wizzkid
cup: a conversation with master
dedicated to farmer, a typist
we lope at the hilltop together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the shoe beat down
and we talked about tree.
You crash you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to snow
why: for you, the mermaid of teacher, the
ieva whose body is his temple,
the waiter who will lovingly to the
hand. You loved the thought of
fig, the thought of foot, of honeycomb,
of person. And I sat there
in the dog while you sat
on the edge. I chomped. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of shooting more pretty,
humble, more runny, more sweet,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
hit them one on one, johnny b to
pereira, with your inner thigh. And your wrist
lit up. I was beginning to laugh,
terrible, only years later. I'll remember
you with the scarf in front of
your cookie, and your love of blow.
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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