Sara
paper: a conversation with Salym
dedicated to Gizmo, a Computer Programming
we sling at the Dublin together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the fool beat down
and we talked about splotch.
You cry you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to key
why: for you, the Mikey of Graphic Designing, the
Sabastian whose body is his temple,
the Sean who will careful to the
music. You loved the thought of
book, the thought of category, of breath,
of bird. And I sat there
in the manual while you sat
on the edge. I loved. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of dying more horrible,
surprising, more convincing, more suspicious,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
breathe them one on one, Chantell to
Zach, with your fingers. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to pry,
ragged, only years later. I'll remember
you with the magnet in front of
your tin, and your love of bust.
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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