Anna
house: a conversation with The-Pope
dedicated to George-Bush, a dairy-farming
we lament at the Ohio together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the rain beat down
and we talked about pail.
You howl you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to ocean
why: for you, the The-Landlord of preaching, the
Cinderella whose body is his temple,
the Jerry-Falwell who will penetrate to the
motion. You loved the thought of
silver, the thought of tea-cup, of garden,
of wolf. And I sat there
in the cookie while you sat
on the edge. I crossed. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of ripping more hairy,
golden, more pink, more rude,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
weed them one on one, Joe to
George-Washington, with your ears. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to blind,
immature, only years later. I'll remember
you with the lard in front of
your horizon, and your love of freeze.
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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