Those martyrs seeking orgasm
In Jannah they hardly can fathom,
Focus their wits,
Explode into bits—
Which part gets to feel the grand spasm?
(6/28/14)

Is it some genetic thing buried deep
That makes me wonder at a sunset
While he sees stormy portents ruining sleep?
Is my gorgeous bloom his allergic threat?

Rembrandt, Manet, Van Gogh, even Dali
Please the heart and eye—but Jackson Pollack
Sells for a million bucks?—insane folly!
Abstract impressionism’s just plain crap.

Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Gershwin engage,
Enchant our ears—beguiled, we cheer and clap.
Now we’re asked to honor Phil Glass, John Cage
Mocking music’s art (not to mention Rap).

Then there’s us, human shapes: illogical
Protruding nose, hair, convoluted ears,
Toenails, genitals, anatomical
Design—veneers beneath which we appear.

Explain to me how women’s beauty works,
How canny centimeters certify:
An inch or two of breast—firm, nicely perked—
A quarter inch of lip, an eighth of eye
The length and shade of hair, the cream of skin
That curve beneath the knee, the width of thigh
Coalesce, create ugliness of sin
Or beauties that entrance our leering eyes?.

No wonder that philosophers debate
The nature of aesthetic enterprise.
Do we perceive, or randomly create
The beauty that our minds have crystallized?
(5/4/14)

Throw some coins into that beggar’s cup
Even if the sod’s an addict drunk—
The act’s plain virtue.

The phone call from the American Diabetes Society—
“Help us end this horrible disease.”
OK—put me down for a hundred bucks—
I could use some virtue.
But wait!
205.7 million rolled in last year—
The fundraisers kept 29.2 per cent—
A mere 57.7 million—
And Larry, the CEO,
Brought home a salary
Of five hundred forty-five thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars.
Who knew diabetes could be so fulfilling?

Take a look at our beloved ASPCA—
You know,
The outfit that saves those sad yearning hounds
And bereft kittens
Shown, relentlessly, on our TVs.
Those tragic cats and dogs
Generated over a hundred forty-eight million
In virtuous donations.
But wait!
The fundraisers kept 52.7 million
Of those alms.
And Edwin? The CEO?
That lout drained five hundred sixty-six thousand
To help with the rent and the groceries.

For pity’s sake, ask yourself:
How do my donations serve?
Do they mitigate poverty,
Soften pain,
Enrich the arts,
Or contribute
To entrepreneurial,
Orgasmic riches?

Looking for virtue, self-esteem?
Give the drunk a few bucks—
Stop being played
Like an out-of-tune fiddle.
(1/11/14)

We rant about the messy world,
Tell jokes, admire female skin,
Exhibit energy unfurled,
Expressing merriment, chagrin.

Night falls, the energy is spent.
We take to beds and lie awake,
Our aches and pains and old torments,
Plain venomous, entwine like snakes.

The dark is more than literal,
Becomes a metaphor for hope
Drowned in old age, funereal—
Our dreams a blank kaleidoscope.
(9/29/13)

Occasionally
I canonize a pet,
Exalt my wife and sons,
And revel in the mystery
Of sun, moon, stars.

But mostly I decry
The mess the masses
Have contrived
Through advertising,
Greed, theology, and politics.

For three thousand years
We’ve preached morality,
Teach it in school,
Then graduate into
Murderous, insane reality.

If ever a book
Of my bitter verse appears—
My history of ego and of nations—
Its title will declare its motivation:
A Sequel to The Book of Lamentations
(9/26/13)

They wondered, doubtless, what’s this all about?
What’s the point of living when doomed to die?
Responding, clever thugs designed a lie—
Invented angry Gods, armed with fierce knouts.

We’re put here by those Gods, they taught, to dwell
A certain way—be pious, sacrifice—
Exalt and worship Them, avoid all vice.
Life’s aim? Gain pearly heaven, avoid hell!

“Unlike the swine we eat, and spiders, lice,
You all have souls that last eternally.
So praise those Gods because you’re not a flea—“
Our priests declaim—“hard life is heaven’s price.”

Now seven billion humans live on Earth—
Endured parental shaping, went to school
Where competition and ambition bloomed,
Where teachers taught humanity has worth.

Six thousand seven hundred languages
(Astonishing, not so?) convey ideas—
Twenty-two faiths require us to fear
Twenty-five hundred gods and goddesses!

Don’t believe me, look it up! Satisfy
Your selves that humans are quite mad, yet still,
Despite propensities to loot and kill,
Superior to microbes and horseflies.

I understand the sources of our fears,
The idiotic smugness I abhor—
So why do I feed cats at our back door?
And why do moving words compel my tears?
(12/27/12)

Moves inventory, turns stale and retro
Into profit, saves the day, clears the shelves.
They fudge a little, tinker, and presto
The merchandise’s remade, as if by elves.

It’s done with clever lighting, with food dye—
Similar to salon treatment, face lifts,
Tummy tucks, repackaging what’s awry.
Manager’s specials—steak almost a gift!

Chemically enhanced, a moral sin:
Juicy red without, decayed gray within.
(12/15/12)

“I did but prompt the age.” “Death be not proud.”
”How do I love thee?” “I sing the body electric.”
“The sound of blue.” Thus writers shout aloud
Kaleidoscopic images—slick tricks!

Real life’s a fuddled crawl, much more mundane
Than scenes that raptured poetry project—
It’s what to cook for dinner, dodging pain,
Drying dishes, doing laundry, inspect

The roof for leaks, take pills to fend off pox,
Enjoy a bagel spread with cream cheese, lox.
Set out the next morn’s clothes—two unholed sox.
At each day’s end, clean out the litter box,
Marvin Klotz (3/7/12)