Often, down at the paddle tennis courts,
The players, not the game, extort all sense.
Women cavort with jiggling breasts, tight shorts—
Regardless of their skill, we yearn, mute, tense.
So it was Thursday last. I watched a game
Featuring Andrea and three trim males.
Her gaudy hair blossomed—long, loose, untamed,
Her well-toned body not the least bit frail.
This year, no doubt, her grandchild will be born,
Though time has been most generous to her.
I note the shape her spandex pants adorn
And mourn my lost libido—yet still stirred.
Plush hemispheres! And, though I know it’s crass,
I, stunned, admire Andrea’s darling ass.
(1/30/12)
Sitting
in my car
in the office parking garage
this morning
I wanted
to run away.
So what else
is new?
A. C. Fox, Running In Place (2012)
A wealthy friend of mine, endowed with wit,
Charm, a poetic ear and the moxie
To create partnerships that benefit
Multitudes, has, despite a bright, foxy
Merit, fallen on hard times recently.
Not his fault; these recessions do occur.
Fierce investors clamor incessantly
As slashed profits seep, drain, like tainted blood.
It’s no wonder then, sitting in that car,
Facing another day of fretful banks,
The wrath of those (really somewhat bizarre),
Despite the wealth for which they owe him thanks,
That he would, sighing, like to exit from
The pain, responsibility, the rue
That daily torment him, that pounding thrum!
The conundrum? What place could he run to?
(1/23/12)
It’s easy to make firm resolutions,
But goddamn hard to keep them—so cool it!
Lose thirty pounds? Join gyms? Glib solutions,
Empty words targeting our most ghoulish
Fears—our blood sense we neither act, nor look
Like those ideals burned in by our TV—
Fail to emulate heroes of our books—
Yearning for a svelte, a slick, cooler me.
It’s all a con, commercial enterprise!
This car, those chic clothes, that gymnasium
Tight skin, church mass, firm breasts, blue-shadowed eyes
Bushwah! Nonsensical foul, false nostrums
Forget that outside stuff, seek for what’s in—
Resolve to be serene, not slick and thin.
(1/15/12)
Seventy-two unemployed, young virgins
Await you in paradise Ishmael
(The mullah promises)—and all your sins
Erased by feats your relatives retell—
Koranic acts! Just become a martyr!
Nigeria: you blew up four dozen
Christians leaving church (what could be tarter?).
Damascus: sixty Arabs (your cousins!)
Dismembered by explosive suicide!
Baghdad: don’t even ask—too horrible
To contemplate how Sunni-Shi’a pride
Explodes all peace, settles cultist quibbles.
Your reward? A hoax! Those female minors—
Promised paradise—don’t have vaginas!
(12/31/11)
My friend’s grandson—young, handsome, buffed (tattooed
Delightfully on his left shoulder, arm—
Defensive football star)—I call him ‘Dude’—
Came by, yestermorn, with a woman. Charm
Pulsed off her skin (melodious aura),
Dressed exquisitely from pert neck to knee,
Exotic bouquet—feminine flora—
Her (unsurprising) name was Brittany!
I wondered where she’d spent the previous night
And sensed she needed to depart this scene.
I asked if she had to go to work—fright
Dispelled her charm—salacious term, obscene—
Her smooth brow collapsed, three vertical lines
Displayed her horror at that ugly word
She saw me as a lout, all unrefined
Her nose repulsed as if she smelled a turd!
To think that such as she would have to work
Exposed me as a stupid, clueless jerk!
(12/20/11)
Often, we elders, unemployed, bench-sit
Down at the paddle tennis court. We shmooze,
Watch the better games, and, often, enthuse
When stunning women display in outfits
Curved to their taut, trim bodies. I admit
Those visions stimulate, recall the cues
That once enlivened us, leave us bemused
By memories worn down by time’s grim grit.
When gorgeous Heather quit her job, gave up
The game and took her lovely flaming hair
To Texas—the style, the wit we worshipped,
Stolen by that lad—shocked, we all despaired.
We have probable cause, prepare to fight—
A suit (a slam dunk case—deprived of sight,
Damaged by the loss of our connection)
For alienation of affection!
(12/12/11)
