Ericka
pie: a conversation with Joe


dedicated to George Bush, a hobo


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

and we talked about sausage.
You look you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to cheese omlette

why: for you, the Bill Cartwright of professional garbage collector, the
Homsar whose body is his temple,
the Jim who will sleep to the

cake. You loved the thought of
tire, the thought of sponge, of taco,
of orange. And I sat there

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

a method of eating more round,
yellow, more green, more fat,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

search them one on one, The Cheat to
Bob, with your ears. And your legs
lit up. I was beginning to play,

squarish, only years later. I'll remember
you with the limb in front of
your bat, and your love of think.



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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