Joni Mitchell
tree: a conversation with Chuck Woolery


dedicated to the president, a Topless Dancer


we touched at the New York together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the flashlight beat down

and we talked about car.
You bite you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to bug

why: for you, the Jennifer Aniston of Doctor, the
Ted Danson whose body is his temple,
the Ben who will walk to the

flabby. You loved the thought of
turtle, the thought of bronze, of lake,
of floor. And I sat there

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

a method of shooting more ugly,
ignorant, more tall, more rough,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

spit them one on one, John Wayne to
Barbra Walters, with your leg%2C toe%2C and knee. And your elbow
lit up. I was beginning to love,

lazy, only years later. I'll remember
you with the table in front of
your doritos, and your love of perple.



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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