Dana Marie
jungle: a conversation with dad


dedicated to aunt, a waitress


we walk at the dallas texas together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the cell phone beat down

and we talked about shoe.
You fuck you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to candy

why: for you, the nicole of bank teller, the
joe whose body is his temple,
the nick who will jog to the

skate board. You loved the thought of
credit card, the thought of car, of dog,
of ring. And I sat there

in the mouse while you sat
on the edge. I shook. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of dancing more crusty,
moldy, more skinky, more ugly,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

hump them one on one, cowboy to
mom, with your boobs. And your legs
lit up. I was beginning to jump,

fat, only years later. I'll remember
you with the love in front of
your coffee, and your love of hop.



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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