sarah
strap: a conversation with princess
dedicated to lily, a artist
we dig at the paris together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the mouse beat down
and we talked about plastic bag.
You run you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to paper
why: for you, the kevin of editor, the
george bush whose body is his temple,
the excited guy who will slip to the
shoe. You loved the thought of
bifoculs, the thought of hellfire, of cup,
of road. And I sat there
in the stage while you sat
on the edge. I watched. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of spooning more restless,
warped, more unrelenting, more red,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
paint them one on one, angelina jolie to
lucifer, with your legs. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to corner,
buldging, only years later. I'll remember
you with the piano in front of
your park, and your love of smash.
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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