Over and out, Captain says.
Over the rise and through the foggy dust storms,
and the mixed up, mismatched body parts and commingled corpses.
Over the stud walls, and unsolid portions of broken homes.
Over easy, fragile, crushed aching hearts and crying babes and forgotten females.
Over the raped-through frocks, the radiation-raped bodies,
and broken, timeless chiming clocks.
Over a shedding island alongside China.
Casually taking flight over casualties.
Out of misty skies.
Out towards home,
Blessed, God-shining, in who we trust, home.
Where suburbs burst with bustling tingles.
And the front cover is covered with white paste,
But worked at by black, brown, yellow labor.
Out of freedom, and presidential kingdoms, Truman’s sweetness —
Where separation of wife and husband is more evident than that between church and state.
Out of misty skies; clean, misty skies
But the most heavily polluted.
Over and out, Captain says,
Casually moving outward over Japan’s incinerated land —
This poem speaks of the tragedies in Hiroshima during World War II, where America was romanticized for its suburban beauty, and democracy, while Japan’s demolished land was seen as demolished righteously so; it may have very well been, but the persona disagrees. Written after looking at the last words written on a restaurant placemat and observing the stud walls.