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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