Ross
fence: a conversation with yooper


dedicated to moron, a proctologist


we finger at the Burrelles together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the dog beat down

and we talked about house.
You hiccup you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to home

why: for you, the Ralph of profiler, the
mormon whose body is his temple,
the minister who will google to the

buzzard. You loved the thought of
stump, the thought of tree, of man,
of harpoon. And I sat there

in the siren while you sat
on the edge. I urinated. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of defecating more undressed,
aroused, more nude, more horny,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

gyrate them one on one, ex-con to
catholic, with your buttocks. And your testicles
lit up. I was beginning to arouse,

naked, only years later. I'll remember
you with the penguin in front of
your cop car, and your love of ejaculate.



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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