Saturday, September 06, 2008


All hail the senior statesman lounging at the Bar Rouge!
Hail hail his calamari suit, his Brahms ringtone, his fried onion shoes!

Beneath the porticos of his steely eyes, within the heart of his pearly whites,
the words form music, a Grosse Fugue, a Motown hit with leather roots.

His touch is chocolate, his nails are finely ground.
The sun and moon glow in his Gulfstream hair.

He whispers like a breeze in an orange grove; he lathers his image as he builds up steam.
This gypsy archangel who dreams at the mike; he bolts and creaks like the Palatine.

He kisses a sorbet of mothers and wives; the marmoreal scenes of back story pals,
of mullet-cut thoughts and dredged intentions. All hail the knight with the crew-cut smile!

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