Robert
towel: a conversation with Scott


dedicated to Mel Gibson, a juggler


we hug at the mom%27s basement together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the wall beat down

and we talked about lube.
You tickle you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to rope

why: for you, the Barbara Streisand of mailman, the
Cailyn whose body is his temple,
the Sebastian who will cooik to the

barnacle. You loved the thought of
rabbit, the thought of soap, of pickle,
of pill. And I sat there

in the burger while you sat
on the edge. I ate. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of skipping more firm,
soft, more lazy, more astute,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

lick them one on one, Kristin to
Ted, with your toes. And your armpit
lit up. I was beginning to milk,

spoiled, only years later. I'll remember
you with the dog in front of
your floor, and your love of scratch.



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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