Rebecca
keycard: a conversation with Rove


dedicated to David, a teacher


we thrust at the Chicago together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the bed beat down

and we talked about drink.
You rub you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to chair

why: for you, the Philip of runner, the
Kel whose body is his temple,
the chambermaid who will kiss to the

hand. You loved the thought of
hair, the thought of ring, of mirror,
of sheet. And I sat there

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

a method of whispering more sexy,
dizzy, more handsome, more exhilaring,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

blowing them one on one, Joel to
bell hop, with your ankle. And your mouth
lit up. I was beginning to sucking,

sensual, only years later. I'll remember
you with the carpet in front of
your touch, and your love of lick.



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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