Shelbi
duck: a conversation with Bob Dylan
dedicated to Diane Sawyer, a orthodontist
we call at the Norway together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the poop beat down
and we talked about pickle.
You smell you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to steriod
why: for you, the Chuck Norris of pooper scooper, the
Johnny Cash whose body is his temple,
the Prince Charles who will talk to the
cup. You loved the thought of
cake, the thought of toast, of sock,
of mallrat. And I sat there
in the carpet while you sat
on the edge. I walked. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of stepping more smelly,
stinky, more frenchy, more fruity,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fly them one on one, Hillary Clinton to
Paris Hilton, with your foot. And your ear lobe
lit up. I was beginning to jump,
pretty, only years later. I'll remember
you with the fish in front of
your cow, and your love of flirt.
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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