From the pages of all those Tiger Beat magazines
you purchased with your allowance, I became more
like sugar with each poster you pulled
from the centerfold’s staples. I never liked
that my crotch was always pinned to the crease,
that girls tugged at my sleeves, ripped off my clothes
and shredded what was left of me at my concerts.
I was hoping to be a firefly that feasted
on night flowers, leaving my scent behind
with my original songs, the ones no one heard
over the din of those pop hits that ABC’s money moguls
shoveled into my mouth. During boxed lunches
on the set, I had to sign thousands of postcards
to girls I’d never meet. I was drowning, Sandy,
in the fountain of teen idol fame, and I didn’t know
how to swim. Who does in that kind
of water? So I vanished into those cheap
newsprint pages of 16 magazine. I became a paper
ghost and only the drugs and sex told me
that I was alive. What can I say? Why am I risking this
from the great beyond to share with you? I think
you know better than the lyrics to “I Think I Love You.”
Every poem is a spotlight that shines the light
back into your eyes. You need to keep them open
to honest desires. Don’t get caught underneath
the undertow of the trap door’s weight. Come on,
you know how to escape, to get happy. You almost do it
every day, except you act like it’s your shadow side.
You never let yourself fully embrace the miracle of you.
I sang all those songs on those albums that I know
you still sing, when you are alone or driving with your sister
in her van. I know you gave a private concert to Tara Hardy
in your living room, that you have two microphones
at the ready to practice when you feel inspired by my lips
open to songs you wore down the needles
on your record player to hear over and over again.
I wasn’t ready for everything that came next
after the gold records and the show’s opening credits
dressed in mod. I should have shaken off that Partridge
Family tree sooner, but this isn’t my ending;
this is your beginning. So come on, stay happy, swallow
my songs, my prayers for that girl long ago
who loved me as no one could. Retire all those faded
fan magazines; you know you are happier
when you are locked inside the glass house
where you’ve been waiting your whole life to sing.
