Oppenheimer put it best

when he beheld the bomb’s girth;

“I am become death;

destroyer of worlds.”

Miyazaki put it best

after witnessing fire bombs

and said “See with eyes

unclouded by hate.”

I am tired; tired of being

mad; mad at being mad; mad at

madness in hollowed,

bloody, gunshot hearts;

tired of us: militiamen,

when we should be Tankman; steps

placed left or right, quaked

and blocking highways.

Tiananmen Square was filled

with a turkey shoot, no thoughts

to the coming storm

that one man had stopped.

A simple step, white collar shirt—

tucked neatly in his khakis—

and motors idled,

in green coherence.

Wondering the contents of

the white grocery bag, the dogs

wagged their backsides

to find their play things.

Tankman had no fire or flare,

he stood upon the asphalt

and only motioned

three or four steps; bare,

Except for his coat to wave

off any intent to harm.

I have a theory

about this Tankman:

He was tired as well.

So tired that he dreamed holding

hands with the thousand students

standing behind him;

Humanity’s wall.

Like King and Ghandi, I am

tired enough to dream holding hands

in walls of hallowed

heads, tired and watchful.

In other’s arms, Wyatt Earp

can hear us call “You called down

the lightning, now here’s

the thunder.”  It rolls,

Claps to the sound of our feet

in unison against tanks.