Katunner
flower: a conversation with Kaeta


dedicated to Gunnar, a baseball player


we eat at the Vermont together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the mouse beat down

and we talked about pencil.
You swim you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to paper

why: for you, the Carol of player, the
Dana whose body is his temple,
the Nick who will type to the

Cindy. You loved the thought of
dog, the thought of rat, of bed room,
of bag. And I sat there

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

a method of playing more hot,
warm, more fun, more long,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

sing them one on one, Shawn to
Hanna, with your nuts. And your virgina
lit up. I was beginning to talk,

tastey, only years later. I'll remember
you with the Jermy in front of
your Matt, and your love of fart.



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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