Spread out before, behind, around, under and beyond, the buzz and drain of server farms and opium fields and fields; electromagnetic, scholastic, pneumatics. He sits the new gerrymandered county commissioner comptroller, message board bully, salt water taffy addict, a colony of locust nesting in his beard and ready for his beckon call, to wreak and reek havoc savagery on America’s breadbasket, called to purpose. Warhol Buck$ didn’t go anywhere during the Obama years, the pre-Amazon Holed Feuds era,
the oh-this-conscious-capitalism-thing-might-work-out-for-the-middle-class era, the buy-one-give-one to a shoeless child era, the Bon Iver working with Kanye era.

In this old palace, a two car garage half-built in somewhere America, smelling of urine and licorice, He snacks on cicadas, their husks scattered about the four floor like sunflower seed shells, kicked up and crinkled by the strung out raze and waze and oakley razor babies on door wide zombie drool, Jo Jo Jo oh Dell computer parts jangle and bedazzle, scuffed up Sketchers gophering out of wide bell raver leg pants, feet kicking at pavement to synchronize looping razor scooters in the driveway of cul-de-sac driveways. In the tangled antiquities of off-ramps littered with the quickly fading Super Big Gulp mugs.

We are whole boxed in his halo, over hair immaculate conception, landscaped and stretched with intention. Ego-ego drapes draped with the nanny opulent, robes of conquest, snacking on hydrox cookies, slow lickin’ the pasty pasties, like a slug over birthday cake. He presides over acres of plywood subdivisions, frames and planes of the mid 10’s frozen, a petrified forest of subprime mazes, boxes. Gold-digging ants crawling over molars. Whiney Snivel, his deity of Carthatginians, on prow of warship cadillac, slinging anachronistic showdown (paris, compton, J Crew). Zero Kelvin, raised on salamander milk, robed in salamander cocoon husk, spits slushie and freezer burns, glitter, dazzling, mesmerizing, immediate cryogenics for his amusement. Ghost Base round wide mouth pushing out air like doomsday, making room decibels in his reverberating skull, letting brain seep out the back of the neck into a dusty collar.

Warhol Buck$ yall. That’s his name, you can’t wear it or wear it out, but you can warehouse it, logistics for ballistics, drone delivered, networked across social media surveillance and shopping cart histories, backlogged orders of direct sold QAnon scented candles. This wait, this theft. Silent and unwelcome. Drowning. A hung jury, a failed magic trick still tricking in its alternative facts. Our futile engineering only gives us palatable alternatives to slow the bleeding, stacked organs in the sack of ourselves writhing in longing for release or liberty or some mythologized version of something we saw on TV once, or was it an op-ed, David Brooks blathering on in a self-righteous stunt jump of an airbrushed General Lee. We surrendered poetry of limitation, instead babel our way into run-on strip mall diatribes, incessant chatter, breathless monologues of frontier reaching cock, the only ecstasy of the mind the occasional wikipiphany, an assumed causality of randomized correlation.

But do not give into this flood of blood cynicism, this psy-ops cubism of retail retina spazz, this digital fire of dirty projections, do not lock yourself into the blueprints of spaces built for your ghost, the earth’s tramp stamp tattoo spread across its back, urban camouflage coding the flesh in false ecstasy of permanence, of numbing nostalgia for timeline collapse, synergistic tales of habitat.

NO. Fight the drift and erosion, build symphonies not sympathies, movements not monuments, unleash the panther, moon phasing on its pulsing shoulder, more than a savior metaphor, its only enemy this DRAGON and its fragrant flagrant breath of swamp indulgence, mud caked lips. The pelican is at its head, hovering and stabbing itself in the breast to offer a blinding eucharist, blood cascading into the dragon's eyes, blinding it with hemoglobins. The Pelican and the Panther, the menagerie of the Architect, dare we utter the name, 1460 years old and expecting a near death and rebirth, building for humans and their escape, not sneakers and shampoos and satellites for war and sexting. This draftsman spins a crossword like metrosophy, patterns and proportions, golden means sharpened blade thin.

The blade is unsheathed, hanging by his side. Around his neck, a shard of jade, a spool of thread, a laminated index card with a fluxus act. It is the annum magnum, The Great Year, the sun, moon, earth in their original positions. But in fact it is always the great year, 12,994 years in rotation, upon repeat history repeats itself, and in this repeat, the rising, the Architect emerges in a shimmering prismatic. The years of John Titor-styled encryption, coalesced and manifest. Future Rapper cleared the way on the battlefield, so that the line is plumb, so that this mobius soul can step out of the future past perfect and the days after tomorrow’s yesterday. The Holy Fool in his sacred mutterings expanded possibilities and released things from their objecteness, so that this wanderer more ancient than the ancients, but not so old as Two Locked in Fatal Forever, could slip through the fold in that space previously unimagined.

The Architect steps forth and rises the last parallax, kusanagi melt down and reforged, wet with the residue of temporal tears and tears, a wake of zero halved and twisted trailing in its swing. And in its quantum whisper, like a mirage on the glass of desert sand, what is the shape and name of this void beyond, it existed before the walls and floor of time gave it skin. Is it properly contained with the integrity of ancient hum? No, it longs to swallow the atrocity of our narcissist personified, bloated mold in our manufactured evolution. The parallax spells forth the release of the greater sum of its parts.

Architect’s boast, to build to capture the dead and not-yet dead. Why this body? Why this age?