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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