The ball of the days of Lucille Ball

And arrived that Tuesday, like the impersonal and responsorial silence of a marble-an cathedral, the ball of the days of Lucille Ball came to an end, perfumed the funeral, Anglican in moderation, softened the consternation, pastel the colors, confiscated the smiles, atavic almost.

And arrived that Friday evening, such a silvery goddess of Cecil B. DeMille immortalize-d in chrome from 1960, the august coffin exposed the facial muscles of Lucille Ball shining erect under the TV spotlights like a Member of Congress who lost his marbles; pugnacious the rictus, elevated the cheekbones, exorbitant the eyeballs, Thatcherite almost.

And arrived, my friends, that Saturday, with the accelerated haste of an aerolite in flames fallen on the intractable topography of Montana, the funerals of Lucille Ball cancelled were, and closed the coffin, transported it was, scorted like a Pharaoh, televised the caravan

and cream rained on Beverly Hills
because the night sky of celluloid cried at 1:00 p.m
and the daughters of the universal suffrage menstruated from above
like the holy caryatids of the Republic
because that day rained cream on Beverly Hills.

Mediterranean the light, color bone the clothes, porn almost.


And arrived that Sunday, like the solemnest and last Sunday in the World, the ball of the days of Lucille Ball came to rest on Lucille Ball, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, whitened the tomb, Anglo-Saxon in reasonableness, Methodist in abstemiousness, discreet the design, neat the grass, nightmarish almost.


































The ball of the days of Lucille Ball.