Thursday, June 21, 2007
Poetry: On Park Avenue
How many lies told slipped my mind today?
My assistant, a leggy looker from the finest MBA
Takes a moment, calculating like an ROI, to say:
“I’ll give you more than you ever dreamed.”
She will. But at what price?
We crawl out of a motor home of a black limo
Wobbly after half a dozen Martinis
The white gloved entry man smiles routinely,
“A good evening to you, sir.”
Knowing what I expect, as all execs
Pleasure derived from business
As countless backs of small people hurt
From the appetizer plate at the grand opening
Of a glass behemoth, Wall Street reports, winningly.
Fawning, eager, young ladies, “Oh, that’s you!
How important you are! God must have you on his cell listing!”
We meander through the ornate lobby
The elevator greeter has more cheesy lines
Than Velveeta – I wonder how Kraft did overnight?
My Wharton lady, of this evening, perfect and pert,
As the day I hired her.
“Mr. Johnson, how are you this windy evening?”
I am as all 8-figure people:
Mired in self-assured extravagance and loneliness,
A quiet, professional snobbery hiding
Utter disdain for my choices. Yet I do it.
Thus I say, “couldn’t be better.”
The liquored lolita loquaciously laughs –
Slurring out a dozen adjectives that
Don’t describe me.
In the high digs of the 10 mil Trump condo,
the door is flung open,
As now we are too giddy for ourselves.
She snaps a heel, ‘oh well’, I stumble her
Along to the satin sheets replete
with all the conquests of a decade
On top – yet the women always are –
My vows, broken, once again.
Second wife lives in the Hamptons.
I send her payments via an accountant.
The kids go aimlessly to boarding schools.
That ROI turned south in a market flash.
After Jill falls down the hill,
Of a drunken dream and giddy moans
I stare out on the massive sameness
Concrete below, steel girders and glass above
And the bright lights of the never contented.
The same old routine: trite night with a smart snake,
That will fake all the woe of that stand.
I’ll settle because it’s cheaper
Till someday comes to pass by
Like those subway cars taking a destination
with countless lost people, I’ll never meet,
Never winning – yet, I was.
I am 45. Have 15 good years at the top, at least.
I’ll be measured in tenths of a stock price, splits and revenues
And quarterly earnings report, as either savior
Or a goat. Makes no difference –
A gold parachute awaits;
To the next CEO job I’ll go.
Passing the baton
And the race, never ends,
For the rogue mogul.
As the crack of day encroaches
My hangover helper kicks in,
Served by my senorita bonita from green card country,
The sexy MBA stirs slightly,
Her locks all frazzled,
But lovely, nonetheless.
The laptop is on Market Morning,
Across the other side of the world
Another exec sleeps or does the same,
As I did.
My NY Times is opened, Journal is near at hand –
All likely to mean:
Just another day, has come.
Note: Just a bad poem about what you all ready know....
I'll tell you more when you tell me yours. ;)
Patience, grasshopper. You must use the force. Nothing MacGyver couldn't solve... My new bag: to make lives better through their health, their mindset. It's new, but we should always look for new. Take a gander there at Bringin' Gas & Dialin' 9: A Seven Score Addiction to the National Pastime. Writing is just about the only thing one can do to live on permanently - buildings will crumble, pictures can fade, memories blur before we know it, but words can remain visible, and understandable, long after we pass from this mortal coil. (That's why that Socrates guy still gets play!) So that's my story. Create your new story!