Dens-Leonis Conspiracy

 
Dens-Leonis Conspiracy

I. Decoding seas of living space

When you complain, it starts
to rain. Hear the drops collide and fall through the trees.
It's a new way of thinking.
You are convinced the lawn is just an illusion
pretending to be green on the face of Earth.
Beneath lion's tooth blades harvester ants hide
in a subterranean Mardi Gras town
of dismembered grasshopper hoedowns,
and gypsy moth buffets,
uncharted in Brunfels's Contrafayt Kreuterbuch
where only herbals exist-
and roots are unillustrated.

II. The dog-faced boy muses and waits

The shot-gun circus is in town.
A clown conversation is muffled by canvas,
swaths of cigar smoke, and the aroma of cotton candy.
Across the fairway in his trailer,
Fedor IV, the dog-faced boy, reclines
in his naugahide chair imagining
young, Master Spaulding's arrival-
a prerequisite to becoming immortal.

III. On a different plane the fortune-teller fails

Katarine conjures swirling convolutions of a mariner's mind,
crowned with jewels, armed with a sphere of thread.
She specializes in relationship readings, and asks:
"Where did things go wrong?"
There is no vibration from the other end of the phone.
"Clairsentience and empathy escape me. I must blanche
these leaves as endive. So long."

IV. The paper thin walls of the flop house vibrate with collective nightmares

This building is full of fools who have keys
to dimly lit rooms.

Tony Luna sleeps with his 9mm in apartment 2A,
face down sitting at his kitchen card table
strewn with Bicycle playing cards, a dusting of coke,
dented tomato juice cans, and one very special bullet
with a happy face carved in its lead.

It was that tiny piece of paper under your tongue
that helped you see God, then cockroaches
in the tangerine light of the hallway bathroom
just before the Swedish bikini team got dressed.
Five hours of climbing Mount Everest
under a conveyor-belt sky, and stepping inside
the lopsided Mini-Mart on Claflin Road
to buy Moon Pies with a pocketful of pennies-
mission accomplished. You are still alive.
Tomorrow you will sell plasma and
your Rolling Stones "We Love You" 45
to pay rent.

The room is too oddly arrayed for sleep,
decked in icicles and droppers,
as dumb tra-la-la-las echo in the halls
in the dozy school of underachievers.
The walls are expanding and contracting,
yes, breathing you to sleep in the belly
of Farmer Rackley's complex.

V. Despair is inevitable for one who has read a little Sarte upon waking
Disbelieve and forget all lessons
which are merely capsears to be sent
in bouquets on an English Electric Type 1
to the farthest corner of the universe,
and tell yourself that life begins
on the other side
where, there, you shall be the sum
of what you do not have.

VI. The resolution of a broken man is never pretty

You began this project to promote and protect
the hypertext of the unreal
in a quest for fleeting fame.

Recognize that nothing will ever come of this daily routine,
of negotiating with ghosts and wandering alone
at all hours of the night with insomnia
in continuous loops mimicking Nobuko Miyamoto.
Wake each morning like an automaton,
learn to enjoy the monotony.

VII. Inevitably, nature has a way of deceiving even the sharpest mind

The blossoms in the yard imitate the sun.
I shall consume these for thirty days,
learn to lift the moss-covered stone,
and set off with black sails to Crete.

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