How Good is Your Kung Fu? by Mark Lamoureux

Acolyte of punishing
singularities, erstwhile,
secular,
vast in the tooth as
a granite mammoth statue,
            by degrees narrative
& jaded, crepuscular blue
                        opal-pinioned
egret. No regent
for the tangential fief of
                         prosody ripostes.
I am
the lyric eyes
of the stingray. 

In stance, instant,
this is the sidelong
            glance towards page
white as cave
            paper.   Waves of
gibbous erasures break up-
            on my bark
            of screaming mime-
sis; never vaguer, never less
            burnished than the trumpet
of a blunderbuss.

Never wary to weave
            along the linear, a snake
on a caduceus.  No
School of quick zombies,
the snow
leopard in summer,   not quite denatured,
            this copse is an urbane,
metropolitan gnomon, meta-
            sexual discourse
                        in the pathetic
briar patch where the revenant
            authors emerge sloughing
soil like cerulean poolwater
            from a nude
bather.

            No end of
the subjective objects:
            blue polyurethane
                        cube, chrome totem, plastic
Buddha on a CPU awaits the one
hand wringing—
            a silverfish
            in a copper creek.

                        A reflecting
                        pool:                let the visage
                        be rippled but
remembered,                life the knife
            that cuts the moon
in the water, a white orange full