hiroshima woman

you can make me the center of your target zone;
drop the bomb down, you can bomb on my home.
separate my shin from inside my skin…
just want some liebensraum, now, is that a sin??
I’m a hiroshima woman, i like to rock and roll…
blast your isotopic fission, umm, strip me to the bone.

well, it’s shred me up,
and nuke me down.
pulverize my head
with the rest of the town.
turn me into plasma; gamma x-ray…
nuke those folks,
i didn’t like them anyway.
red cloud in the sky,
have a hiroshima day.

and, here’s some more stuff i gotta say,
in a jail house rock kind of way:

now, tojo told me, “honey, green moon
‘need more stuff in Japan!
hell with roosevelt, got to break out the ban:
get me back to the safety of the frying pan!
and, i really need all them sumatra monkey glands…”

let’s fook. everybody, let’s fukushima!!
“nuclear is bad, bad yankeeees!!”

— umm, hitler said to hiro,
“turn the bums to glue.”
hiro said to tojo,
“cat, that’s what you should do,
cause, that whole population of China
don’t do what i say….!”

… oh, been to nanking,
watched’um chop some heads.
army boys be thrifty,
did not waste no lead.

and, some things,
you know they never go away:
have a hiro, i mean a foo-koo-shima day.

black bird in black sky

the sea is full tonight,
running currents from asia —
typical flow,
round and serene — it flows
from japan — fukushima,
where death grows in water
so green and still —
deep wells with melting rods, containers,
melting boy and girl —
isotopes eating the land.

a bird, a land bird,
floats upon strontium;
spirit on the sea. and, i see outside, the vivid sunset
reminds me of melting worlds now, fire and death;
and, i cannot shake the fear that my bones
are filling with poison: when i love in you,
i am giving you cesium. i cannot love you anymore;
i cannot kill.

i want to sing a floating song in the wind,
but, the waves and clouds spiral into cesium;
children will die,
birds will die. i want to sing a song
that shouts out happiness — but, the liquid
caress of radioactive water bathes hilo,
covers the beach at waikiki —
the sands, the trees; the people. children
will play, mothers will nurse, people will vote, happy
to pick their team for the series.

leaders of the world, politicians — labor, communist,
fascist, republican realists, democrat souls: vanity boys
and girls. they didn’t tell you? did you ask?

i want to sing a song where i’m not afraid,
afraid to look outside, green planet…
to walk downtown and not look down,
to not have to see the pain,
they know they’re dying — the food, the air and water.

because, the sky would be blue;
birds from far away…shadow face

i couldn’t find

you didn’t tell,
and, hell, i didn’t care —
except you teased
my launch to mars,
called it ‘kiddy kar’,
like i’d stolen mercury
and misaligned your star. yah,
i’m impossible.

you reinvented your history,
like a last month’s christmas tree,
bangling oggles, stretched out wooble:
wooden wingless wigs on trump’s fedora —
i implore ya not to get too hip intensitied,
cause mr. leprosy has got your back.

and, i’m so mellow here in porkland,
watching pigs roll down the feathered hill —
chilling with the leprechauns and demons,
such a fright. and, nights are wizard,
with each drop from fremont bridge
into the frigid willy-met: splash of skum
presents on stage the final biosphere,
and we’re rejected for the future
we’ve just passed.

you didn’t kiss, and, well,
i wouldn’t tell you how to shoot;
your girl’s a fool for masturbating when
you’re raving in the rust belt far and gone;
getaway, to contemplate the station
guide in some small world of plasma space —
learn things we thought we thought were worthless: grin and glow.

if i must pick apart the slivers of my memory,
pinch each punctured line and redefine
what’s life or art; what kept us far away —
replace the sadness meat of history, of you and me,
with something smileable to play me while you’re
puking in the bar.

i didn’t tell you how so beautiful you looked last night;
i forgot to bring the orchid for your wedding gown —
i’ve often felt i should adore you more, to be polite,
but, polite’s what the clown tripped over, leaving town.