ashley
phone: a conversation with johnny


dedicated to luke, a lawyer


we run at the mall together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the computer beat down

and we talked about flower.
You walk you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to chair

why: for you, the lacy of artist, the
logan whose body is his temple,
the sara who will jog to the

door. You loved the thought of
floor, the thought of dog, of man,
of pen. And I sat there

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

a method of writing more gorgous,
beautiful, more ugly, more big,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

fart them one on one, bristi to
john, with your boobs. And your legs
lit up. I was beginning to pace,

tall, only years later. I'll remember
you with the pot in front of
your printer, and your love of jog.



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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