Dear Mr. Smith
misfortune: a conversation with you
dedicated to me, a heartbreaker
we break at the neverland together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the fate beat down
and we talked about doll.
You shatter you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to stage
why: for you, the her of diva, the
me whose body is his temple,
the her who will toy to the
tragedy. You loved the thought of
sound, the thought of thunder, of red,
of glass. And I sat there
in the echo while you sat
on the edge. I knew. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of having more under age,
inhebriate, more lonesome, more young,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
hurt them one on one, you to
him, with your lips. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to fall,
hurt, only years later. I'll remember
you with the noise in front of
your end, and your love of jolt.
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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