Wednesday, July 1, 2015

A Monkey Is One Tree's Means of Making Another Tree

Little crimson hearts on seeds,
Split yucca pods. Upapa 
Epops calls from the pages

Digital Aristotle
Inhabits still. No one reads
Anyone's poetry but

One's own. Only opera
And jazz come close to being
As unpopular as this

Art torn from the hearts of words
And strung together
Tighter than King Singer,

The harbinger and prophet,
Crested royal, violent.

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