jessica: a conversation with snoop dog
dedicated to elton john, a rapper
we run at the west palm together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the house beat down
and we talked about desk.
You shot you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to car
why: for you, the emp of philosopher, the
mass whose body is his temple,
the pharoah monch who will rap to the
headphones. You loved the thought of
microphone, the thought of crowd, of lung,
of florida. And I sat there
in the mad alias while you sat
on the edge. I wrote. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of killing more lyrically inclined,
hot, more pretty, more blue,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
run them one on one, ridd to
philosphy, with your leg. And your mouth
lit up. I was beginning to scream,
phat, only years later. I'll remember
you with the rap crew in front of
your 99live, and your love of won.
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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