—In the practical city of plaid joy you lay awake.
How could you listen
to all of them, anyway. Why was it you
you couldn’t love.
You lay on your right side
with your twelve darknesses, you lay on the left
with your historical calm;
earthworms tied the middle corners
of the garden. The moon
lay on her back with her sharp enthusiasms.
So„. What kept you awake. Must have been
the sense that you had to do something useful. That you had
to perform to get love.
Revised lists were being sent
at this very minute, matter of fact. Lists
of important things you hadn’t done,
because weren’t you the boss’s little helper?
For him you carried the olive branch,
cast the golden calf, invented
farming, invaded small countries, wrote checks
to the Contras, Oliver
North in his bullet-proof vest
plus all the members of Congress saying, You really
don’t remember, Mr. North?
(the useful shadow draped over his chair
so it could be worn at press conferences,
wash ’n’ wear shadow)
—you think you have no Oliver in you?
you were daddy’s little helper,
you tried so hard like reality, and now
you wondered what they’d use you for.
Boy prostitutes must think like this.
Coastal pine trees must wonder
why being good tall pine trees isn’t good enough,
why they have to be used
for something else, a coffin or a table or paper to wipe shit on.
Handsome nothing
standing at the heart of matter
with your self-hate and your twelve month contract:
no one was checking. Before
you’d done a single thing, you were enough.—