with the roundaboutness
of an ill fitted crown,
phrenologically slipshod
as his kingdom.
though not without charm.
courted by the full revolutions
of flies, he sits on a chipped
plastic lawn chair.
weathered dull to its whiteness,
agonizingly rickety when
cast to enthrone.
outflanked by weeds burying
the ***** cut of a lawn, before
an abandoned house.
standing testament, as once was--
the ghost he is, to himself and
his subjects.
dynastic-minded, he shuffles
through succsessors, always
forgetting where he left off.
it's the damnedest thing, the
embodied centrality of being a
king.
the psychic conduit of a people,
spokes to a hub--ground to a halt,
he.
unnerved to limbo, a footfall's
difference the living, and or the
dead.
the people of his kingdom have
come to call him: The King of the Weeds.
always uttered with utmost deference,
midst his overgrown mind.