In Bordeaux, a column rises

   We're in the final fortnight of the

   American Supreme Court's calendar of

   dispensations on the law of man with-

   in its jurisdiction. We are tasked to

   cower, beneath construings of its e-

   dicts, as if bestowed by our Creator.

   At the same time, this is la semaine

   for Bordeaux to present its latest

   vintages en primeur, at an annual ex-

   position of the most treasured wines

   on the face of this planet. No one of

   a palate within the twirl of that orb

   requires excuses to accept the genius

   of Nature. And there it is, for Every-

   man to taste, beneath the parapet of

   Liberty inviolate.

   We have nothing to beg of that ob-
   scure clerisy in the trade of our
   Constitution. We are embedded, we
   were bedded in its origination,
   in its descent, and in its defense
   before its think tanks patted its
   powdered bottoms to go forth unto
   the People with diverse theories
   on our worthiness. It is nice of
   them to do it, but we do not al-
   low their jitters to disturb us,
   their gangsterly insults to de-
   flect us from our errand of life.

   In Bordeaux this column marks the
   spot where Robespierre commanded
   the guillotine to drop upon the
   worthiest of the Revolution. It
   did; and like a Quilt, spread up-
   on the Ellipse in Washington, DC,
   its extracted visage rose to com-
   mand the embrace of an eventually 
   delivered land.

   May the gods forgive that price.
   Some courts function, some do not.

   In the end, qui vive? Our func-
   tion is to live, and let their an-
   guished frettings for our own re-
   silent lineage, dissolve. The day
   already is ours, as it was when
   we discovered it. We can afford a
   Court that doesn't know the week.