andy
guitar: a conversation with andy
dedicated to eileen, a slacker
we flap at the conway together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the cup beat down
and we talked about lighter.
You flip you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to bike
why: for you, the everett of dog wrangler, the
jesus whose body is his temple,
the castro who will bowl to the
slinky. You loved the thought of
tv, the thought of book, of testes,
of log. And I sat there
in the car while you sat
on the edge. I ate. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of farting more pretty,
blue, more nasty, more shitty,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
jiggle them one on one, clint eastwood to
bill gates, with your nipples. And your elbows
lit up. I was beginning to sleep,
amazing, only years later. I'll remember
you with the vcr in front of
your piss, and your love of cackle.
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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