There is a War on White Men in the West.
(To be fair, we haven’t sent our best.)
The gals and gays and browns have all been pressed
into service, and they are marshalling the rest
of the demographics who, now unrepressed,
have somehow now outbred and out-successed
the WASPs—despite admitting self-confessed
Catholics and certain Jews, our quest
to stay on top, to rule, has not progressed
to our entire advantage. Rome’s bequest?
Jerusalem and Athen’s dying jest;
the sun has even set on Budapest—
your left arm hurts; you clutch your tightening chest:
London, Paris, cardiac arrest.

It’s clear that Founder CEOs, rug-
ged individualists, and great men
are now the persecuted class, and when
they come for them I do not speak, but tug
my forelock, get online to post, and shrug
away the ploughshared sword that was my pen:
the fuck who fucked too much got fucked again,
orgasmic victim of the blue-pilled drug,
unfortune-favored, adolescent brain,
beguiled by any womaned hotel bar,
banana boat now beached and grounded on the shoal
of want, embarrassed, horny on the main—
a way a lone a last a loved, and far
from home; the river speaks: export control.

had an intimate relationship
with a second employee, two sources told Reuters.
Once married, how the heart then reconnoiters
for the fluttering pre-fiancing beat. Well, skip.
Wags, watching from without, will quip
that any middle-agèd man who loiters
in desire’s anteroom, back-pain and goiters
begging him to keep his thingy zipped,
but ploughs ahead, has bigger problems than
mere marriage-boredom; he smells the autumn scent
of his late years, the bathbound ache of life
fleeing as it does; what doth it profit man
to beg from death what husbands all were meant
to do, and will: to predecease the wife.

I happen to think the most pressing issue is
that the left is going to gulag all of us.
Send us to the work camp on some rattling bus,
condemned to toil, freeze, and die in pris-
on; once our free and fleeting days would whiz
past: now each hour feels perilous
and eternal; time, for the jailed, is treasonous,
betrays itself, while we, like children, quiz
it’s slowing passage—why, why, why, why, why?—
and it, like mommy, answers just because,
goes back to cooking, leaves us wailing on the floor,
or tells us big girls do not need to cry
over every slight, and turns again, and draws
our red eyes to one fact: she loves dad more.

The fathers had fought in WW2. They
weren’t going to dress up like a ketchup bottle.
The air was cold. The leaves began to mottle.
They drink alone. Their wives drink too, and pray
their children will not all end up the way
their husbands did: gray soon, neck wattle,
overtoothed as ancient Aristotle,
angry that their swishy sons seem gay;
angry that their daughters want to go
to law school; angry that their pretty wives
have put on weight; angry that the boys
they loved and fought with died so
suddenly and stupidly—a plane dives;
a bomb drops; and where they slept is noise.

I came here today to thank you in advance
for all you will do in your lifetimes:
Artworks. Great inventions. Petty crimes.
Marriages. Divorces. Trips to France.
Unless, by fire or floor, or else by chance
the boatman tolls, the bell, unasked-for, chimes—
singular and boundless as all the primes,
a more-than-sum of summed-up circumstance:
you are you; you tell them who you are—
a being born for being, built to be
itself, empowered in the world: the fate
of the atomic remnants of some long-exploded star,
or coconut just fallen from a windwracked tree:
embodied mind; soul’s mortal running mate.

My Cheesecake Factory tweets have made
the national news. Not since Joyce or Proust
has language by its little self produced
such wild invention; Xerxes in the piney shade
couldn’t moan more; nor Orpheus, afraid,
sing a song the likes that I have loosed,
nor sugarify the citrus that I juiced
for the attention. I wasn’t even paid!
As Yahweh spake the one primordial verb,
big-banged the blessed world out of the wet
waters of the dark and formless firmament,
I, too, create: a tweet, a post, a blurb—
poor hostage to attention’s oubliette:
the polls suggest it will not make a dent.

You don’t turn the Titanic around overnight.
You do not turn that boat around at all.
You steam ahead. The night begins to fall.
The women put on pearls, the men their white
dinner jackets. The band begins a light
quartet. Some fog descends. Some porters call
the captain to his private dining hall.
Some young boys down in steerage start a fight.
A year or two before near Disko Bay
a glacier’s seabound edge gave up some ice.
We had some warnings, which we didn’t heed;
we’d engineered ourselves beyond the need
for caution—now, as we break and sink, we pray
that God’s quite perfect judgment’s imprecise.

Texas will turn into Paris, France, if you
and your family do not vote Republican.
Lake Austin or the Rio Grande, the Seine.
They’ll moules-et-frites your humble barbecue
and vanish when l’addition is due.
They’ll trans you all—make mimes of booted men!
Replace the Falcon with the saucy Ariane.
Morality? Mere shrug : chacun, son goût—
those Merovingians manners, Bourbon ways,
penchant for revolution: they will build
museums over churches, and replace
the rodeo with bike races for days,
The unremembered Alamo. It’s killed.
A drop of water overflows the vase.

can read and enjoy books by women but
there is a sticky biological reality:
Mars and Venus, baby, that’s the tea—
Jane Austen doesn’t make the boyfriend cut
and girls prefer online vampiric smut
to Don Delillo. XX, XY? The free
people of the left, Marxists, post-Bastille-
stormed yearners for the why and what
of history have, in this modern age,
converged upon a relatively straight-
forward conception of the many differences
between the genders, flesh of clay and cage
unribbed to make a more domestic mate
who ain’t and isn’t what the other is.