Deep in the throne of a brand new idea
the King with great finality decides it is below him
to seek out the opinion of his subjects and
predicates but will still honor the wish
of those in mud to be heard.

The horsecart-rutted street sticks to her shoes,
the sky is purple, the houses unlit.
She is top of her class and will someday marry.
Local custom will prevail. We have lived here
all of our lives, thatched huts and mud
appropriating our poetry. Surrealism
can most certainly be by and for the common man,

its elastic ingots suddenly steely-eyed
in the noonday sun. Three gunfighters
belch over pasta in the King's chamber.
One writes in Chinese. The others admire.

The King now works at a fruitstand
manufacturing orange berries
plump, juicy, veined in fibrous down.
A warm fleshy woman, and all the time in the world
for my lips made saucy and wet with wine.

These berries, however, are no more than a flash
in the mind of the King as he abdicates. Many died
along the way, thinking these trinket ideas would feed them
and amaze the Indians.

The horsecart was a scene from Russia
actually, pre-Revolution. The King ruled over France,
Fusilli here is Imported. Fairchilds for dessert,
we'll smoke the Peace Pipe. Tomorrow,
Mandarin.

We'll write a poem about it.
Go West, young Man, pan for gold.
But this is another lesson, something about adjectives
squeezing the moonlight.
You will find this in Chapter Four.