nancy
pencil: a conversation with Anne Frank


dedicated to George Clooney, a Journalist


we eat at the Paris together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the Bathroom beat down

and we talked about hospital.
You strip you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to fruit

why: for you, the Homer Simpson of Mortician, the
George Clooney whose body is his temple,
the Homer Simpson who will take to the

panties. You loved the thought of
wig, the thought of finger, of suit,
of paper. And I sat there

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

a method of procrastinating more dim,
torn, more petrified, more shitty,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

snore them one on one, Anne Frank to
Anne Frank, with your belly button. And your heel
lit up. I was beginning to wash,

yellow, only years later. I'll remember
you with the hammer in front of
your Bathroom, and your love of edit.



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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