Facebook Haiku by Alan Passman and Rufo Chan

Curmudgeon Armageddon:The New Notes of a Dirty Old Man in the Body of a Young One

Unseasonable May heat permeates the apartment, 

traces of light breeze tease relief while my woman sleeps. 

She's dead tired, dead to the world, and the oppressive warmth 

outside keeps me up. Laying in bed, trying to close my eyes 

while my body aches, but the mind races formula-1 swift. 

Most males who've gone through puberty 

and have some hair on their chest 

will tell you what the holistic alternative 

to Ambien is-- bating, jerking, jacking. Off, 

I gently shuffle out of bed and into the den. 

Not of inequity but my living room 

and what some call the rumpus room, 

which is a bawdy expression if there ever was one. 

The 'Net is logged onto and logged into is a site 

where women pay for college or a mortgage by stripping 

and baiting, jerking, jacking in the comfort and sovereign safety 

of their own rooms. Watching for free, lurking as the cyber-voyeur, 

I spy a Canuck of indigenous decent squirming around 

in a wet v-neck in the bath. After about 15 minutes, she gets out 

and lubricates her body with lotion and at that point, it's on. 

Her somewhat almond eyes are that of a female deer's, hair 

black like a raven's feathers, and her flesh is the color of buckskin. 

Am I eroticizing her? What else would I be doing at a moment like this? 

She places the white cream in cleverly chosen erogenous zones 

and massages it in until it becomes a part of her. With each of her kneads, 

my needs are being met, The imagined wetness and moisture propel 

my self-strangulation. My pace is that of a jockey's steed's gallup 

as it nears the finish line in the lead and just as the win is imminent, 

a student emails me at a quarter 'til 2 in the morning
and the notification flashes on my screen not ignorable 

and at what should be the blissful instant of release, their face is all I see. 

Finished and slightly disgusted, cleanup happens and this is written. 

Talk about anti-climactic.

Cold

Cold and I'm nothing 

while the dragon lady rips

my flesh with her kerosene touch,

which forms the fire right next to me

and ignites my molotov sacred heart.

Lobbed like a grenade, war's hot

potato. Cold burns stronger than flames.

Cold as the vacant part of our bed,

emptiness is evanescence, disappearance,

and disintegration. Cold when I can't see

outside my head. Cold and the violence

cannot set me free. Cold and coming home

with marshmallow smiles, saccharine tar

affixes my facial expression

forever Joker-esque

while I can't seem to hide

from what makes the most sense.

No Carbs for Old Men

Hunger, a burning legion of desire, 

amasses in my belly as it cries out 

for satiation. Denial 

is easier when it is of the truth 

and not of a biological need.

What's at stake? Mmmmm…

Steak. No, no. Think of health,

your health and survival. Fat,

slaughtered cow meat thinly 

sliced and exquisite then slathered

with horseradish atop a bun. Wheat

cracked and delicious, slightly sweet

like honey. Oh, my kingdom

for a sandwich! Look down though,

peep your gut as it sways pendulous,

a wrecking ball in a hurricane conjured

out of self-loathing and good ol' 'Merican

body dysmorphia. Losing weight, awaiting

a confirmation that we're all pretty.

New Year's

Drunk off wine and life,

we shovel ceviche

by the half-pound down

our throats, tortilla

chips like earth movers

tiling tart lime juice

drenched bits of snapper,

onions, tomatoes,

serrano chilis,

and avocado

into our waiting

bellies of hunger.

Surrounded, friendly

faces contorted

and laughter stricken

dole out anecdotes

met with choruses

of thrumming laughter,

mostly playful gibes,

and ad hominem

terms of endearment,

but these sweet nothings

mean more instantly 

than dearer buddies.

Roll with It

Never tell anyone that you're

gonna do anything to really

give them any power over

you as they'll never let

up until you're dusted.

Never be the one who's

gonna roll over and just

let them do whatever

you wouldn't want

down the road.

Never trust those who're

gonna whore and run,

run with hair afire

around a bastille heart

and glide to forever,

desert everyone on islands

you can't hide transparency 

Never be the one,

gonna run,

make it up,

you, cravenly

cry, tumultuous. 

Never harken,

gonna carve up,

say all you can,

goodbye times five.

Never call out,

gonna run,

tell us if

a jumper can

lie inconsiderately

and calculate all heavy

hurt that deafens all around

you, angels of mercy, you. 

Seven

Liar screams face in mirror,
hand around own self's throat,
tight like rope burns,
throttle harder
for the love
of God,
please.