a neutron bomb lingers inside my body and if I feed it too much sugar I’ll hear it ticking in my ears and if I try to turn lemonade into poetry I’ll be making a bone by bone global-shaped papier-mâché replica to wear as my head and my mind is cotton clouds that cannot be dispelled my family history’s a tempest in a Bushmill’s bottle and when it strikes I loose any right I have to hubris and any ambience sharpens its political edge even when I wish to elude those efforts and circumstances their sounds and images stand on my ear’s porch and they knock on my conscience