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.
|
