Nicole
tape: a conversation with Grocho
dedicated to Ronald Reagan, a Nurse
we turn at the Tuacahn together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the house beat down
and we talked about swimming pool.
You graze you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to trellis
why: for you, the Ted Turner of Garbage collector, the
Princess Diana whose body is his temple,
the Dick Cheney who will cooking to the
cabana. You loved the thought of
jumprope, the thought of melon baller, of microphone,
of tower. And I sat there
in the Watch while you sat
on the edge. I rang. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of waving more foamy,
red, more shiny, more coarse,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
jump them one on one, Sky Masterson to
Sam Anderson, with your toes. And your eyelashes
lit up. I was beginning to gargle,
light, only years later. I'll remember
you with the Mouse in front of
your lamp post, and your love of wipe.
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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