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Poam: Militant Man With Schizophrenia


the problem with people
in this country today
is they don’t love
the US of Goddamn A anymore

All these yuppie faggots
riding their trains to work
their bmws their jags
and I went to war for ‘em
went to hell and back

we chanted
sodomize hussein for ‘em

and we loved the Goddman wars
WWI, II, Korea, Nam, Nicaragua, Iraq
cause we were fighting for something
something real

what the hell
what has this country
come to


Ha. He thinks he’s really funny. Strong.
I’m Jennifer. I know him. He hasn’t been laid in
years, and most of the times were with foreign
women. What does it mean when you have to pay
for sex? It means you’re not a man, and he knows
He doesn’t usually let me come out. But, you
see, I’m really stronger than him. Oh, and that
kills him, a woman being stronger than him.
But, you see, he never lets himself be loved.
He tries to hide himself in his stupid war
But I come out every once in a while, put on
my little red dress, put on the lipstick. Mmm, you
know, lipstick feels so good gliding across your


I shanked a nigger faggot
when i was in the clink
the faggot tried to rape me
but he didn’t know who he was dealing with

I’m a man, Goddamnit
I’ve robbed stores
I’ve killed men
I’ve had women

and there’s always an enemy
and I can beat ‘em all

when I was in grade school
a kid called me a pansy
and I beat him so hard
they had to take him
to the hospital

nobody messes with
jimbo breen


I know I’m better looking than all those Hustler
magazines he keeps.
He keeps these old magazines, you see, old
car and drivers, old soldier of fortunes
old hustlers.
Some of ‘em gotta be ten years old.
Usually when I take over I just look through
those sex mags and laugh. They don’t know
what they’re doing. I could make a man happy.
I could give it to him any way he wanted it.
God, I want a man inside of me, in my mouth, in
me now.
I could even climb the corporate ladder, if that’s
what would turn them on, if only I could overpower
that bastard’s mind. I could be fucking every man
I saw.
I could walk out on the streets and be whoever I
wanted. God, I could be something.


women are such bitches
they can’t be trusted


Who is he hiding from? Let me come out.


this is a good country
nobody’s got no
Gaddamn pride anymore
and I’m sick of
all the faggot yuppies
these Goddamn cowards
corporate cogs

they don’t stand up
for what they believe in

and people
don’t fear the Lord
know who they should
look up to

I have a picture of Ollie North
it’s an eight-by-ten
it’s framed in my kitchen


I wish he’d clean this place up. I’m not going to
do it. What, does he think I’m gonna cook for him
Why doesn’t he get a job, one that lasts for more
than four months, one that’s not in a liquor store
so he can get drunk every chance he gets.
Thank God
he doesn’t have the guns anymore. He used to
have a ton of ‘em, keep them hidden in every
corner of this one-bedroom hole above some
old bag’s garage. If the guns were still here, I’d kill
No, I couldn’t, I’d be killing myself then. He’s all
I got. I just wanna get out, I wanna live, I wanna
stop hiding.
I want him to take down his guard for just one minute,
that guard of his that is still stronger than his
sargeant’s from Korea. Damnit.
I wish his mind would just rest, so I could take it over
again, but it seems to always be there, on the
defensive, darting around, looking for ways to protect


there’s a war
behind every corner
you’re gotta learn
to fight

people don’t know
who to trust anymore
what to
believe in
but I do

I am
Jimbo Breen

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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