What hides beneath the busting red-tide waves, what wains?
Have you seen the Fat-white, would-be Samurai that lives 'round these parts?
To him you see, the
warrior code is the word of the fiery gods, and he
follows it to the letter:
Two minutes and 11 seconds on high, heat only
when thawed for best results.
A divine wind guides his every move, blossoms and bombs are his
deeds are explosions over many oceans, an amalgam of
light and splendor, interracial
hues and shades of color illuminated by the bare bulb above his head.
Pin pricks dot his thumbs, shinto values are not the order of the day. Outside of
his house, we see his vista; a rising sun
shining through blackened thorns and smog.
The burrito is irradiated, ready
for consumption, a victim of the .00005 kiloton explosion within the off-brand microwave.
Our feudal soldier draws his fork from it's sheath, a
tsuba well worn and scarred.