Travis
dog: a conversation with George Bush
dedicated to Michael Jackson, a plumber
we drool at the Fred%27s together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the septic tank beat down
and we talked about table.
You pump you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to knife
why: for you, the Dalton of neuro surgeon, the
Pac-Man whose body is his temple,
the Buzz Lightyear who will cut to the
mask. You loved the thought of
bubble gum, the thought of oxygen, of bear,
of Mr Potato Head. And I sat there
in the Dory while you sat
on the edge. I ran. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of dying more green,
pink, more blue, more polka dot,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
eat them one on one, Taylor to
Woody, with your epiglottis. And your glut max
lit up. I was beginning to flex,
small, only years later. I'll remember
you with the Nemo in front of
your shark, and your love of swim.
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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