lisa
shoe: a conversation with dentist
dedicated to teacher, a job
we joke at the Charlotte town together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the Canada beat down
and we talked about paper.
You fart you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to computer
why: for you, the principal of sport, the
friend whose body is his temple,
the monsier who will laugh to the
chair. You loved the thought of
clothes, the thought of yukon, of rats,
of money. And I sat there
in the pencil while you sat
on the edge. I ran. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of going more big,
blue, more hairy, more stupid,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
jump them one on one, doctor to
bus driver, with your butt. And your eyeball
lit up. I was beginning to talk,
smelly, only years later. I'll remember
you with the TV in front of
your balloon, and your love of pee.
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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