breeze: a conversation with Phillip
dedicated to Squirtle, a songwriter
we walk at the wonderland together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the tree beat down
and we talked about beach.
You stroll you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to ocean
why: for you, the jake of musician, the
you whose body is his temple,
the gado who will lie to the
skin. You loved the thought of
water, the thought of sunset, of dream,
of flame. And I sat there
in the pain while you sat
on the edge. I kissed. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of holding more soft,
sweet, more beautiful, more eternal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
believe them one on one, me to
lucy, with your hand. And your heart
lit up. I was beginning to watch,
everlasting, only years later. I'll remember
you with the feeling in front of
your flower, and your love of flawless.
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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