I Too Tango
I could tell by her buttocks that she too should be mine
To map, ingratiate and divine with my lonely, lonely, green eyes,
Like a mentally uncoordinated, addled, despondent, despaired,
Eighty-pounds-overweight, Irish Catholic dipsomaniac.
She occupied my senses while walking before me
With her perfect ass swishing left then right,
Left then right,
Like a slightly overloaded Sears washing machine,
Billowing perhaps like my favorite white clouds,
All contained in the today’s fashionable blue jeans,
All wrapped benignly about her John Deere hips,
All wound securely around her thighs which tortured
And tapering until taught about her Juliet Capulet ankles—
Jeans which all the girls wear now,
Jeans which any man who gives the phenomenon
A millisecond of thought
Knows cannot be pulled off at the end of the day—
But that’s all right with me,
For I would equip myself with a butcher’s knife or scissors
Or pinking shears or hedge clippers or a hammer and chisel
In order to find a way into what I hope would be her wayward soul.
She exited our apartment complex,
And I gave the matter considerable thought.
I thought of running around her sacred body
And, while facing visage to visage, laying down my jolly rap:
“My name is Mark B. Antonio,
And 14 psychiatrists have pointedly and unfeelingly called me
A hopeless, congenital maniac,
But that doesn’t matter,
For I take 14 hundred milligrams of lithium bicarbonate each night,
And my psychological aspirations are well under control.
I mean, my current psychiatrist,
Whom I hired in a moment of sexual dysfunction,
Tells me that I shall be able to return to work in five or six years.
Meanwhile I suck off the state,
But I would be willing to supply take you to lunch
For hamburger and onion and cherry milkshake,
And do they teach girls in finishing schools these days how to mate
As intelligently as Cleopatra?
Come, then, my fair heroine, won’t you chomp on a burger with me?”
But I forewarned myself and foreboded and forbore,
Thinking maybe I was insane.
I let the girl walk away into the mist of the morning
Still examining her potential like a primary care physician.
Defeated but not clinically depressed,
I made off like Batman for the waiting grounds,
My dear coffee shop,
Hoping and enduring for my true, true love,
Who would serve me pancakes and sausage and syrup
Early in days lit by reliable Venus high in the holy sky.
It was a pleasant ride,
And I concentrated, not on the radio,
But on the sanctity of the four wheels of my car
Upon which I rode.
I said aloud three times to myself: “Four rolling wheels is God.”
Once at the favored coffee shop,
I settled in, cranking up my new, nubile ASUS computer,
Which I bought for $699.26 at Best Buy,
Which I assume is going out of business soon,
And I pumped out a wistful poem about my old high school girlfriend,
Missy F. McCormack,
Who dumped me unceremoniously, abruptly, curtly,
At the end of my senior year—
Missy F. Cormack, whom I have held tight
To my heart and pined for for 29 monstrous years now.
It was a sonnet which old Bill Shakespeare would be proud of,
And then I cranked one out about my latest crush,
Who spurned me and my little, craven heart.
In between, I looked out for women’s asses,
Like German U2 subs,
In the Atlantic corridor at the height of World War II,
But surprisingly I found none suitable to my wishes for mortal sin.
So I searched Bing like a madman
For an arithmetical definition and equation of infinity,
And I wound up on a page about black holes.
I thought I might someday be consumed into one
With my next girlfriend
Who was certain to have a refined, sublime and suitable tush,
Not like a camel or an orangutan,
But like Last Tango Maria Schneider’s,
Whose picture is on my bedroom wall,
A picture whose ass I slap each night before I retire,
Preparing to hunt and thirst
Yet again for complete redemption,
Beginning at dawn in the next day’s glorified morning.
Think the mentally ill Holden Caulfield.
The moon is my pure, astrological and theological guide,
And life is like a picnic on a fair, Shakespearean, summer’s day
Where two lovers entwine,
Appreciating peanut butter and jelly and banana sandwiches,
While taking tentative sips on Giant food store’s best, yet sour, pink lemonade.