It couldn't be more appropriate
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
I wonder about the woman that gave me up for adoption,
I imagine her in post-war Japan going about the business of
rebuilding from the ashes of the bombings,
I wonder if she was there when America dropped the bomb,
was she close to Nagasaki or Hiroshima, did she see the plane
as it approached,
did she run in fear or watch intently, curious about the big
silver bird with it’s payload of atomic death,
did she run through the streets looking for parents, family, and
friends, did she recognize the gentle outlines of people left as flash burn
against the crumbling walls,
did she walk aimlessly in shock, left with no idea of what to do next,
calling out the names of mother and father or brothers or sisters or
possibly her own young children?
did I lose an older brother, an older sister, a grand parent or all of
the above, is there transgeneration cell memories telling me that I
was the lucky one, I didn’t get fried in the blast and I don’t have
cancer and I didn’t have to eat carrots from irradiated fields covered
in unstable particles naked to the eye,
Sometimes I imagine my father to be a great giant of a red headed
Swede, a great builder of nations, plowing the war under caterpillar
tractor treads and erecting monoliths of modern industry, skyscrapers
and the mad dash to make money,
I like to think of him as something special, his only sin a small half-breed
baby left behind in his travel, he is an adventurous man like the great men
that built the Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sears Towers and the
Pyramids in Egypt, a man’s man,
these are some of the scenes that flip through my mind when I think of
woman that gave me away, sometimes I pretend she did it for my good, gave
me to a good Christian family ready to love and nurture a poor half Japanese
infant covered in sores, the story goes that way, I was ill from the start.
but sometimes I see it through the portals of my worldly eyes and I know
my queen mamma is really mama-san, pouring sake as politely considered
hospitality girls, lining the frontier bars of “New Tokyo,” my hero father likely
a robust iron worker horny for that “slant-eyed pussy” running wild like barbarians
celebrating the spoils of war—one bar at a time,
mom was a whore and dad was a drunk—it couldn’t be more appropriate.
I imagine her in post-war Japan going about the business of
rebuilding from the ashes of the bombings,
I wonder if she was there when America dropped the bomb,
was she close to Nagasaki or Hiroshima, did she see the plane
as it approached,
did she run in fear or watch intently, curious about the big
silver bird with it’s payload of atomic death,
did she run through the streets looking for parents, family, and
friends, did she recognize the gentle outlines of people left as flash burn
against the crumbling walls,
did she walk aimlessly in shock, left with no idea of what to do next,
calling out the names of mother and father or brothers or sisters or
possibly her own young children?
did I lose an older brother, an older sister, a grand parent or all of
the above, is there transgeneration cell memories telling me that I
was the lucky one, I didn’t get fried in the blast and I don’t have
cancer and I didn’t have to eat carrots from irradiated fields covered
in unstable particles naked to the eye,
Sometimes I imagine my father to be a great giant of a red headed
Swede, a great builder of nations, plowing the war under caterpillar
tractor treads and erecting monoliths of modern industry, skyscrapers
and the mad dash to make money,
I like to think of him as something special, his only sin a small half-breed
baby left behind in his travel, he is an adventurous man like the great men
that built the Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sears Towers and the
Pyramids in Egypt, a man’s man,
these are some of the scenes that flip through my mind when I think of
woman that gave me away, sometimes I pretend she did it for my good, gave
me to a good Christian family ready to love and nurture a poor half Japanese
infant covered in sores, the story goes that way, I was ill from the start.
but sometimes I see it through the portals of my worldly eyes and I know
my queen mamma is really mama-san, pouring sake as politely considered
hospitality girls, lining the frontier bars of “New Tokyo,” my hero father likely
a robust iron worker horny for that “slant-eyed pussy” running wild like barbarians
celebrating the spoils of war—one bar at a time,
mom was a whore and dad was a drunk—it couldn’t be more appropriate.