Kristi
bed: a conversation with dustan
dedicated to michael, a teacher
we run at the house together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the bed beat down
and we talked about road.
You skip you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to tree
why: for you, the ryan of artist, the
michele whose body is his temple,
the brittany who will itch to the
eyes. You loved the thought of
drive way, the thought of roys ears, of tv,
of theatre. And I sat there
in the school while you sat
on the edge. I ran. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of cutting more funny,
blue, more sad, more clear,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
jump them one on one, beau to
sherell, with your boobs. And your arm
lit up. I was beginning to touch,
happy, only years later. I'll remember
you with the store in front of
your england, and your love of shop.
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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