Brooks Johnson

"Layers of a Mushroom Cloud Raindrop"

Views of a bare branched end
brick arches invading and barring
a mind yearning for release
to non-existent blue stars
blocking out mushroom cloud images
revolving three hundred and sixty degrees
around death-light aura
Time stopped like so many stolen lives
the same color of a Lake Superior sunrise.
The encroaching cloud of fate below
engulfing non-existent loved ones
of a non-existent monk-poet
who resides in the mind of my father
sitting on a stool:
mustachioed Big Brother- hypocrisy in hand.
Constant disconnection,
spirits as drops of water,
forming a consciousness-driven river
(thoughts and reality).
Stream often dries up,
subconscious never will
dead end.
A mushroom cloud raindrop
embracing a cadaver,
tumbling to earth
spiral not stopped by pre-conceived assumptions
of a green-eyed planet
but by plagiarized conversation pieces, random breaks
etched memory of giants wilting,
their crashing harmonics felt by paunch bellied,
starving children, succumbing to twin giants fate
Half a world away.