fake nameass
penis: a conversation with patrick
dedicated to inspector gaget, a stripper
we fuck at the Mississippian Trailerpark together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the fried chicken beat down
and we talked about insectuous.
You slap you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to coke
why: for you, the your mom of prostitute, the
your mom whose body is his temple,
the cousin billybob who will sniff to the
family dog. You loved the thought of
tube top, the thought of sweet tea, of pickup truck,
of shotgun. And I sat there
in the toothless whore while you sat
on the edge. I sodimized. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of lynching more unholy,
deadbeat, more greasy, more inbred,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
yee-hawed them one on one, jerry springer to
daisy duke, with your third nipples. And your toothless-gums
lit up. I was beginning to hog-tied,
confederate, only years later. I'll remember
you with the delapitated trailer in front of
your cheap cigarettes, and your love of impregnate.
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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