After Re-Reading Corso’s Bomb Outside Of Santa Fe by John Michael Flynn It begins making no sense, meaning all sense during a whimsical examination of a yucca plant in a motel courtyard. I imagine atomic fears sounding off in 1959. I hear inscribed across the desert’s edges one more oily echo willing to sell as legacy the dust we’ve fractured in our wake. I walk into my careless room seeking epiphanies. Air through an open window instructs my skin. I listen to more desert winds and passing trucks. Stunted by perplexing needs I consider evidence, the slaughter required for an empire to make its mark. At Baneberry in 1970 the radioactive dust cloud rose three kilometers high. This was the exclamation mark of a new insight siring wells, containment procedures, underground shelters, stand-offs in mercenary exchanges toward potential apocalypse. I face my uncomfortable bed, hear a child wailing, scorched somewhere – always a war to think of as I move to the comfort of bottled water, drink, swallow, switch on my reading lamp, the ark that is light no real consolation. Gyroscope Review 25 !