1

enola gay drops her bomb and love clubs the world to death.
violence is love the bomb which is never true.
by Gary Lundy

jesus looks out at the world in a cocaine stare. the maggots wiggle and feed. his wound widens.

enola gays search for the x drug sniffing dog leads to great frustration. she searches every meticulous crack in the toxic waste desert west of cleveland. even though she discovers the aborted toxic waste embryo. there remains no sign of it.

all love rises out of violence and pain. suffering the ruse which hangs on that tree mute.

enola gay turns inward. what she sees there disturbs.

violence is love the bomb which is never true.

the boy with no grace loves her. but he knows she will not understand what is good for her. he insists love be returned to earth. slaps her twice across the face. punches her in the belly.

enola gay drops her bomb and love clubs the world to death.

the mute jesus stares blank. all hope of memory gone. bile streaks his legs. the tree. crows peck at the sores on his arms and legs. the eyes. his neck a pitiful instrument to store all heaviness. hope is gone. which is the birth of love. which is never truth.

in hiroshima thousands of strange voices sing of love. the black cinder rains down upon them. possessions never survive the test of love.

enola gays love reverberates around the cafe world.

ronny reagon stumbles the streets of detroit seeking his way home.

"does any one know where i am. i'm so lost. will you help me?"

"nancy. what should i do?"

can there be found any truth in the universe?

love (all ways) accompanies such pain and death. which is never truth. there being none.

survivor: it is the bright light of heaven opening above me. looking up i see the keen love of god. immediately my face dissolves so that i see the image of love in the destruction of earth. i sing a guttural song of praise for such holiness.

you have not before understood the lesson: suffering a ruse. pain and violence (all ways) accompanies love. which is never truth. there being none.

the boy with no grace accompanies love with his fists.

survivor: the firestorm of love encircles my home and children. we writhe in the agony love brings. hugging each child in order their skin sticks to my body so that when i let them go they fall singing the skeletal song of love.

this is a most beautiful and holy violence. americas love so great and powerful.

survivor: when i hear the monstrous voice of love exploding nearby i leap into the water tub. the boiling liquid caves my body into massive contortions. lobster hiroshima i die singing the love song of violence and pain.

thousands of candles float on the river of love. love the container which is never true. love violates all law and takes what it wants. love expels bile from the dead corpse of jesus. of hiroshima. of detroit. love rapes the earth. love the toxic waste desert west of cleveland. all is love. love is death is (all ways) not related to truth. there being none.

enola gays euphoria lasts but a few days when once again she is gnawed raw by the memory of it between her legs licking and biting. the memory so remarkable she soars in ecstatic orgasm.

love for the moment hangs around jesus.

thousands of candles float on the river of love. the river of pain. the hopeless river.

thousands of candles raise their flame. suddenly sprout wings. thousands of brightly colored birds fly into the night sky. thousands of stars that quickly flicker. die. then fall back black to the shore of the toxic waste desert west of cleveland.

there are no longer any stars to see.

survivor: i lay in the hospital. my stomach. the bile coming out both ends. in the immediacy of bright insight. the love of god. which is (all ways) america. vaporizes me. i sing a song of praise to shadowed being. the patients with me join in. we are pleased to praise such painful and violent love.

hypocentric love.

jesus hangs stunned. working on his tan he fidgets. which releases again his bowels.

"mother. how could you forsake me so?"

in the middle of each night the boy with no grace awakens to scream epithets.

"you whore. you slut. you fucking bitch. how could you do this to me? why don't you just leave."

such love longsuffering. praises to love. which is never truth. which (all ways) accompanies pain and violence.

survivors: we are playing hide and seek outside the school. it is a beautiful morning. we laugh and tease. in the remarkable moment bright sudden flames. we look at each other. we cannot recognize our friends. our skin dangles and hangs from our bodies. our uniforms torn and sheared. we are now the unbidden. the unhidden children of skeleton town. all praise for love in pain and violence. we crawl to the edge of the river. leaping in to die.

thousand of candles take wing to fly heavenward. the night sky an explosion of color and remarkable joy.

thousands of wingless candles flicker. die. fall blackened back to earth. death love. there being (all ways) no truth to tell.

river of hopeless despair. river of a thousand floating corpses.

river of sudden mercurial love.

survivors song: kill me. kill me. kill me. please. kill me.

there remaining such pleasure in this enormous love.

ronny reagon wanders lost amidst the streets of detroit.

"i've lost my way. will someone please help me?"

"nancy. what am i supposed to do?"

the only words to escape jesuses parched lips on the third or fourth day hanging on that bile covered tree. love in violent pain.

"kill me. kill me. kill me. please. kill me."

survivor: horrible green bile escapes my childs body. out nose mouth ears. he dies screaming the beauty of his fathers love.

ronny reagon stumbles along a street in central detroit. he has no idea where he is. or who. he is in the blissful illusion of collective love.

"ah. here's some water for you my son."

"here's a tomato. two."

"be brave. green bile is good. green is lush. the spring time color of new love."

"do you have any idea how i might get home?"

"nancy?"

ronny reagon supports the financing of americas love. escalates the destruction of heaven. there are no hapless acts of love.

skin and metal. flakes of brick red hot ash fall in a hailstorm of pitiful hope. sudden bursts of toxic waste dust off the desert west of cleveland.

two survivors embrace. ones face between the others shattered legs. the tongue wildly lavishing pain. which is (all ways) love. in the agony of final orgasm the other holds the head. in pushing removes the skin. skeletal angel of despair. scream heavenly orgasm of pain and violence. death love. there being (all ways) no truth to tell.

superficialities.

luann with a c basks on the beach west of tucson. her return unheralded. she wonders for only a moment where her friends. the survivors. might be. she loves the way the hot sun sweats into her body. the smell of the slight burn that turns to radiant tan. it is (all ways) good to be alive for luann with a c. she remains living a charmed life.

the government negotiator continues questioning the various survivors. to get at truth one must be strong and persistent. when he receives an answer not to his liking he pulls a chunk of dangling skin. removes it. most often there accompanies only silent screams. the pleasure of love.

your children are born with bird lips. with melted eyes. with dozens of arms toes legs fingers. two heads. no body. elongated craniums. crustaceous. some with feathers. wings. charred flesh. death love.

there are no stars remaining in the love filled blackened sky.

in her imagination. which is never reality. the last best face sees traps everywhere.

"i fear you are laying a trap for me."

"i fear being caught and caged."

"i fear."

"kill me. kill me. kill me. please. kill me."

jesus. mute. stares out of broken cocaine eyes. flinches once feeling the maggots holiness to stop infection.

for years green bile escapes your ears nose and mouth. you wretch in silent watchful agony. you cannot eat. you ask to die. but no one accompanies your wish.

you enter lay down beside the bloody rag body of the last best face on the tile floor of the mens room. wrap your arms around her. cushion her bruised and blackened head.

"there's too damn much of this kind of love in our world."

the only palatable kind. violent and painful. there is never truth to love. only the imagination. which is never reality.

luann with a c sips a margarita. sucks the salt from her lips. smiles. her tongue swells slightly. she lives a charmed life.

every thing is expendable. which is meaning. one.

note: the survivors narratives are derived from similar narratives cited in Day One: Before Hiroshima and After, by Peter Wyden.


2

this is the true story of the mens room there being no love there.
by Gary Lundy

real love doesn't exist. so i love every one. you love no one because you believe i am your only love.

when she enters the chrome delicatessen she has little idea where the night will fall. the chrome delicatessen serves inexpensive micros so she loves to hang there.

she is about five foot give or take. lovely with a tender underside.

enola gay wanders the streets looking for an easy mark. runs over ronny reagon. who doesn't now move being lost in death.

enola gay backs up to take a better look.

"don't i know you? haven't i seen you around before?"

"nancy. is that you?"

"no you dipshit. and who the fuck is nancy?"

enola gay wanders the streets looking for an easy mark. runs over ronny reagon. who doesn't now move being lost in death.

nancy loses the mirror to the soul.

in the chrome delicatessen she sits alone and watches.

this is the true story of the mens room there being no love here.

when he arrives he is well dressed. slight though lovely he has (all ways) thought of himself as a mommys boy. which he is.

he loves to play with the cowboys who frequent this neck of the woods.

he is our beautiful young man.

the last best face dreams as a girl of living in a white frame farmhouse with a lovely porch that wraps around the south side. her lover and she work the land and have children. her dream includes laughter and kindness. but not old age.

the last best face is aware she no longer looks like a girl. she is ashamed of loving you.

when our beautiful young man has a few drinks he flirts. his mother comes out and he is lovely. all the boys in the chrome delicatessen want him. it is true even though they will all later deny this detail.

they conspire to erase the evidence of their horny asses and preoccupations.

our beautiful young man is unaware that love is about to descend upon him like a tsunami at 3 am.

when the last best face enters the mens room she understands the fear that accompanies her irresponsibility. she knows too that love may be present.

the several cowboys pin her to the wall. she doesn't struggle remembering how she lost consciousness the last time.

the cowboy in front of her laughs. the tobacco stuck to his lower front teeth. his wranglers drop to his ankles. he rips her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india. grabs her two hard kernel tits.

her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india falls in a puddle on the floor of the mens room.

the cowboy behind her laughs. tobacco glue strikes the last best face behind her left ear. she refuses to be there choosing rather to imagine. there being thus no reality.

the boy with no grace who is broke and only slightly flattered lets her talk about marriage since she will leave soon. he wishes she would wear perfume or something to cover up the ugly humus odor of her presence. she is several years older than him.

the cowboy in front of the last best face slaps her several dozen times. then grabs her by each ear and pulls her head down to his hot green preoccupation slime.

the last best face closes her eyes.

the white farm house is deep in the north carolina forest. she loves the idyll which is her dream. imagines the boy with no grace shirtless out working the soil. she breast feeds their second child. their second daughter.

the melody maker of misogyny slaps her several dozen times.

"who the fuck are you? you fucking bitch loser!"

her eyes closed she clamps her lips around the cowboys green slime preoccupation. she chokes on the work weary worm. she works his cock with tongue and teeth.

she can never return to north carolina. her shame too great.

"i've fallen in love with a boy i met two weeks ago."

"he's the man i'm going to marry."

"of course you are."

she works the cowboys green slime in and out between breaths.

the cowboy leans against the porcelain commode groaning.

the last best faces beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india lies in a puddle at her feet. she bends naked to the cowboys demands of love. there being thus no truth.

the cowboy behind her drops his wranglers to his ankles. he grabs her hard kernel tits and pinches until they burst into thousands of colorful birds flying moonward.

blood clots on the floor of the mens room.

her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india clots on the tile floor of the mens room.

the second cowboy methodically shoves his fist into her wet square patch. then opens and flails his fingers methodically.

the last best face smiles as she looks out onto the sweating body of her lover. their two bitches playing with their first daughter.

she now succumbs to the violence of love. the universe a truly generous place.

the second cowboy rubs his fist against her abdomen. shoves his slime brown preoccupation deep into her wet square patch. methodically following the rhythm of her breathing.

the two cowboys tickle their preoccupations inside the last best face while she soars on cupped hands her heart beating into thousands of brightly colored birds.

this is momentarily a love story. there being thus no truth.

the cowboys carve their initials all over the last best faces body. her body breaks in two.

at night her lover comes to her and caresses her body with fine soft tongue laps. she lies back and takes his pleasure into her bodys garden of beautiful flowers.

when they begin kicking her she feels the love of god glow in her consciousness.

the first cowboy kicks her in the ass so hard her nose begins to bleed.

the last best face lies in a heap on the tile floor of the mens room. she wraps her arms around her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india lying in a puddle of clotting blood. the love overwhelming to her imagination. there being no reality there.

she knows the melody maker of misogyny will love her more now.

the true story never being about love.

after several hours our beautiful young man walks to the mens room. he is unconcerned that angels of love follow after him.

he knows he is beautiful.

one angel pushes him from behind. his nose cracks against the pipe feeding the porcelain bowl. he staggers back.

a second angel grabs his armpits and holds him upright.

the first angel tears his pants off. punches our beautiful young man several dozen times in the face and abdomen.

"beautiful jew boy faggot. meet your maker."

all the angels laugh. tobacco juice spews all over our dear beautiful young man.

the second angel rips our beautiful young mans shirt off. strips of fabric stick to his lovely chest and nipples.

our beautiful young man cannot escape into imagination. this reality too much to ignore. he crumples to the tile floor of the mens room.

the first angel shoves his fist up his ass. opens his fingers flailing digging at the soft sensitive flesh.

they all laughter all around. angels singing.

"cock sucker. you're about to meet your maker."

"flaming faggot jew sonofabitch."

"how's this feel faggot."

they all laughter all around. angels singing. tobacco juice spews all over the body of our dear beautiful young man.

the angels stand around their pants to their ankles. their slimy green preoccupations harder than ever. they all stand hot for our beautiful young man. his nakedness more holy than their hands. their bastard penises: formally called cocks or dicks. scarred from lonely nights in one room shacks.

the other angel grabs our beautiful young man and pulls his head by the ears forcing his green slimy preoccupation down his throat.

our beautiful young man struggles not to smother. keeps every detail in his mind. memory being a sure defense. he must remain alert. there being no imagination here. this being reality.

a second angel pinches his nipples until they fall off. shoves his brown slimy preoccupation hard into his ass. mechanically fucks his brains out.

all the angels wait their turn. shake their semen all over our beautiful young man a naked heap of blood piss and bile on the tile floor of the mens room.

the boys all laughter as they knock and knock on the faggots door shouting epithets.

"gonna kill you you cocksucker faggot."

"come on. open up. prepare to meet your maker you jew faggot."

the faggot hides behind his bed too terrified to imagine escape. the phone in the other room near the door.

our beautiful young man floats out of his body as the angels of love strip his flesh and tie him to the fence.

our beautiful young man floats out of his body and flies moonward a solitary brightly colored bird.

jesus the bastard blames his mother for all his troubles. his father somewhere in argentina somewhere.

enola gay lies in a bloodied heap on the floor of the mens room. her intestines strewn all over the floor mixing with blood piss and bile. her tits now mere scars. she may be is dying. this cancer rages.

our beautiful young man gently touches his lovers preoccupation in the melody of enchantment. he takes it delicately into his mouth. into his ass. there being this truth. thus no love. their pleasure beyond tomorrow.

her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india lies in a puddle on the tile floor of the mens room.

the angels of love follow the emperor of infanticide. break childrens heads like they were sticks of candy. their laughter floats up toward heaven like metal balloons.

no amount of imagination is enough to prepare for the terror of our loneliness and suicide tonight.

angels whose dreams preoccupy them crumple in hopeless denial.
 
the melody maker of misogyny brags to every one listening that he remains the greatest. his face covered by the blood piss and bile of his many lovers.

the last best face squirms around their neighborhood refusing to look him even in the eye. her shame that great.

the mountains to the west all ready topped with snow. two children wearing helmets jump their bikes off the curb.

keep your eyes wide open or you will miss the solitary moment of a kindness.

the black st. louis musician composes on the body of the long haired white boy his most ambitious melody.

euphoric spirals take all of me please.

3



Indeterminacy by Michael Dickel, digital montage (companion piece to text)

Indeterminacy.
How quickly it seems. A cheerful autumn snow turns. Sad nostalgia for what hasn’t been. Takes its place. Maybe. Never was. The wrenching moment. Unreal. Unexpected timing and impact open something dark warm empty. That tired old wound. Self equals pity. Not.

I would release. that moment. and all the wound(s). to the air if I could. For some reason. I won’t. Let go entirely. For moments. Disappear into the breeze, walking. Out over the rise. Down into the valley. Over to the college campus there. You work where here, I walk. Now. But then I grab a breath back in. Forget to release. Hold that breath. Until my lungs crave oxygen.

In moments of release I call. Perhaps, rather, these calls are. A moment of holding. My breath. Inspiration. Expiration. Spiraling. Snow. One dropping flake at a time, falls, melts on leaves, drips into a thirsty soil. Foolish feels this way.

Expectations and hopes—built unrealistically high. A snow sculpture I wanted so much. I attempted to build it while snow melted. From the sky and the grass still showed. Melting before it finds shape. Before there was snow. Out of which to discover. It’s form.

Why else would sadness be so deep. Your intuition deep and full. As if this is your intuition. Certainly I have not trusted. Myself. Or an other. Or you, I guess. If I still cling. Tenacious these few breaths of insubstantial air. A fantasy of us. It never was. Still. Creation begins. with a breath.

Paths I don’t want. to walk down. again through this snow. Growl at me and beckon. Dragons swallow tails. I talk. to convince myself. Through convincing you. this. I use your voice. Tell me I should. All the while choosing. Each step directs me away. From what I convince myself I should not have or be. Want.

Those paths lead. Convoluted paths disappear into barren waste and briars. No path runs straight. I come to the same juncture, or one so similar as to be identical, not having learned from this intersection yet how to navigate this moment. And you are decidedly not that you. A demon of my own imbalance disguises itself as mask. Outside of me, you would never be. Which is why I trust. You? Which is what. I wish I could say some meaningful way.

To come to see you requires more silence than is in me right now. You are someone different. Some one. Different. I am talk myself into another illusion. We are all one. All the same creates light.  Or perhaps I am just using my voice, an hallucinated you. Turn my self onto another. Misconstrued path. All the while I believe. We are in harmonic resonance with each other. Or could be. Obviously not at this moment.

What is belief? In any moment of quiet walking. I sense only a few things.

One thing. I am the person walking here and I don’t want to be anyone who is not this “I” right now—not for a lack of desiring tikkun olam, not for a lack of willing to ascend and descend the ladder, not for a lack of dreaming of an orchard, for that desire, that will, that dream together as who is walking, the illusion of me.

Metaphors for the journey walk through this. Snow falling on this day after Thanksgiving. I want to be on this journey, this person on this journey.

Another thing. When I breathe out something is right.

My tiredness stays with me—my tiredness does not stay. I held onto it. Maybe more of it has dissipated than I know. Still, I feel calm. Partnership remains most of the time. Judging myself, not you me. The idea annoying you. It is illusion / delusion of self-centeredness. And all of it, or this it, without any all, has nothing to do. Which is likely true, or some of it true, or none of it true.

A third thing. Here I chase my tail again. Wanting to say. There are other moments before concluding. The thought drifts off. Think about laughter, the sounds of people.

A last sensing. We would turn into a super nova of human emotion. If total energy were. Always the way. First days, intimately in spiritual mystical union with godhead. Making love all the same and one together. The universe in a moment that might be. A wrenching sadness at the beginning. These thoughts. Speak to me something about the depth of connection.

Awareness of. Illusion, delusion, projection, infatuation, a the litany of words. Explain that sense of connection. Why do I cling? This narrow path. I let go for a moment. Grab it back. Breathe it in as sadness and out as joy. Still I hang onto this reality, illusory and self-deluding, trusting. My own intuition. Ignoring it. I don’t know which. Only my self here. Not knowing anything about an other.

Wishing the illusion of some poorly imagined and unrealized snow sculpture. Wishing I would be open to what is. Hanging on. I remember. I came here. To find out this thing. I am grateful. Sad.

And but however still I want. To see. You as you. To find. A way to know. You. As you. Exist. Find. A way not mine. A way both my way. To see. To see you. As you see. Your way to be seen. Loved as one.

All of this. Indeterminacy. provides. No understanding. Or direction. So many white specks dancing through the air, I choose to trust. To accept. While also wanting. Snow falls. Melts practically before. it hits the ground. The trees outlined in white. Dripping water to the roots. Too late for dead plants in the southwest corner, woody and disembodied at once. Perhaps I can paint them red or uproot them and start over.

I approach the end of this walk, regain the house. Perhaps together. We could watch. Snow falls and melts. See the morning return. Of course it would be a different morning and a new snow.

4


Mr. Pepperoni Never Told Me to Say This
by Garrett Clark

i almost never
talk about the
2 or 3 or 22
years i spent
as a recluse
(how do you
speak of
something as
vague as "2 or
or 3 or 22
years" anyway?)
when i felt
like the
earth's best
secret or some
holy jewel
meant for some
silver-clad
hero marauder
i hoped would
never come

everyone
thought i died
or was in
rehab and no
one guessed
that i had a
semi-permanent
migraine that
housed an
alien symbiote
named Jon Bon
Jovi Pepperoni
kicking back
and giggling
mad ceaseless
cancerous joy
for the
Shakespearean
comedy of my
thoughts

was this not
the most
obvious
possibility?

so many eyes
have gazed upon
the red cover
of that
notebook where
i channeled
this tingling
head buzz
doctrine of
carnivore
absurdity but
none could see
into that dark
room where i
cast my
skeleton to
the void to
relieve the
pressures of
having two
eyes, a snout,
and so many
places to go
in my mind i
thought i'd
never leave my
warm psychic
observatory

they don't know
of the beast
that stomped
loudly through
the trees
outside or the
way every car
in the street
was pregnant
with feds
swinging on
umbilical cords
of paperwork
or long strings
of paper
headstones all
signed by me

people always
seem to miss
the most
obvious choice
but what can
you do?

i was nocturnal
and overwhelmed
by the
circadian pulse
that charged
the air
resonating all
the frenzied
hyper-aware
thoughts of
neighbors and
pedestrians
blasting
rhythmic zaps
to my great
big satellite
dish of an
aching head
and i was
lulled by the
lullabies of
angels in my
marrow's breath

so i counted
my fingers and
gathered my
soldiers and
gripped the
necks of my
night prowlers
screaming just
to hear their
reply and i
guess at times
they're still
putting in
their piece

and you wonder
how poems like
this come to be?

besides, it's
totally
possible that
one can forget
that such a
thing as
tomorrow
exists and
that they can
forget this
for 2 or 3 or
22 years

that's why i'm
writing this
in case you
forget (in case
i forget) the
obvious
possibilities
of life beyond
the electric
blue flicker
of narcissism
beyond the so
many filters
of waffle fries
over the eyes
of a fried
night-tripping
brain casting
itself further
and further
out and waiting
for that silver
cord to
finally snap
it back
to reality

either that or
i'm just tired
of hiding away
in the darkness
of this secret
feeling still
like a recluse



5



Whitewash by Saurabh Mehta, pen & ink with watercolor