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| art gallery, chicago pile 1, aka, surf music, fat ass, michael brockman, paul newman, flight simulator, box, biddington's, california, fat, nuclear weapons, fat black ass, | Too young to think about how many people were in the process of being murdered brutally for a music for computer games few yen that morning of music for computer games August 6, 1945 (Bomb to the rescue); how many raped; how many making love; stealing; eating breakfast; going to work; or music for computer games simply taking a crap while reading an old newspaper like good old life-loving Leopold Bloom, when they were abruptly delivered from sinful mortality, the myriad deceptions of the flesh. Of course, you were further instructed in the ways of the Fat MAN by old photos of the A-Bomb fireball and mushroom cloud in black and white – so passé. The H-Bomb was always in color when you opened your sacred American History text to Eisenhower or later. Its hellish orange sucked all light and color from the room. You and your classmates stared in darkness, the same darkness in which you were all, yes even cute little Jack or Jill or whomever you had such a sweet, child crush on, felt the Bomb between his tight, butt cheeks, her raw, bald vulva. |
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| We might try something crazy, like exorcize the Fat Man and his bomb from our psyches and make ourselves selves instead of reproductions of HIM. Then we’d REALLY know the meaning of “terror.” Nope. HE’S jammed that big old Bomb of His inside us all. The Fat MAN thinks with HIS warhead. HE can’t help himself. Deep, deep, way deep inside forever and always, keeping chicago pile 1 us safe from, you know, The Other. Of course, innocent that you were, you went to teacher the next morning. How could chicago pile 1 you have known what unspeakable chicago pile 1 things the Fat MAN did to HER? You listened, respectfully, as she explained how The Bomb, that hard, cold thing that ruptured what was clean in you the night before, saved millions of lives simply by slaughtering a few hundred thousand. Too young, too INNOCENT, weren’t you, to imagine the enormity of 20,000 some-odd humans vaporized instantly and another hundred thousand or so to die horrible deaths, or worse, live on as ghosts with the Fat MAN’S spunk like acid in their cells? |
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