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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