This is now becoming a Saga. Please start with the first in our series of adolescent stupidity: Reeling, and then to Number Two.

Now, I would like to ask, WHY did I choose among the dumbest boyfriends I ever had to write stupid love poems about? I mean, really. I cannot *believe* that I actually thought this much about this guy. Short ex-junkie not particularly good lover who worked in a pizza parlor and lived with his MOTHER.

Granted, his mother was fucking cool, if totally psycho. But still.

Also he taught me BULL POOP about anything, unless one counts learning *all* about the Amazing Process of Kicking Junk.

Somebody send me a time machine. There's a certain eighteen-year-old I need to smack around a little.

love, me

Sitting in the Triple A,
the bad section of East Hartford,
he says he watched me,
geting frustrated shooting pool;
wished that I would smile.
I think about me, drinking coffee,
we played the Beatles on the jukebox
but Coolio and Dr. Dre are in my head,
while I eat Greek food,
because it's a Greek diner.
I look at him and he's telling me
another story about Jeff,
shooting dope,
because it's the projects.
He hates the long long eyelashes
he has, makes faces when I
make fun of them,
and when his green eyes face me,
he's smiling.
Every time I glance at his hands
I remember how they feel on me,
first, then how they look
when he plays his guitar.
I still haven't told him
how much he's taught me
about love, and life,
and shooting pool,
because I don't know how
to write a love poem.

onehanded