Turning Thirty

A poem about the follies of youth...and about learning to age gracefully.

* * *

Turning Thirty

I

see

a callow college junior

doing everything she can

to keep a full-time job

and sing on stage

and see if she can land

a major scholarship

by taking twenty units at a time

and sleeping two hours a night

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

her youthful, bleary eyes

that fight like Hell to blink back sleep

which she denies herself

because she read online

that she could keep

herself alive with five REM cycles

of ten minutes each per day

and so she fights the laws of Nature

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

the twenty-one year old

who saunters by and turns their heads

with her impossibly taut body

and sure, her flirting may have led

one of these furtive admirers

to think that she was interested

but she just laughs and struts along

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

a world prostrate itself

before her youth, I watch her bask

in the warm glow

of adulation

and yet she never stops to ask

if it will be like this forever,

if time will also stop to bow

before her as she passes by

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty…

I

see

a kilogram of silicone,

a silent sentinel

that stands abruptly at attention

and announces to the world,

“Behold! This forty year old woman

is still highly fuckable!”

as she lasciviously sips her tea

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty

I

see

her makeup caked on, yellow

like Saddam’s uranium

her Prada bag is full of birth

control devices, and her son

is graduating from high school

this year, but still she soldiers on

to perpetual adolescence

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

I

see

the Orange County housewives

on the plasma TV screen

insisting they’re still young enough

to primp and fuss and whine and scream

their glassy eyes have all the seeming

of a demon’s who’s been dreaming

of when it was still sixteen

and

I

thank

God

I’m turning thirty.

God writes a letter to Harold Camping

I just dropped this letter in the mail addressed to "Reverend" Harold Camping:

* * *

Dear Harold,

I hope you learned your lesson with the whole “the-world-didn’t-end-on-May-21” thing.

Now if you would, please stop preaching bullshit in My name. ‘Preciate it.

Yours truly,

-God

P.S. Dude, your mom’s hot.

* * *

I wish I could tell you what Camping's response was, but I'm afraid we'll never know...this was the return address I posted on the envelope (see here for the significance of the area code):

YHWH
7 Celestial Way
Cielo, CA 722500