I am walking that thin burned-asphalt outline
between self-disgust and
terror,
and,
the wounds and blood, the seeping stuff from
those I'll never know--
--their photos, scars, their stories of
the flash, the sores, the wars, the rough,
the bones, the heat, the fear to speak,
the loved ones all resigned to dust
the lack of regret
the twenty plus
the twenty hundred thousand more we have begun.
the trampling of lives and hope
so others could pretend to have one.

       I think
I can not bring children into
worlds that end like this.
        I think
I can not bring children in
to countries built on stockpiles
                          warrooms
                            mushrooms lodged in pillars of
the fires of a god that save
from ever having to resolve disputes
in any human way.
  how can we
live truthfully in
places that pretend that
hundred thousands vaporized are
science; collateral; yesterday;
how did we forget that we
had done enough in Dresden?
how did we ever
find the gall
to wake
       the next day?


the taste in my mouth is dust for all my
shame for my forefathers.
the pounding in my brain is such
that never goes away.
these images, false sounds, deceit
are nothing in comparison.
the pictures recognizable
are not enough to say.
the voices low, not loud enough to
speak....
not loud enough
to say the things
we have no choice
but see.

not loud enough to
grind the monsters
we will turn to be.


nuclear.