Children don't rise from their ashes as dry remains collected in labeled specimen jars given not the dignity of graves--no little moundsto mark one's place, another sacrifice embraced by Moloch's white-hot arms, rammish stench of rotting flesh and leukemia-ridden bones, crematoria of blue phosphorescent flickering torches from Paleolithic caves...
inaccessible and


This museum's graphics of annihilative power cloaked in pseudological words, one world subsumes another vanishing behind the tain of history's distorted reflections, mausoleums of unburdened bodies breaching a room with a Tinkertoy ceiling; afterbodies plotted through disclosures of digitized meanderings through terrain outside mind's mathematics counting on Promethean chains.


The Mother of Necessity bares spectral faces of hibakusha children whose ashes are contained in jars of faith in which we store each other.