Max
Chicago: a conversation with Jed
dedicated to Dialgo, a taxi driver
we run at the 2 inches north together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the fart beat down
and we talked about lightswitch.
You dart you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to baloons
why: for you, the Max of Director, the
Colin whose body is his temple,
the Hannah who will eat to the
shotgun. You loved the thought of
pistol, the thought of magnum, of mom,
of purse. And I sat there
in the button while you sat
on the edge. I ate. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of farting more big,
huge, more humoungus, more gigantic,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
type them one on one, Kalliegh to
Regan, with your bOOBS. And your ears
lit up. I was beginning to hit,
larger than the universe itself, only years later. I'll remember
you with the wallet in front of
your big humungus butt, and your love of grunt.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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