The Elephant Graveyard

This is the Elephant Graveyard. Elegant bronze lamps presiding over tortured green lawns. Teakwood and brass and here there is nothing only the fractured conversations of alcoholics. The catalog showroom where self determination is preempted by birth. Over beyond the toys are us palace. The camera’s faceless. These are the stumble cookies. And these are the cookie monsters, torn between the world they are given and the ones they find.