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‘Matters of Mens Rea’ and other poems by KJ Hannah Greenberg

By: KJ Hannah Greenberg

Matters of Mens Rea

The development of the Magna Carte,
Impacted, evidentially, on Ivy League dorms,
Raised the specter of fascinating topics,
Including sedition’s prime witnesses.

History reports resolved international conflict,
Got noticed via Gutenberg projects,
At the behest of flechettes, kite wires, daggers,
Maybe also glabrous, heavy cross bows.

In the bedroom of critical thinkers,
Naked leaders still seem unwilling to spend,
Any costume jewelry of literary devices,
On cherished others or almost strangers.

After all, when nibbling local fauna, some vevvirids
Insist ferrying humans to amusement parks’ cousins,
Cinemas, bowling alleys, concert venues, the UN,
Causes incomplete governments to abort.



It’s not a cup, but a strange ship, a rocket seen by our errant children.
They comprehend that the towel, there, belongs beyond deep space.
That grasp how jarring music, once beloved, sends signals far away.
Plus, they see that the cat, which “watches birds,” summons troops
To realignment, to surmount more than common sparrows’ lanes.

Hence, those youngsters, some altruistic, some otherwise, fabricate,
Tell us tall folks the whys of games, while all along really secreting
Green men, gray ladies, beasts with horns of salt and diamond eyes,
Wide-reaching ray guns, nearly invisible transporters, crazy wealth
Measured in matchbook covers, tulip bulbs, also winter tangerines.

In a particular smultronställe, where bears, crows, foxes congregate,
No small amount of rasasvanda overcomes intentional visitors. Some
Overly curious government agents misstep their limits, die sighting
How, beneath oaks and elms, bliss sprinkled from alien limbs glows.
Web surfers neglect to check the darkened corners of oceans, forests.

Most officials’ acatalepsy partitions them from the wonders wrought
By star breakers, their companion dragons, trolls. Rarely commoners
Allow space for spiritual growth or extraterrestrial sehnsucht. Grasp,
We seek coffee shops, corner taverns, fishing ponds, watery, gezellig
Places. Past vacation fliers, auto ads, launch parties, we’re truly blind.

Save for nefelibatas, preschoolers, domestic pets, feral birds, no one
Acknowledges the coexistence of outworlders. In the end, metanoia’s
Accessible just to stouthearted or open-minded citizens. The typical
Crowd, on this sphere, lacks the gumption necessary to mull over
Any dérive. No orenda, no matter how exciting, flicks our existence.


As a Salute

As a salute to a landed institute, a short story, which, initially, seems like blue prose, might
Get cleaned up, perhaps altered, or, mayhap become, over time, a corroboration of nonsense.

“Little smiles,” over grownup goings-on, moreso, can’t compare to verse that starts to rant,
Then manifests, in its final form, unfashionable diatribes decrying actual social problems.

Sometimes, creative writing professors, excepting the top tier, are paid poorly, relative to
Instructors in computer science, business, engineering, i.e. “profitable” academic sectors.

See, mitigating cultural “woes,” rather than insisting that “afflictions” continue on providentially
Often means that middle managers, somewhere, miss opportunities to collect promised riches.

Accordingly, spectators weigh leaving behind prejudice, but bringing along tourist Dollars,
Euros, and Yen, to all famous corners of commercial enterprises; charity yields no profit.

Perspicacious others, in any case, appreciate that base nature drives folks to seek ready money.
Modern rhetoric’s “job” remains yielding genotoxicity to collective understandings of “good.”

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