Dinner at Noam Chomsky's

It’s dinnertime at Noam Chomsky’s
Home of…..enlightened conversation
Home of…..the best and the brightest
Home of…..good food

It’s dinnertime at Noam Chomsky’s
Elite Street, where the pretty people gather, where the ragged pass by
Close to Skid Row…..but not too close
The pretty faces gaze, sympathetically, out the window…..untouched

The pretty people drift in, slowly, purposefully
Insatiable appetites
Straight teeth…..polished teeth…..sharp teeth
Crooked smiles

They sit, gracefully
Feet adorned with Gold toes and Ballys
Versace hiding, yet revealing, their nakedness
Lapels by Bill Blass

At a corner table they muse, thoughtfully
“Oh, the nuances of rogue states.” They nod at each other approvingly
“By the way, is Zinfandel appropriate with filet of fundamentalist?
Do you suppose Heinekin would be alright with boiled orphan a la Swift?”

A secluded corner table
Lies and metaphors mix, a media tossed salad
Flesh rips intermittently
Under the weight of the pretty peoples’ molars

At a cozy corner tale
Wine and conversation flow and flesh is devoured
Linen napkins dab human debris
From the corners of crooked smiles

It’s Noam Chomsky’s place
Where the ‘catch of the day’ is pricey and sinewy
Where the sound and fury are endless
Where compassion’s thrown out with the garbage at the end of the day


© 2002 Phil Dillon