Eddie+Abbott

Ode to Sexy When i see you i feel sexy When i look the other way i get a stiff one like a pipe brand new out of the store the stiff pipe that shoots gallons of water to pleasure you for you needs face washing, showering, and other things among that sort. When i think of you i just wanna -sigh- but either way sadly i wanna freeze you, take that water and put you in a bath and freeze you. i wanna write down a poem telling you how fine/gorgeous you make me think you look. if you were person i would date your bestfriend.

Three Poems Edward Hirsch **Fast Break by Edward Hirsch ** In Memory of Dennis Turner, 1946-1984

A hook shot kisses the rim and hangs there, helplessly, but doesn't drop,

and for once our gangly starting center boxes out his man and times his jump

perfectly, gathering the orange leather from the air like a cherished possession

and spinning around to throw a strike to the outlet who is already shoveling

an underhand pass toward the other guard scissoring past a flat-footed defender

who looks stunned and nailed to the floor in the wrong direction, trying to catch sight

of a high, gliding dribble and a man letting the play develop in front of him

in slow motion, almost exactly like a coach's drawing on the blackboard,

both forwards racing down the court the way that forwards should, fanning out

and filling the lanes in tandem, moving together as brothers passing the ball

between them without a dribble, without a single bounce hitting the hardwood

until the guard finally lunges out and commits to the wrong man

while the power-forward explodes past them in a fury, taking the ball into the air

by himself now and laying it gently against the glass for a lay-up,

but losing his balance in the process, inexplicably falling, hitting the floor

with a wild, headlong motion for the game he loved like a country

and swiveling back to see an orange blur floating perfectly though the net. **In Memoriam Paul Celan by Edward Hirsch ** Lay these words into the dead man's grave next to the almonds and black cherries--- tiny skulls and flowering blood-drops, eyes, and Thou, O bitterness that pillows his head.

Lay these words on the dead man's eyelids like eyebrights, like medieval trumpet flowers that will flourish, this time, in the shade. Let the beheaded tulips glisten with rain.

Lay these words on his drowned eyelids like coins or stars, ancillary eyes. Canopy the swollen sky with sunspots while thunder addresses the ground.

Syllable by syllable, clawed and handled, the words have united in grief. It is the ghostly hour of lamentation, the void's turn, mournful and absolute.

Lay these words on the dead man's lips like burning tongs, a tongue of flame. A scouring eagle wheels and shrieks. Let God pray to us for this man.

**Edward Hirsch by Edward Hirsch ** In Memory of Dennis Turner, 1946-1984

A hook shot kisses the rim and hangs there, helplessly, but doesn't drop,

and for once our gangly starting center boxes out his man and times his jump

perfectly, gathering the orange leather from the air like a cherished possession

and spinning around to throw a strike to the outlet who is already shoveling

an underhand pass toward the other guard scissoring past a flat-footed defender

who looks stunned and nailed to the floor in the wrong direction, trying to catch sight

of a high, gliding dribble and a man letting the play develop in front of him

in slow motion, almost exactly like a coach's drawing on the blackboard,

both forwards racing down the court the way that forwards should, fanning out

and filling the lanes in tandem, moving together as brothers passing the ball

between them without a dribble, without a single bounce hitting the hardwood

until the guard finally lunges out and commits to the wrong man

while the power-forward explodes past them in a fury, taking the ball into the air

by himself now and laying it gently against the glass for a lay-up,

but losing his balance in the process, inexplicably falling, hitting the floor

with a wild, headlong motion for the game he loved like a country

and swiveling back to see an orange blur floating perfectly though the net.