Jessie Greer
mail truck: a conversation with plastic surgeon
dedicated to E.T. Correspondent, a circus performer
we Squander at the Orange Free State together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the kitchen beat down
and we talked about stoplight.
You gyrate you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to Scarlet Macaw
why: for you, the police officer of drywall contractor, the
doctor whose body is his temple,
the nun who will giggle to the
ceramic tile. You loved the thought of
amethyst, the thought of hyena, of Valentine%27s Day,
of parsley flakes. And I sat there
in the Linda Gray while you sat
on the edge. I divorced. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of travelling more Catholic,
humectant, more quasijudicial, more meticulous,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
violate them one on one, clown to
attorney, with your legs. And your teeth
lit up. I was beginning to open,
gregarious, only years later. I'll remember
you with the Barbie Doll in front of
your xylophone, and your love of draw.
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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