Kong

King Monkey comes
          from behind the curtain
chewing a cigar of dynamite,
          with talons of gold,
a velvet cape
          and a bamboo wand.
He is the last:
          the forest is dying
and so is vaudeville,
          in the twinkling
of his hundred ivory teeth.
          In the wings, hyenas
hover like angels—
          before the stage
the jungle's daughters
          pare their incisors.
King Monkey knuckles
          downstage, and starts to sing,
with all his simian might,
          into the silverbacked night.
There is a sound of jewels,
          and a sigh of wind
like a great orchid wilting,
          and the crackling of pigskin.
To end, he pounds his chest
          with a diamond fist.
There is a second of silence
          before the deluge.

As the curtain falls
          he's seeing stars.
The world falters.
          He is lost in smoke,
his cape torn,
          wandering a landscape
like the surface of the moon.
          He roars and leaps
into vacant darkness.
          Feels wind. Hears drum.
Before him a golden shape.
          Banana of Karma!
Thy Kingdom Kong!
          He peels ―
The star is gone.