THE RUINS OF THE WESTERN DREAM

Aluminum wastrels crinkle

into watery columns

of amber beams,

your silver jade elephants followed

into the tunnel of grey slippers.

It’s times like this

I wonder why

the dance of peacocks

so resembles

a table of knives

devouring the children of grief

who fly through wombat jungles

with their hair aglow and flowing

in orange and purple cataracts.

We’ve seen this image dancing

through the streets

of Berlin

with abandoned chocolate cantaloupes

and the empress of spikes

whose navel is

the lime covered magic

of a giraffe in heat

blowing trumpet tunes through the cataracts

of marinated elephants.

I had just seen this dream

inside your ear

licking the walls

as an army of single-footed octopi

rolled down the river of Paris

in tuxedoes shaped out of crab shells

and hats of marinated lice.

I would have eaten this delight

if not for the aurora borealis

piercing through my brain

with tunes of unfit monkey bars.