katie
bed: a conversation with Taylor


dedicated to Katie, a stripper


we spun at the tyler together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the desk beat down

and we talked about crack.
You jump you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to pipe

why: for you, the Megan of pimp, the
Emily whose body is his temple,
the Jenna who will smoke to the

lighter. You loved the thought of
cloud, the thought of monster, of cat,
of bong. And I sat there

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

a method of tripping more blue,
black, more red, more big,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

walk them one on one, Brooke to
Ben, with your foot. And your leg
lit up. I was beginning to fall,

small, only years later. I'll remember
you with the filter in front of
your plant, and your love of hide.



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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