Smokey McPot
dog: a conversation with billy
dedicated to dick, a gynacolagist
we smoke at the school together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the soup beat down
and we talked about cat.
You urinate you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to pig
why: for you, the bart of janiter, the
charley whose body is his temple,
the patey who will puke to the
restront. You loved the thought of
gote, the thought of bat, of cow,
of farm. And I sat there
in the bike while you sat
on the edge. I sucked. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of smokeing more long,
purple, more hard, more smokey,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
finger them one on one, bob to
mat, with your head. And your wienis
lit up. I was beginning to runing,
round, only years later. I'll remember
you with the donkey in front of
your bird house, and your love of gaging.
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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