Maybe those afternoons,
were meant for,
that simple meeting,
amidst the quiet,
blissful uninhibited emotion.
jasmine, rose, lavender tea,
chinking lipped tea cups,
of Hadrian Denaruis silver,
an eighteenth century delight,
for ladies; un salon de thé,
sound waves wander as tea diffusers,
ritual & routine,
friendship & freedom.
© Sia Jane
Loading my hadron collider
With hampering Hadrian Wall.
What on earth am I doing!?
I know nothing at all.
I add some tea to my sugar,
Putting the kidneys in stone.
Getting chased down by a cougar -
My wishful thinking at home.
Feeling betrayed by my conscience,
The time is quarter to three.
In a world full of pretence,
I prefer to be free.
How can something that brings so much joy
turn around and cause such pain
It takes you out to bask in sunshine
yet leaves you naked in the rain
It fills your stomach with dainty butterflies
and sucks you in with its sexy pout
then the moment you let your guard down
it pulls your guts right out
It leaves a gaping cavity
and an ache inside your chest
makes you feel your very worst
after feeling your very best
Where once you were king of the world
now you only want to hide
building walls that would make Hadrian proud
you lock yourself inside
But alas we are too stupid
our optimism too sublime
because we tell ouselves in a year or two
"it'll work out different this time"
Only it doesn't.
I built the playhouse
The seige of time.
I dismayed the border people.
Starlight shone through
Like the Ishtar Gate of Babylon.
Children shrieked and wailed
Against those walls
As nomads in northern China,
Or Philistines in Jeruselum.
But time is a formidable outsider,
And my small walls would tumble
To the blasts of tempus trumpets.
My hand runs lovingly across
Your names on those
Forgive me, my love
I could only stand-horror struck
I watched, yet I didn’t, the crocodiles of the raging Nile maul your bloody corpse
My love, my love forgive me
That wretched day; that cursed hour, the very hour of our return
To see you breathe your last was akin to feeling a knife in my back
They had to hold me down
The hated guards who couldn’t save you
Forgive me, please, forgive me
I can do nothing more than carve your face into cold marble now
Antinous forgive me, forgive me please
I couldn’t save you; no one could
Antinous, forgive me
Let’s face it:
Vietnam was a purge.
An undeclared yet official
War on largely Black, Chicano,
Mostly urban, poor White-trash--
Any of that unlucky-cohort--
Coming of age, mid-60s America.
A purge yes, but 'Nam was also an
Intelligence Test: them that went,
Particularly those who never returned,
Those scoring at least two standard deviations out,
Outside normal, therefore inferior genetic make-up,
Those the country could surely do without.
“Three Generations of Imbeciles Are Enough.”
www.genomicslawreport.com /.../three-generations-of-imbeciles-are-enough... So wrote Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. in Buck v. Bell, a 1927 Supreme Court case upholding a Virginia law that authorized the state to...”
I couldn’t have said it better, Justice Holmes!
The Nam: those of us who did survive were
Nonetheless, mangled and traumatized,
In both body & spirit.
We knew right away we’d been duped,
Particularly those gun-friendly southern boys,
Hunting gooks for sport and Country, now contemplating
Remorseful acts of mass homicide 40 years ago.
The real poindexters of our generation, of course:
Got a medical deferment, or
Stayed in college, or
Went north to Canada, or
As I did, joined the Coast Guard, unfortunately,
In addition to my nightmare Indochine,
My personal Disneyland Jungle Cruise,
Based on Joseph Conrad’s
Congo Nightmare Novella--
Heart of Darkness.)
And Józef wrote it in English.
Which was for the native Pollack,
His third language after Polish & French,
Which is probably a good time to
Encourage each & every young punk
On the cellblock to make good use of their time:
Learn a foreign language., e.g.
Why not Spanish?
Given Obama’s farcical, unrestricted border policy.
Soon to be a pervasive lingua Esperanto.
My politics? Sign me up for a little T.A.D.,
Manning a 50-caliber machine gun on Donald’s Wall.
Donald Trump: A Modern Hadrian?
Don’t get me started on politics.
Take a Spanish class.
Finally, you’ll know what those
Grease-ball Mexican landscapers are
Saying behind your back, right in front of you.
After the Army, & after college on the G.I. Bill,
That’s when I joined the Coast Guard.
OCS in the 1970s was a difficult (read:
Lower Standards) recruiting time for
The Armed Forces of the United States,
Including the U.S. Coast Guard.
OCS: The Oklahoma Cook School we joked.
Officer Candidate School: graduating
Nautically savvy 90-Day Wonders,
Inculcated with conduct becoming &
Other archaic, chivalrous values,
Imprinted with Chain of Command obeisance,
Etched deep an acolyte’s primer on class-consciousness.
Blimey! What a difference after my previous
Two years stint as an Army grunt which leads me to
An overwhelming question: Why do Officers live
Better than enlisted pukes?
The Military: last refuge for scoundrels,
Escape artists & last bastion of medieval feudalism.
Officers! Welcome to the Aristocracy.
It's the Class Structure,
The dominant organizing principle for humanity,
Since the dawn of human history, perhaps longer,
Consider, if you will, “Alley Oop.”
“Alley Oop” Lyrics | MetroLyrics: (www.metrolyrics.com) “There's a man in the funny papers we all know . . . Eats nothin' but bearcat stew, A mean motor scooter & a bad go-getter . . . King of the jungle jive.”
Even longer if we go troglodyte era,
Some mean-mother, some swinging
Foucault’s pendulum set of balls,
Some club-wielding Duke of Earl—
Simply put: some Alpha Male,
Sticking it up whatever polygamous
Multiple Missus ass just happened to be
Bending over within my field of vision at
Any given moment.
I am the block’s biggest, baddest, meanest cat,
Made right by might: physical power &
Will to use it.
Then came Divine Right: Dieu et mon droit.
French for “God and my right.”
Conceived by the shrewd ones,
Those staying out of trouble,
Cringing in the corner of the cave, AKA
The inherently weak, concluding, at last, with
Marx: “The history of all hitherto existing
Society is the history of class struggles.”
People look for hidden meanings in writings and art, asking why at every turn.
They forget however, that art does not need to have its own meaning.
What something means is an opinion
In the eyes of the beholder.
The true purpose of art is to make the viewer feel something, to inspire them.
And sometimes the things that seemingly have no meaning inspire us the most.
The Celtic Cross
Around my neck is often seen
An ancient sign
Of where I go and, too, have been
The cross more ancient
Than the Christ oft signified
A mere expedient
To Rome when Jesus died
Although I wear it in His name it further goes
To those whom Hadrian so feared he built his wall
The land where rivals are the thistle and the rose
Where the blood of all my forbears once did fall
As their mingling souls in Heaven thence arose
The stones within the mist cast silent pall
There were rivers
Streaming down her face
Great deltas in which he swam
Till he reached the shorelines
Of her wounded eyes
he stayed in the rim
Just out of sight,
In the curve of black
Where the day kissed the night
She could never see him
And he could only hear her pain
Her agony in loneliness
It ached for them to be apart
But he knew it was for the best
He could never reach her
But he thought if he might
It would be in her dreams
Where the day kissed the night