ATOMIC MUSE

 

A new culture snakes its way through collections of mummified nuclear devices drained of their poisons, delivery systems ornithologically suited curating souls while embalming toxic hearts.

 

Sanitized of hair, expelled bladder linings, teeth> falling out, victims burned alive,
who is the muse of this museum where Death is Memory in disguise?

 

Tall, slim, Urania, she of astronomy and the renaissance of poetry, programmed to travel a self-correcting course, displaying in her palm: Kali--

skulls for a necklace, earrings of bodies immutably hung, a girdle of severed hands, her stunning red eyes dreaming up clouds of blood.

 

Once a bright vision of militant technology, now a BOMARC is a sharp pencil in a child's censorious mind, marking out from public view the separate thought of each other, a weapon now, a MACE system of jet-propelled missiles, or spiked medieval balls.

 

Urania looks out from behind dark glasses, her Geiger Counter heart clicking off the meaning of a much admired song. Rockets become pillars of community salt, umbilical chains of command--

backs unfold wings,
buttocks bloat into hot air balloons.

 

 

PARATEXT