On What Matters

Genghis Khan, Forever

Do women and children
sitting around the kitchen
table have important
things to say? Not to me.
I’m an American.
Americans like me think only
Old men have anything to say.
Writers with happy families
Fall into the trap of believing
Eight-year-olds are wise.
The Governor of Ohio thinks
So; he’s always quoting his daughter.
According to him, she knows everything.
He quotes his daughter on nuclear science,
abortion, and on world economics.
He listens to her. He drools
whenever he mentions her name.
I say, send her back to bed.

I get my advice from the old
man and the sea. When I
want answers I turn to Ernest
Hemingway and his friends,
Shakespeare, Dante, and Homer.
I’m not so big on Oprah. From
My point of view, Ellen has
No answers. She’s a jester.
Go ahead, call me old-fashioned.
I’m waiting for John Wayne
to return from the dead. I’d
love to have dinner with Richard
Nixon. LBJ was my kind of guy.


It’s not that little girls
and their mommies aren’t
important. And, it’s nice having
them around. But I’d rather
have tea with Hemingway.
I’d rather watch the game with
my old friend Richard and his pal Jim.

Dolls are great but I’d rather
not play house. I love my wife’s
silk undies, but I don’t
want to wear them. I’d rather
join the Air Force. I’d prefer
to get killed in a fire fight
than spend all day at the beauty parlor,
having my nails done.

I like being told to shut up.
I even like it when my friends
tell me to fuck off. I like
male banter. I don’t want to
be told I look nice. I don’t
want to be asked where I
got my nylons. I’d prefer
to be told to go fuck myself.
It makes me feel all runny inside.
It makes me want to cry,
but, of course, I won’t.
Men don’t cry.

That’s how it is and if you
don’t like it, sue me.
There won’t be any more apologies;
I’m tired of groveling. This
guilt-tripping is getting old.
Fat-shaming is a bitch, all right,
but being made sorry for having
a dick has got to stop.
It’s time for men to stand up.

Embrace your inner Genghis Khan.
Get back on your elephants,
All you modern Hannibals. It’s time to
celebrate Sparta. If you are not as
beautiful as Helen of Troy, take off that dress
and zip up your pants.
The Marlboro man is back. Your
sexuality is not the issue, go down
on whomsoever you please, olé, but
stop this incessant sniveling;
no more crying, “I’m sorry.”
Ladies, let us finish what we’ve started.
Take it or leave it, this is our destiny.
With a little more effort,
we’ll bring everything to a stop.
We’ll succeed in fucking everything up.