1944

I was born under the screams of a mushroom filled sky
to the hiss of a thousand locomotives
to the reek of Buchenwald ovens
to the wild-eyed estacy of skeletons dancing in the streets
to the cooing girls gracing aluminum-nosed superfortresses
to the crackling radios and the comforting hum of white refrigerators
to the roar of hot rods and roadsters and coupes
to the ribboned crossbones with skulls donning pink Easter bonnets
to the raised stigmata hands before a heedless world
to the aspen glow of a bonfire in a cowering Berlin
to the fluttering flag on a volcanic isle caught by a gritty Speed Graflex
to the Kilroy that was here and there and everywhere
to the lightning punches of Graziano
and I awoke from the warm watery world to a cry
from lungs invaded by the gasps of a million years.