Mike
ball: a conversation with Guy the Guy
dedicated to Bill, a hobo
we is at the San Fran together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the tomato beat down
and we talked about pie.
You squash you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to taco
why: for you, the George Bush of clown, the
Lady Ladington whose body is his temple,
the The Goofy Goober who will beat up to the
muffin. You loved the thought of
orange, the thought of blueberry, of platinum,
of hat. And I sat there
in the paper while you sat
on the edge. I flew. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of crushing more yellow,
green, more idiotic, more chartreuse,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
throw them one on one, Mr. Man to
Sam, with your ears. And your feet
lit up. I was beginning to crap,
insane, only years later. I'll remember
you with the keyboard in front of
your compy 386, and your love of click.
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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