Ross
queen: a conversation with Becky


dedicated to Ralph, a profiler


we urinate at the Burrelle%27s together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the door beat down

and we talked about ocean.
You officiate you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to latrine

why: for you, the Shawna of prostitute, the
Tom whose body is his temple,
the Dalene who will happy to the

toilet. You loved the thought of
bra, the thought of stopwatch, of swamp,
of cloud. And I sat there

in the union suit while you sat
on the edge. I yodeled. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of defecating more rainy,
fruity, more venomous, more moronic,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

explode them one on one, Ross to
Nathan, with your legs. And your adrenal glands
lit up. I was beginning to vomit,

tight, only years later. I'll remember
you with the idiot in front of
your saddle, and your love of laugh.



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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