Archive
04/12/10 - (3)
Loss of Appetite
Then, one terrifying 8:15 a.m., so terribly very long ago, Your all-American appetite shut down, seized, completely ceased, Made a staggering run for the violently shuddering toilet Of your meteorically soaring rapidly banking psyche, Into which it exploded your convulsing guts.
Little did you realize, when you lost your taste for food, That you were being served a gourmet breakfast (Consisting of eggs Benedict and 1945 Lafite Rothschild, Courtesy of your haberdasher president from Independence, Missouri, Aboard the B-29 of Col. Paul W. Tibbets, Jr. — the Enola Gay),
That everything would change so drastically, dramatically, Once the atomic dove plummeted, From the bomb-bay doors of that droning Superfortress, And that you, too, would be evaporated, incinerated, vaporized, In the backdraft of that horrific backlash of clashing inhumanity.
Today, all these sixty-five emaciated years later, You can't eat sushi, sukiyaki, yakitori, teriyaki, imbibe sake, Let alone force hamburgers or hot dogs down your esophagus, For the deeds you helped perpetrate in the name of democracy, Freedom from dictatorship, tyranny, imperial mandate.
Though you weigh less than an ounce, You're still, if hardly thriving, very much alive — Your psyche, anyway, your memory of that 8:15 breakfast, When your appetite and your country's appetite parted ways, In the skies over Japan, leaving behind a giant, inedible mushroom.
04/12/10 - (3)
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