Wearing protective goggles deep in his bunker, Oppenheimer was still dazzled.  “I am death,  destroyer of worlds.” he may have said, raising questions of coherence and conflict.  Surely he knew what it would probably do, and who was likely to do just what with it.  Maybe it was ego that drove him past reason; maybe madness.  Or maybe he did talk to his God about it first.

We are puny in the face of such things.  It’s fine to sit under the Bo tree and try to beam up, but when Charon is your pilot and you’re close to shore,   .  .  it’s on you.

Cliffs under full moon
silver river strand below;
darkness forever.


Kendall Johnson lives in Upland, California and spends much of his time trying to make sense of things.  He has two collections of images, poetry and writing fragments currently in press:  Fragments: An Archeology of Memory with Inland published by Inland Empire Museum of Art, and Johnson’s Pasture: Living Place, Living Time, published by Claremont Heritage.