Brittany
beach ball: a conversation with sherry


dedicated to jordan, a wedding planner


we jump at the beverly hills together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the rubber beat down

and we talked about ice cream.
You grab you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to shower

why: for you, the katera of doctor, the
taylor whose body is his temple,
the rainey who will caress to the

burrito. You loved the thought of
sand, the thought of umbrella, of picture,
of bathroom. And I sat there

in the chair while you sat
on the edge. I walked. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of grinding more huge,
large, more sexy, more small,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

run them one on one, ashley to
brittany, with your boobs. And your balls
lit up. I was beginning to take,

sexier, only years later. I'll remember
you with the phone in front of
your computer, and your love of touch.



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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