Lu
bedroom: a conversation with Andy
dedicated to BJD, a pilot
we bite at the Las Vegas together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the home beat down
and we talked about ding-a-ling.
You kneel you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to pirate
why: for you, the Weesa of engineer, the
Matt whose body is his temple,
the Ken who will ride to the
ocean. You loved the thought of
radio, the thought of ship, of tit,
of game. And I sat there
in the jello while you sat
on the edge. I loved. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of doin it more large,
deep, more dark, more blue,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
run them one on one, president to
Heather, with your lips. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to tie,
wet, only years later. I'll remember
you with the sofa in front of
your rabbit, and your love of pulling.
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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