On May the twelfth of nineteen forty-two,
A project was started by Franklin D.
A plan was penned to make the bombs we threw,
On Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The bombs were named after a boy and man,
One of them little and one of them fat.
Both of them made by project, Manhattan,
No one can guess why they named them like that.

The project was held in three locations,
Hanford, Los Al’mos, Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
And with sci’ntists from three diff’rent nations,
The US, Great Britain, and Canad-ee.

The bombs that ended the second world war,
Began as the scientists’ idea.
They didn’t see then the fam’lies they tore,
They didn’t hear the “Ave Maria.”

The project was kept top secret for fear,
Of Germans, Japan, and all the Russians.
That all those countries’ spies would steal and hear
Their newfound ideas and discussions.

The morning of August six, forty-five,
The Japanese city, Hiroshima.
People awoke with no thought to their lives,
Just after battle in Iwo Jima.

Little Boy fell, over nine thousand pounds,
Plopped from B-29 Enola Gay.
Pilot Paul Tibbets in far above bounds,
Dropped Little Boy to heed orders that day.

The Fat Man fell just a few days later,
August ninth on city, Nagasaki.
A bomb of this force, made by traitor,
Not so, it’s made by those from Milwaukee.

Thousands of pounds of explosive power,
Tens times efficiency of one before.
Dropped on a village within an hour,
Explosion, explosion upon the shore.

By Robert Oppenheimer it was led,
With help from General Leslie R. Groves.
They felt great regret for all that were dead,
Those people they killed in shadowy droves.

My dreams come
In different shapes.
And different sizes.
In different colors.
And different disguises.

My dreams come
Sporadically.
Inconsistently.
Without rhyme.
Without reason.
Random.

My dreams come
When I wake.
When I sleep.
In the day.
In the night.
When I read.
And when I write.

My dreams come.
And my dreams go.
But in my heart
I know,
My future is my own.

I am intelligent and linguistic.
I wonder about space.
I hear clear silence.
I see shapes in clouds.
I want to write stories.

I am intelligent and linguistic.
I pretend to be happy to clean things.
I feel as if I could fly.
I touch the sky.
I worry for the world.
I cry for people dying for no reason.

I am intelligent and linguistic.
I understand that no one is perfect.
I say everything is equal.
I dream of a better world.
I try to be better.
I hope for the future.

I am intelligent and linguistic.

I am from books.
From stain remover and paper towels.
From the “golf course lawn.”
(Perfectly manicured,
not a blade out of place.)
I am from forget-me-nots.
From the olive trees and oleander bushes.
The poisonous green leaves,
And the fruit ripe for painting.

I am from themed Christmas trees and chilli on Halloween.
From Nina and Dulce.
I am from eating dinner in the living room,
Making nicknames for television characters,
And waking up to shower and go back to sleep for a while.

I am from “one bite, one bite” and “Yellow Submarine.”
From a new color for Lamba on Easter.
From Walnut Creek and Europe.
I am from lentil loaf and sausage casserole.
From mango juice on the hallway carpet,
poured out thick and pulpy with a wet “thump”.

A box of great grandma’s jewelry,
Sitting atop my dresser,
Waiting to be worn out on the town once again.

A loose bolt
In a complete machine.
No sins forgiven,
Without the shadow belittling me,
The shadow won’t let me be.

I am colorblind
But it’s spinning
Perfect blue buildings
And debilitated feelings.

Inside my head,
I’m counting crows,
It’s raining,
In every town,
When I’m around,
I’m a stranger.

I take apart
The very heart
With the water calling,
And the light
will set me free.
Watch me as I fall,
And always remember me.

It’s slow at first.
Quiet and shy.

I’m tired.
She says.
All of the time.

Well, that’s normal.
I say.
Get to bed earlier.
Sleep in on the weekends.

No.
She says.
Definitive.
Absolute.
You don’t understand.
I should’ve known.
I shouldn’t’ve come.

She stands.
She turns to the door.

Wait.
I say.
Tell me.

No.
She says.
I have to go.

Why?

Because.
I’m tired.

She turns again.

Where are you going?
I ask.

She walks to the door.

To sleep.
She says.

When will you be back?
I ask.

I don’t know.
She says.


She doesn’t look at me,
As she leaves.
She melts into the grey,
Beyond the hill.
She vanishes,
Forever.
Never to be seen again.

Jane loves her books.
She’s not all that into looks.

Thomas isn’t a big fan of words.
He wants to fly like the birds.

Jane doesn’t know the ways of the world.
Over her head the connotations swirled.

Thomas has prime common sense.
He doesn’t find the onslaught as intense.

Jane likes to play the violin.
She prefers her soft music to the din.

Thomas doesn’t enjoy the classical.
He feels it was written to be fantastical.

Jane is overwhelmed by the bedlam.
People understanding her is seldom.

Thomas explains the world to Jane.
He helps her see through all her pain.

Jane shows Thomas the world she sees.
The shine of the sunset behind the trees.

Thomas wants to live in the world of Jane’s creation.
Too bad for him, to her realm, there is no train station.