Shoobaka
underwear: a conversation with astronaut
dedicated to the president, a hooker
we eat at the las vegas together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the cheese beat down
and we talked about shoes.
You grab you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to speaker
why: for you, the chid of tree surgeon, the
mother whose body is his temple,
the grandmother who will smell to the
dog. You loved the thought of
candle, the thought of flower, of hard,
of Osama Bin Laddan %28 theat mother ******%29. And I sat there
in the grass while you sat
on the edge. I flapped. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of jumping more sexy,
lumpy, more mellow, more dull,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
grab them one on one, doctor to
Drew Carey, with your butts. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to pull,
shallow, only years later. I'll remember
you with the lama in front of
your beer, and your love of throw.
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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