Tuesday, December 3, 2013

DUX ET ARBOR REX


in an empty field in any country
there you will find my name
beside the breathing air
inside the winding stone


where the inverted green pyramid descends into the crotch of the collar bone, and having spied the erisian lantern of its mandarin network, Wu Wei challenged the chop-stick-legged-cellphone:
At the center of the golden eye, there is a pair of golden pliers. My only message hangs beneath a crown like a woven golden thimble basket. Even my long-hair-skull is but the dream of a screen
composed of a grid of golden taels which whir like fan blades in the hall of the eternal ministry.


silver buzzard epaulets
and earless rabbit head;
the torso proffers its spinning pyramid of light
and snail silk woven entrail
a stinger for a stylus
(stage hook echo high camp nimbus brawling)


one of its favorite days,
the array,
the artificial encompensieve,
now direct your curse
to complicated balconies
removed from narrative.


You really want me to eat clown flesh?
In the great cathedral of clown flesh,
I will seek you
within the hurricane
of red rubber noses,
nouses, and let each of our blessings
wear a tiny crown.


Living infinitesselmalitrees are erected AS
glory.
The smaller and more insignificant I become,
the more unconquerable.
ELECTRIC SNAKE FANG LIVES FOREVER!
(with red felt shoulder pyramids)


The uninitiated have often accused me of fostering meaninglessness, but the exact opposite is true.
The Law of the Conservation of Energy (or Matter)
is also the The Law of the Conservation of Meaning
(anti-concept): BURGEON BURGEON oh yellow moon of copula
within the landscape of fitness, there are no EQUALS SIGNS,
only equal signs.


For many years and yeats has my tusk travelled, in sea and forest green,
and in the rondure of absolute night, I forge my soliloquy, my path, which like a crooked pipe
pulls fog from invisible bowl-suns of dust and amorous wreckage.


a cobra cannot weave me further,
but the antinomian father gifts the pattern
with a shimmering of shadows.


Behind the curtain is a cave
of great age, a severed leg
pretending its language may join
the body of theater.



not always against the
breath but to
the eye in

ther
thetoin
the dice connected
by a microscopic
and elastic chain

hercules
opts on
consigned protein



Even in the heart of Modernism,
the green myth swelled, until its goiter,
like an undying pearl, raised its form
above the cognate of utility,
and recognized abstract unity
as the foundation
of a mad caprice
no one called nature.
No one called.


If the world is deformation, it is nonetheless an egg
which remembers a point before all sphericity..


There are no clues to open the way.
The way is open.
The way is closed.
The way is.


I cannot say what "I" means,
and you cannot say, nonetheless,
"I" means it.


The snake's path enters at its own left, and righteousness suffers this glance
until the end of time, when every student becomes her own banderole...


In poetry there is war,
and in war, poetry.
neither is wholly good, or evil,
and so these inextricable abilities combine
into a black circle of becoming
what:
what wave?
what field?
what cone?
what sentence?
whatcease?


Normally I leave you clues, but imagine a foundation so rich, that every eye finds an absolutely new and unique vocabulary.


Not boundary, but bishopric.
Not eye, but gate,
whose century
gloats over drunken
wanderings:
singsong
pingpong
glassbrick

ham.


Why did Kafka feel the need to disguise syntaxis, to poeticize it, politicize it?
Is that what he did?
Or did you, when you gifted this
with resurrection
in reading,
an arrow stuck fast
within your buttock.


You either like David Bowie,
or you smoke, and both options
imply 
that you have funded coruscation
with coruscation.
All elaboration cuts
obliquely.


as oleander.


As you approached the black moon,
you reached back for my hand,
but found only a satchel
bursting with balustrades.


This poem is a telephone.


And this one is the mirror
of absolute religion.


Why must you doubt me?
I have shown you that I know
that you know
that knowing
must question why
and never know
the doubt
my picture sings?










he sings to the final 
Écorché


whose bliss is just beginning


Ponscious Pilot
green fluted
in the dawn
of branching
dusks