jay
pole: a conversation with wallace


dedicated to matt, a cop


we look at the L.A. together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the door beat down

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

why: for you, the dave of stripper, the
bob whose body is his temple,
the rich who will sprinted to the

mat. You loved the thought of
chair, the thought of house, of shoe,
of saw. And I sat there

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

a method of burping more slowly,
blue, more preety, more ugly,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

can them one on one, dave to
lance, with your breast. And your butt
lit up. I was beginning to ran,

loud, only years later. I'll remember
you with the lamp in front of
your jacket, and your love of wait.



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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