,

and we could take shelter inside some small Chinese dragon,

and have a love affair with some nice baroque era music,

and I'd get up early,

though I'd want to sleep late,

and you'd tell me you thought this poem --

this one that I'm writing --

was an awful run-on sentence,

and I'd give you a lecture on just why it wasn't,

and that even if it is, 

that doesn't matter much,

because this is free verse poetry,

and in this, 

much like in love,

a person has a right to their freedom.

Electronegativity?

All my love,

Addy