Equipoise or Nature Manqué

The royal combed rest of a
French cabriole invites with
the breath of a Mediterranean
sea breeze the promise of a
synthesis:

real-world value and bon marché.

It promises flat-rate access to

the image of leaves in streaks,
a brilliant white cascade
of snake necks thronging in
a mist of misheard names, to
a jungle perpetuated in riddle:

Pillars One through Four —
Earth, Water, Sun, and Stucco —
that place you know.

Behind the seen ease, on the
pitch screen, a naked universe
but for logograms of relentless
expectation to express the holy
of holies better, truer, left
unsaid — but for graphic mimics
of the cyan throne, mocking in curves
the truth it makes a promise —

carte blanche — endless repetition —

media shrieks.

Equipoise or Nature Manqué

A voice stifled by cold
metric curves of surface.

The pauper-made-king, caught between,
neither sitting nor seeing, always viewing,
on two legs of crumpled clay, stands
looped in infinite resistance.