The Conscientious Lover

I was a conscientious lover once.
Now I have ceased to care for anything
But my own pleasure. Then I was the dunce,
But now I suit myself, I am the king
Of constant gladness in my very bones,
Ignoring the almost constant complaints,
The whispered whines, the irritated groans
By endless aggravated women, saints
In their own minds because they cherished me,
Or so they say, but it’s a specious claim;
I cherished them, pleased them religiously,
And none of them remembers my real name.
They say, “Go down on me again, Ray-Ray,”
But I say, “Wash yourself, girl,” and walk away.

On April 22

I’m tired of all this rubbish. What’s this “Earth Day”?
There isn’t any celebration here
Commemorating V. I. Lenin’s birthday,
No Bolsheviks to raise a mighty cheer,
Nor planetary activists enthralled
By geothermal-powered batteries.
I’m overwhelmed again by — what’s it called? —
The Stupid, an insipid congeries.
Bituminous coal keeps me warm at night,
The air conditioning stays on all day,
Gas-powered rockets make a lovely sight,
And we don’t give a goddamn anyway.
You lunkheads think this is a new beginning?
Wake up, you imbeciles: darkness is winning!

Well Adjusted

I watch a happy father standing proudly
While his too-well-adjusted three-year-old
Announces, “Bottom, bottom, bottom!” loudly,
Which seems to leave a few spectators cold
But I’m O.K. with it, thinking that kids
Should learn to curse more freely than they do.
Too many grown-ups freeze, or flip their lids
And swoon, gasping when they at last come to,
Pretending that they’ve never heard before
Such crude, distressing language in their lives.
So I say, “Bottom!” to them, three times more.
Bring on the drama, cry, pull out your knives,
And lie about how children used to be
When you were children. Clearly not like me.

What’s Left

Do you think I’m just flapping my gums?
I’m grateful for the things that I got right.
Old mistakes sometimes keep us up all night,
But I did do some good; forgiveness comes,
In stages and in moments. Beat the drums,
Announce it to the world: nothing’s all white,
Or all black either, not my appetite
Or your successes, neither plunder nor plums.

Your failures and my needs won’t die alone:
What’s left is what was really in your heart,
The grins and glowers tearing you apart
And pulling you together, shocked, wind-blown,
Silent, or muttering in a monotone.
I helped, some days. It’s love only, not art.