James Franco by James Franco by Seth Abramson
I am a teacher,
with wires you can’t see but feel.
You were all those things from before
obstacles, pollution, and debris.
In the pool we went at it.
You got big and drunk and weird,
corroded by my love.
I knew by then
my character was the teacher.
I was once the young brooder,
unhappy. I was more interested in me
riding her from behind
like when a hurricane comes
through and takes out houses.
It was the sweetest thing
from today’s celebrity age,
but that world is unwieldy and can hurt you.
Think of that, son:
Because one of the babies fucked her,
guys like grown men
take over. But sometimes
the materialistic demons
along the shore, the trash
pushes them downstream
and leaves them in the ocean
as if they were cardboard.
They are the manmade things.
(It was their first sex scene,
they had taken shots in their trailer.)
I assume things will pile
in life. Could you comfort him
and pile until the piles
become frail and busted?
When his face was readjusted
your dad said not to worry:
You have a bunch of mice at home,
you can handle anyone at that school
(every once in a while they drag you out
between takes, while they reset the lights
and fill you with such pressure
things are washed clean).
I’ve done fifteen years of movies—
huge black ones that you never saw before—
not knowing why.
But now I know
everything she loved about my work:
The girls were drunk
to be in a movie that critiqued
“the beautiful blonde one”;
the actresses were enthusiastic
half her size, with barely any hair.
They were so happy!
Their world, rather than added,
stayed in my arms and told me.