If the CIA had a pill that would make me not
gay, I would crush it and mix it with alcohol,
drink it and head to a nearby men’s room stall,
wait for a horny dude who was very hot
and into the thrill of nearly getting caught
to wander in from the under-peopled mall,
broad-shouldered and very, very tall,
quite DTF, a DILF, perhaps a THOT;
I’d wait for his foot to tap beneath the bland
three-quarters-height partition; I would then
stand on the toilet seat and peer across;
I’d say my spy vocation had unmanned
me; saved me from a life of loving men.
He’d shrug, and tug his dick, and say: Your loss.
Buy more takeout and hire a maid. Reside
in a mansion and summer in the south of France.
Winter in Aspen. Take the foolish chance
of inheriting every single cent. Slide
giggling through life and take a towering pride
in benefitting from mere circumstance.
Never, ever let the poor advance.
Among your peers, deliberately elide
ability and wealth. Hog the best spots
at the most exclusive schools. Oppose at each
instance any opportunistic ploy
to materially improve the lives of world’s have-nots;
they should’ve been better born; instead they leach
from our locked reserves of unnecessary joy.
I don’t stand behind anything. I stand
before, above, upon, athwart, beyond.
Perhaps your mortal speech must correspond
to fixed categories, but please understand
I am not a mortal, I’m a brand,
self-contained and self-defined, a bond
self-issued and self-paid, and a natural blond.
Small men perceive mere truth as reprimand.
But truth is like the cat the fellow put
into the box, at once alive and dead;
simply a glance can change the very nature
of a thing: the truth can’t win a game or foot
a bill. When will you get it through your head:
your eternal truths are merely nomenclature.
The value of Juicero is more than a glass of cold-
pressed juice. Much more. The value is in how easy
it is for a frazzled dad to knock the queasy
edge off the half case of Coors Extra Gold
he drank last night because his ex-wife told
him that he’d never keep them. The kids. Her breezy
iPhone alto happy. Remarried a cheesy
real-estate asshole with a Beemer and a billfold.
Fuck you, Kim. “Hey Daddy,” Jaiylyn calls,
“we’re gonna miss the bus.” He sighs and hits
the button. Nothing. The pouch, it seems, is one
day beyond the best-if-used. It all
becomes quite clear. He chews two aspirin, grits
his teeth, and goes to the closet to get his gun.
My means for critical evaluation
all center on the fable of a little wooden toy
whose earnest desire to become an actual boy
mimics my own self-serious adulation
for a truth as narrow as a lawyer’s accusation,
all causes shorn of context, which I then deploy
to accuse Achilles without Helen of Troy,
Ulysses’s fandi fictor reputation
divorced from his desire for his wife.
Truth is never beautiful; it lies
on a vast ocean like a raft of floating turds,
a shifting host for dull, bacterial life,
an effluence of human compromise:
the foul excreta of silly nerds.
The past as precedent is overrated.
Even its angel gazing back across
the racked, wrecked pile of death and loss
can never turn to see what it’s created
now. The present is the wreck, abated
briefly; the past, a stone, but we are moss
fuzzing the surface, a broken pebble tossed
into a sea. A story often related
about the same sea is that a king
stood at its edge and ordered the tide to cease.
We’re told the moral has to do with pride.
In fact, Canute was warning: worshipping
a man’s short power and swiftly expiring lease
blasphemed. The waves went on. He ruled and died.
Blame millennials for the missing bar of soap.
But blame their parents for the rest of it:
the postwar settlement they turned to shit;
the rising seas; the flattening and declining slope
of income growth; the OD rate for dope;
George Bush invading Baghdad in a snit;
“prestige” TV; Armstrong’s hematocrit;
Fox News, CNN, the man from Hope.
Even the awful form of this complaint
is accidentally due to Billy Joel,
another boomer bastard: they’ve destroyed
the world in increments, but now they faint
at the minor foibles of the kids today, a whole
generation dad left unemployed.
His moral arguments are all consumer
choices he’s deliberately confused
with ethical dilemmas; he has used
the self-superior lifestyle choices of the boomer
generation, lame attempted humor,
and made-up anecdotes to disabuse
you of a non-position he’s infused
with the acute import of mortality, a tumor
grown suddenly huge, malignant, pressing on
the brain: it must be excised lest we find
the psychosoma is the journalist
projecting. Hey, dude. Get off my lawn.
The world’s an abattoir. Each day’s a grind.
Your job is not the reason we exist.
The children aren’t the future; they are now.
My five-year-old, for instance, is concerned
that five-year-olds in China will have learned
integral calculus while he learns the cow
goes moo. Father, he asked, how can we allow
declines in public spending when it earns
broad wage-multipliers as returns?
Is Xi reformist, or is he a Mao?
And can we win the war on terror with
a formal legal apparatus that
constrains our agencies and binds their hands?
Do coastal elites represent a fifth
column? Is the Bible a samizdat?
Will I have to share the boys room with a trans?
District officials sent WWMT a quote from a school handbook that says teachers are required to get approval before discussing any topic related to reproductive health.
–The Washington Post
The word itself makes some men uncomfortable.
Imagine the spring. Imagine the tulip trees
in the garden—still a chance of morning frost,
the gold-black baby spiders, the first bees
betting on dew instead by instincts that we’ve lost.
Consult the Farmer’s almanac; consult
the weather on the internet; we are obsessed
with warnings, dire predictions; with results
whose precursors embarrass us. Confess:
you too, sex-positive and libertine,
are slightly squeamish at the ordinary bits
a flower represents: fecund, gene-
wet, vaginal. Marble tits?
Appropriate. But a flower is a stealth
lesson in the forbidden: “reproductive health.”