Tomorrow I must write a book
about being found lost; about discord, 
or harpsichords. —I don’t think it matters

which.  The hopeless man,
the existential man, learning &
freeing himself from borders he creates

in programmed notions with him
since his youth— it’s clear
he has stories not so much to 

tell as to experience.  & tomorrow 
damns him, or opens him up somewhat 
like a book himself except

with a spine that never cracks
upon its breaking.  He will hurt tomorrow, 
more than yesterday in hours he recalls 

through his third eye.  Awaiting him: 
such anxiety (he believes in too much & 
nothing); such isolation— a world within 

the greater world, a world within him 
also, like one’s marathon between 
question & Cogito; as well such 

difficult promises— fidelity, hope, 
a kind & self-reliant outlook. 
What a Great American tragedy I might 

make of his young life when I 
write this book about him growing up,
becoming more himself, becoming more. 

But that’s tomorrow, & God 
be with him, whichever one he 
chooses in moments of need (or pain).

I’m not telling that story just now.
It carries too much weight for 
parties & parities this night bids

all weary protagonists to relate.  Instead,
tonight I scribble lines toward a new
romantic pause, an interlude in 

the lingering fiction of despair.
Tonight I craft simpler stories about 
love, yearning, satiety.  I give my hero

faith where he has none, laughter where 
his darkly alluring grin must burn away, 
however temporal his new mask.

I mock him, perhaps, like all authors
whose characters live beyond them.
At least I mock him with charity— a kiss 

that comes at midnight, friends that
never see the Dostoevsky in him,
time that changes everything

if only he’ll pretend.  So I force him,
push him around— my undisciplined 
child— make him seek out the new day he 

despises & awaits. —he wears a river 
always: soulless lover, moving through 
black, gray, green & brown.
 
 

Black Snake

Could be rubber pipe 
or transmission hose broken off, 
discarded in a groove beside the road. 
Yet it has that dark descent: pointed, 
sharp like a railroad spike.
I slow to look & almost see the eyes—
gemstones, one a hypnotist's watch glittering 
amidst seductions of the arc.
This irrational fear is
reserved for spiders, snakes & 
being alone at night. 

Read in the paper these 
lack venom.  It's not a danger unless 
it can swallow a four-door Ford.
My father had that terror. 
I see him: battle-wearied warrior striking 
with sharp tongue of his shovel. 
On a similar but distant road, 
the dragon kept moving.  Its nature made it 
an enemy to itself.  This one lies 
still as a wet branch &, even in death, 
wears a misleading grin.