On Fission by Chris Fahrenthold

The sin of not unknowing sleights of hand
that trick the trick of nature from her lair
is not so much original as planned,
a plot to lose the exit, not the bear.
The greatest generation’s triggermen,
who wring their hands and necks in equal measure,
ask only that you thank them now and then
for loosing here on Earth unearthly pleasure.
So what redeemer lives to justify
the ways of man to gods of his creation,
and what placebo can the knowing try
who idolize the fruits of ideation?
Messiahs waiting whisper to their sons
a tetragrammaton of megatons.

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