Mason
dead man: a conversation with sally sothers


dedicated to sally, a cafeteria lady


we poop at the NYC together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the paper beat down

and we talked about shoe.
You call you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to cow

why: for you, the Mr. Hanky of poo-scooper, the
derick whose body is his temple,
the dally who will begged to the

crudd. You loved the thought of
window, the thought of house, of computer,
of lady bug. And I sat there

in the jack-in-the-box while you sat
on the edge. I sang. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of dying more smelly,
orange, more red, more square,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

sticky them one on one, fred to
gina, with your leg. And your butt
lit up. I was beginning to sticky,

ugly, only years later. I'll remember
you with the blue in front of
your floor, and your love of die.



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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