Home |  Current Issue |  Links |  Conferences/Events |  Archives
About the Journal |  Submit |  Subscribe

Search Janus Head               


Those boys sit in unformed circle; 
One, solitary, bony fingers on sleek gun, 
Another boy, desolate, talking his talk; 
All restless, shining eyes, victory won-- 

Or was it? Young blood boils so 
That the ancient heart cannot be heard 
Its venerable blood is fled with the story, 
The story that flowed rich from Mamma's deep voice 

That once stirred a rhythm into sight 
The echoing, sonorous dance--now deferred 
To the ritual of television impotent 
(Man jailed by his self-same illusion) 

And the words soaked rageful, passionate, 
The shot, the cry, the vengeance vowed; 
Those boys lie bleeding, prostrate, 
Bruised blood welling on young brow.