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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