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