NUCLEAR SUSHI MUSEUM
The
taste that fell on Tibbets' tongue was fresh to the crew of
the Fukuryu Maru nine years later netting
fish for sushi, suddenly crying
old leaden tears back into the food chain.
we
can't eat without swallowing Hiroshima, Nagasaki,
a poisonous tincture of Bikini Lagoon.
"Unclassified
nuclear weapon shapes" displayed like trophies curated
of context, emasculating history with laser taxonomy mirrored in shaded eyes...
where
a Snark is still "handy
for striking a light" for a Minuteman missile blowing
smoke rings, sun wears a hostile black coat, each generation
cloaking the next in metaphors no longer fitting:
In
the dark closet,
A kimono tries on
It's own shape... |
it's knot's path tied behind, kimono and obi
the pride of straight lines, like missile designs.
Heaven
itself cooks on thermonuclear heat, sauteing St.
George's dragon with balls of vinegared rice served with sole of charcoaled sailor and
eyes of skeletal fish.
