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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