Zen and the Art of Elephant Removal
The elephants walk on the ceiling, linked tail
to trunk, pacing a mourning circle
around the brass ceiling fan.
Below, two zen sluts study
the koan of two hands clapping
while performing synchronized bootstrapping.
The elephants listen, with champagne flutes
pressed to their tattered ears,
as below trumpets mewl
and growl like tibetan throat singers.
The pillows sling rifles over their shoulders
and march under the arc de triumph
the monks have erected by levitation.
The bed creaks like the last unbombed bridge
over the Rhine, as the troops goosestep
home to der vaterland. The elephants
tremble, they are pale, they look sad;
perhaps they will run away and join the circus.
There is order, meaning, ritual
under the Big Top: Contained trinity
of three rings, the discipline
of the ringmaster's whip. Perhaps
they could forget their lost baobab. Anything
to escape the constant smack
and sneap of aboriginal clowns
underfoot, practising
ritual zen abuse.
