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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