Sam and Dave Part 2.5
Share Article Greetings,
Inside his cement cell Dave’s angry voice danced with stranded rusty brown barb wire encircling his domain name, easing over shards of fractured green glass embedded in shrapnel’s perimeter. The Chinese introduced barb wire when they occupied the neighborhood for 1,000 years.
The French ate pastries, introduced excellent wines, produced intricate glass mosaics for Dalat eternal spring walls to prevent strangers and invaders from getting in, getting on, getting the better of them, shards of glittering glass composed of miniscule myopic minimal, musical and colonial architectural ideology. Yellow buildings aged gracefully along Rue this and Rue the Day.
Eventually the Yankees with their megaton Catholic missals of mass destruction, and chaos unleashed their fury on the poor unsuspecting suffering masses gathered in Chu Chi’s tunnels well below the surface of appearances. Dave knew this because his grandfather’s father and his father’s family all the way back to a dynasty encroaching on walls and shrines inside brown temples welcomed the silence. During the day they worked fields before going underground where nightingale arks brought carpet bombing, napalm, agent Orange. Forever.
‘Quick into the tunnels!’ They sat sweltering, crying, still. Listening to the dull roaring threaded whoosh as steel and iron canisters thudded, this tremor, shredding forests, fields, homes danced into flames. Heat soared over their tunnels bathing them in sweat. They went deeper. Deeper, following hollow carved earth trails. The earth swallowed their breath, their bones fertilized soil. Ancestor bones cried in their sleep.
The sweet silence, save all the crying, wounded after all the foreign devils packed and left, fleeing in terror as peasants streamed down from the mountains, out of caves and tunnels, poling rivers, attempting to escape, walking on water, drinking all the oceans in their creation myth, draining lands of blood, forcing them back into the sea. A blue green sea danced in blood.
This easing down of their voice flowing between crumbling sand, crushed red bricks laid haphazard. Cement walls blocked everything but the sound of their anger, frustration and repressed bitterness at the reality of life’s twisted reality. Their memory was a fiction and this fiction created their memory.
Metta.
