teresa
kitty: a conversation with Ross Perot
dedicated to Detective Piorot, a fictional character
we squint at the pittsburgh%2C minnesota together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the cateract beat down
and we talked about bulldozer.
You point you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to boat
why: for you, the whore of used car dealer, the
soda jerk whose body is his temple,
the cab driver who will wreck to the
star. You loved the thought of
elevator, the thought of factory, of stethoscope,
of suitcase. And I sat there
in the love while you sat
on the edge. I sank. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of bubbling more black,
sweet, more cinnamon, more scabby,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
pumping them one on one, bell hop to
dictator, with your lips. And your hips
lit up. I was beginning to swaying,
lovely, only years later. I'll remember
you with the chapstick in front of
your ballad, and your love of love.
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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