It was Nagumo's

metal ripped, blackened fleet pulling into port
in the middle of the death black to hide from the shame,
the shocked eyes, and a humiliation that screamed out in the silence
for seppuku.
It was the doctors
sewing up the last of the dead man from Brookline,
sealing the grim package,
and sending him back on his seven mile high journey to the
waiting catafalque, so that no one could see
the shredded remains
of the insane violence
that had been born
in the pathetic loser's
desire to be someone.
It was the last dregs of anything that resembled dignity
melting away in the cheap hotel as the mewling john crawled on the floor
begging to be hit by the bored,
leather-strapped
woman.
It was the man of power lying in his bed
wide eyed in fear, feeling as if barbed wire
were being dragged through his brain and watching
his poses and gestures
laughing at him obscenely.
It was all part of the ancient abyss
that lies between the shimmering image of celebrated day,
and the bleeding, sweating, against the wall, no-holds-barred night
of how things really are.