Turning Sexty

At an age somewhere
between ripe and rot
where a Marlboro
lasts five times
longer than the sex
but as a young man
I could bust a nut
like a brazen monkey
turning Japanese
at the Bronx zoo
with as many comings
and goings during the day
as bowel movements after
a Mexican food marathon.

But six decades made
the hardware obsolete
till horny scientists
wearing horn rimmed
Clark Kent glasses
and drunk on Vanna
White wine cooked up
a chalice of Cialis
to always be prepared,
changing a vowel
from I to E and up,
up, and away
I go from sixty to sexty
in six seconds or less.

Blow up the balloons,
throw a ticker tape
parade and behold
the dawning of the age
of a sexagenarian .

So I put some grease
on my comb-over and pull
out my disco clothes
from a trunk in the closet,
but besides moth balls
burning off nostril hair ,
the deep purple polyester
don’t come close to fitting,
so I find an old ebony satin
pajama top from my wannabe
Hugh Hefner Netflix and chilling
in the playboy mansion days ,
unbuttoning to a linty ass navel.

I scour the apartment
for some bling to wrap
around my neck to top
off the look but only find
a strand of garland from
who knows how many
holidays ago so I have to
rely on the old do or die
mojo and an extra slap
of Aqua Velva to conjure
up enough cool to make
Travolta think twice about
messing with these moves.

But the fox is still not quite
packed enough to raid
the chicken house so I grab
a bottle of exotic exuberance
herbal pills made from bull
testicles that my pal Skokie
smuggled in from Mexico ,
pop a handful and head
down to the neighborhood
bar preening like a peacock
in mating season preparing
to let the feathers fly.

I walk in and I’ll be damned
if it ain’t throwback Thursday
at the watering hole and “Staying
Alive” is jacked up on the Boses.

I get a Red Bull and Vodka
from the bar and start sashaying
my fine ass to the dance floor
where the wide eyed patrons part
like the waters in front of Moses.

My heart pounding
like a basketball
on hardwood
as “ Disco Inferno “
thunders in the dark
and I feel as fucked up
as the follow up movie
to “ Saturday Night Fever.”

People are screaming
and running around
as Robin and Maurice
Gibb hold me up
while asking if my love
is ready to go six feet deep ,
walking me closer and closer
to the blinding glitter
of the great disco ball
in the sky till a pair
of charged paddles
smack the ever loving
shit out of my heart
and turn the beat around
so I will stay above
ground and survive.
I will survive.