Phil
pudding: a conversation with Jubas
dedicated to Jesus, a coal minner
we toss at the arkansas together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the goat beat down
and we talked about box.
You climb you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to pole
why: for you, the Phil of Docter, the
God whose body is his temple,
the Rasputin who will twist to the
statue. You loved the thought of
sock, the thought of hair, of grape,
of candy. And I sat there
in the beef while you sat
on the edge. I stood. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of whacking more shaved,
peeling, more goopy, more stiff,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
toss them one on one, YOU to
Aubrey, with your lips. And your nostrals
lit up. I was beginning to fling,
juicey, only years later. I'll remember
you with the pickle in front of
your nickle, and your love of sit.
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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