The Tree House of an Irian Jaya

Slow, the dandy Korowai sips
his coffee. A fetid scent
of sago palm fronds billows
upwards to rattan-latticed frieze,
a wispy lick of the facade
of animist caricatures. The cannibal muses
as the purr of Kopi Luwak settles,
steeped in carrion-coated deals and
polyglot grunts and grumbles
from the electric donut.

Human flesh differs naught from pig
when raised to a green empyrean
nestled on thirsty cement roots
crust with salted grime.
A stainless steel backbone,
glossy marble finishes,
and titanium security net
to keep the plebs from climbing up
and for the prodigal to englut
an eyeful of birds of paradise
and twangy city symphony.

Waiting, far below the placid chitter
outside the emerald glass, a rumbling
splits the grimy bottom parched
too long. The greedy pirate,
cut by shattered ceilings, loses
his head. It rolls like a coconut
and spills a sweet nectar below.