The Death of Elegance
Michael Angelo Tata

Chelsea boys in skin-tight
everything prance about
like silly mannequins right
out of Macy’s, Herald
Square, and here I am
on a gold, crushed velvet
sofa pondering the whirring
of the cosmos, which
celebrates Bastille Day
by assuming the geometry
of a Mme du Barry pannier
whose day-glo vertices
throb gently in a solar
wind scattering positrons
across the galaxy. In
demonstration of her
solidarity with the un-
fortunate, Judy Jetson
weaves leftover chicken
bones from a block party
into her coif, tip-toeing
over a field of disjointed
jaws and disarticulated
limbs. Unfazed, a mirror
ball with a rotational
velocity approaching
that of a small planet
with a 12-minute day
initiates a tea dance
for a gaggle of Long
Island lotharios with
pupils the size of poker
chips. Rosebud lips and
cleft palates experience
the rush of cool water
down a mountain slope,
their thirst for dissolution
slaked by their sudden
merging with the phe-
nomenal contents of an
expiring blueblood’s eye
as it gazes upon a collection
of luxury objects with the
realization that they can no
longer anchor his lust for
material acquisition. Refusing
to be compliant, the moon,
a scoop of hazelnut gelato,
drips acid onto the bridges
connecting Manhattan with
Mars. Above and below
Houston, partygoers
tunnel through coffee
grounds and powdered
Neanderthal vertebrae.