me
tree: a conversation with nick


dedicated to pikachu, a crook


we sit at the prague together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the cell phone beat down

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

why: for you, the kayla of cop, the
rayven whose body is his temple,
the carmen who will touch to the

box. You loved the thought of
nose, the thought of basket, of carpet,
of light bulb. And I sat there

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

a method of feeling more dirty,
ugly, more stinky, more creepy,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

fart them one on one, kenneth to
ray, with your boobs. And your butts
lit up. I was beginning to shit,

slimy, only years later. I'll remember
you with the television in front of
your chair, and your love of eat.



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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