copula aliza We inhabit and are cupola. Lanterns, from which we emit, timing light across an expanse, measuring ourselves. Meeting like iron labials, melting in the shaft of the blast furnace, forming our armored vehicles. In the vault, I climb atop the spire of the cochlea of your ear, hemispherical and prickly. We lead ourselves, and each other, led, lead, graphite, out of the draft. Through copula, Ariadne's thread leads thought into its own labyrinth, parodic. We believe the brain is the parody of the equator. Coitus is the parody of crime. So don’t forget Nietzsche on the bus, through the Vancouver rain; An umbrella, a sexagenarian, a seminarian, the smell of rotten eggs, the hollow eyes of judges are the roots that nourish love. Genet tongues Soyinka: my isomorphism. Our laughter ripples: Bataille fucks me, fucking Hegel, fucking me, my solar anus. I make love to the pizzicato rain on roof tiles, a backwards-falling imber, imbr plucked-dekculp on imbrex, imbric: raining laughter, pealing out imbrications, antiphonally. And here explicates origami. In a paper house we mettre en jeu, but also dwell with death: how to escape the Tiger and Tigritude of a dog devouring the stomach of a goose, a drunken vomiting woman, a slobbering accountant, a jar of mustard. Find the dark world will. “Maid” brutal, Solange/Maurice and Claire/Lefranc represent the confusion that serves as the vehicle of love; The homoerotic, two-spirited omphalos; The phallus of the solar ray. Derrida gloaming on the reserve—“je m’en preserve” say the masks—makes mimickery your game to the death (mimicking Bataille, mimicking Hegel). Then enters the Fourth Stage: tear off your limbs! As of discipline, self-punish. Draw and quarter yourself into the sacred directions. Dive, dive into lithe black boughs. I’ll sit (ist) quietly in the pavilion, in front of the triadic courtyard. Siberian Spruce for strength. Bamboo for wisdom. Winter Cherry for longevity. The triptych vindr (air) and auga (eye) s’ellipse. Je m’en preserve. I leap. 021213 what's it to you? who go blather from