Nuclear Joy

There is a joy of image juxtaposition,
Laughter,
To create laughter --
Spanning the depths of childlike knowing
That is splintered in coffee halls
Built by the unionless hippies
That pound nails
From their sweaty hands
Into the impetus woods,
The dead knowing tree.
Those sapless corpses haunt me,
For trees are no less conscious
Than the species-centric I,
That yearns for reassurance
Of art as only an anthropomorphic gift,
A subtle flash
From those ultra-trillion stars.

Stars are H-bombs too,
And if my warm body soils
Are the flesh of dead suns,
Then my sons and daughters
Can die skewed
By the ultra-perceptive sub-atomic release
Of alpha/gamma
Festive contra-quantum elves
And their loving penetrations.
But is star sexuality,
The Ginsberg way,
The final day?
Cannot my selfish soul
Escape the arms of
Energy/Matter
Effusion
That would Bullshit me into buying poetry
Or a Jesuit bible
Simply 

To avoid the reality of nuclear war,
And instead focus
On the joy of image juxtaposition.