Celebrating her get-well gift.
On Tuesdays, my wife’s friend Lorie comes by.
They sit out back crafting ceramic shapes—
Exchanging wit and tips, they mold both wry
Gossip and clay, then lunch the day away.
An actor once—you can still see the glam,
Specially around her eyes. Since that path
Closed, Lorie’s been thrice around the block—crammed
Sev’ral lives beneath her skin—lived through wrath
Filled days as barmaid, as WEB sales exec.
But underneath that lustrous skin, inside,
Resides empathic warmth. Touched by my wrecked,
Post surgical distress, she dammed pain’s tide,
And helped heal my bleak, sore, insulted crotch
With wit’s best gift—a fifth of Chivas scotch!
(6/22/08)
For S. S., on the occasion of her fractured wrist.
I understand the impetus, the need
To challenge age, deny corrosion, fight
To keep the sinews soft. But you must heed,
Alas, the mutability (cruel blight)
Afflicting us. Neither spinning class nor
Yoga, nor lengthy bike rides up steep hills
Can turn back time, renew that well used core—
Restore the pliant bones of youth’s idylls.
So go ahead—bowl if you must; have fun,
Be physical, but also somewhat shrewd.
Keep your torso firm as you start your run—
Arms close, head up, balanced (and well shoed!).
Then, if you trip and fall, my darling lass—
{shapely}
Fall (damn it!), on your {nicely} padded ass.
{safely}
(6/8/08)
For T.M.S., M.D., F.A.C.S.
When I am king of the universe
There’ll be no such thing
As “minor” surgery,
And no one will call that gas
“General” anesthetic—
Those wimpy adjectives
Will morph
To “grave” and “deadly.”
When I am king,
Surgeons will confess:
Simple hernia repair
Generates
Not only pain,
But constipation,
And (far, far worse)
Swollen balls—those useless
Desiccated testicles,
Now balloons—
Painful, pompous, iridescent
(Mostly ribald red)
Balloons.
When I am king,
There’s gonna be trouble!
Marvin Klotz, B.S., M.A., Ph.D., E.A. (6/8/08)
Why is it so damned hard to do nothing?
Once, when I worked two jobs to feed the kids,
To pay the rent, my burdened heart pouting,
Consumed by stress, my whipped imprisoned id
Jailed inside thick, unwindowed walls of fierce
Responsibility, I dreamed of peace—
Escape from super-ego’s prim piercing
Shriek—free, at last, pursuing sweet caprice.
Well, now the kids are grown, the mortgage paid,
The coffers full enough. What shall I do?
Write a poem no one will read; submit, flayed
By tests and colonoscopies: age-screwed!
I check the news, blanch at the wretched stench,
Play spider solitaire, teeth firmly clenched;
I read, and doze, and read some more, then wrench
Upright, limp to the beach, sit on a bench.
(6/7/08)
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain; . . .
John Keats (1818)
Squinting at the dark end of the tunnel:
“What is it that I was supposed to do?”
I ask myself. Life, that tapered funnel,
Shrinks each bright prospect, tinges hope with rue.
But I am old. You, John, just twenty-three,
Decide the main thing is mere poetry
(Figured as reaped grain stored in granaries),
Thought food, illuminating mysteries,
When you might have sought (as most young men do)
A righteous fuck! What strange disease so warped
Your wants, constrained ambition to pursue
Posthumous fame, despite a world so fraught?
Admiration, I suppose, is what heads
Pursue—(a published poem, a frolicked bed—
Both leave the lusting ego swelled, well fed)—
That Holy Grail we seek before we’re dead.
(6/3/08)
Dick
The fortune cookie said: “Quick! Write a haiku to your best friend.”
Grandchildren galore,
One dead wife, one blonde alive,
Running by the shore.
(5/13/08)
Anesthesiology Fees
The numbed sleep is free.
The only thing we bill for
Is the waking up.
(5/23/08)
or…
Minor surgery—
Accidental death a risk—
Painless, mild, and quick.
(5/25/08)
Pro Sports
Why does it matter?
Why the frenzied home team cheers?
Losers, too, get paid.
Coliseum sport—
Christians and lions contend—
Losers’ fate: dead meat!
(5/25/08)
