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The trouble with the good is, in people, it’s utterly mixed with the bad.
Your neighbor, with his lawnmower and his published ethics, is absolutely mad.
The mother, of unassailable virtue, who sends a book to her grownup son,
“How To Be Good,” insults him and herself, attempting to love everyone.
My mother is bookish, the son thinks; the bookish spreads its blight
Of pedantry—ending in the minds of the silent, who think, this shit isn’t right.
Those who spend their lives writing really have nothing to say,
And those not prepared to listen already are on their way.
This poem, with ten sails, flying, chases you down, in vain.
The poem fails with its craft, when the poem should have been plain.
And yet, had the poem said clearly what really needed to be said—
Too late. The one who wanted to hear it is dead.
“Oh, fuck it” says the genius, the genius not understood—
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mozart never said, “Be good.”
