R. M. Dugan
batting average: a conversation with Herard
dedicated to Emily, a French maid
we shape at the space together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the catapult beat down
and we talked about space.
You shimmy you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to show-down
why: for you, the Beatrice of biographer, the
Vilma whose body is his temple,
the Randy who will catapult to the
shed. You loved the thought of
shotgun, the thought of skid-mark, of biography,
of gong. And I sat there
in the soup while you sat
on the edge. I lost. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of subsuming more pinkish,
red, more gong-like, more grim,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
plow them one on one, Emily II to
the postman, with your fingers. And your nose hairs
lit up. I was beginning to drip,
glowing, only years later. I'll remember
you with the spaceship in front of
your telephone, and your love of dry.
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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