Men courted the Earth
with idle promises.
Men pitched woo
with a monkey's grin
and pocketsful of bullets.
I'm planting roses,
said the angry man
while boring a mine.
I'm washing the world,
he stubbornly insisted,
turning water into vinegar.
The planet grumbled,
of this you can be assured.
The planet wobbled
like a punch-drunk boxer
in the dying minutes
of a final round.
And man the man,
that beautiful monster,
was going down swinging.
The ship was sinking
and the band played on
while men fumbled
with Nature's virtue.
Choose A Career
Instead of writing, learn to read palms
or spin plates or swallow fire.
Become a casting director. Join a sailing crew.
Champion hopeless causes.
Writers are sallow and pallid.
Study the art of combustible engine repair instead.
Take on online course in meditation.
Join forces with other dark-hearted men.
At least pretend to be friendly.
You, with the sleepy eyes,
put down that pencil and paint a house.
Try your hand at furniture making,
everybody needs a chair and table.
Armoires come in handy, or a curio cabinet.
Become an ébéniste. Think of the children.
Writers are cloistered and dull as dishwater.
They acquire nervous ticks and nurse odd peccadilloes.
So write all you like but don't expect to be read.
It's like my dearly-departed mother always said:
Make yourself bloody useful.