Sketches of a Dead Man Breakfasting with God -- Star Black


My love sips a cold demi-tasse.
Does he have men-friends? An abode?
Are the oceanless gulls silk-voiced and repetitive?
It rains, unsimilarily.
Greys grey the featureless trees.
Slate roofs drip in the wet economy.
The world sits and knits.
A cuckoo flies through an estimate: a Pharoah on television.
My love will bring down the house.
My love will steal the show,
like an evident sea squall, like a one-sided buffalo.
He is breakfasting with Antonioni.
They are discussing "chromatic urbanity,"
or a meditative rodeo
in cat's cradle kleigs:
inconclusive parities, notate, primal,
for the wet world
where everything's been written before,
where virgins are ardent in the ideographs,
ardent and horizontal,
and the Nasdaq soars upward toward Cocteau
with adherence, with after-throes,
into the listening eye,
into vertigo,
the Gallic illuminata.

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