Handicapper and the Great American Novel

Maybe the problem has been the pen
so I change, I try felt tip, number five
pencil lead works for a time and then
nothing turned itself inside-out, belief survives

so I change, I try felt tip, number five
at Aqueduct, a mare, to win.
Nothing turned itself inside-out, hope survives;
that degenerate gambler was right again.

At Aqueduct, a mare, to win
Propped in the corner, betting slips pile like leaves
that degenerate gambler was right again
that nagging feeling always leaves unease.

Propped in the corner, betting slips pile like leaves
I jot down ideas, sketch conflict
that nagging feeling always leaves unease--
what's left for the prose addled,

I jot down ideas, scores to settle, convicts
from a Dostoevsky novel
is what's left for the prose addled,
quoting from books I barely know the titles.

From a Dostoevsky novel
about despair and the human condition
still quoting books I barely know the titles.
And I return to my primary mission

reporting despair and the human condition.
Pencil lead works for a time and then 
I return to my primary mission. 
Maybe the problem has been the pen.

Elegant Compactor

Winter started weeks before the December solstice,

the earliest encroachment of any winter, in any year in memory.

Malevolent wind abrades the gorge before it bothers the shingles

like idle, insistent fingertips.

This is the coldest winter I can remember

(as if memories are any more reliable

than anything else).

Memories are elegantly compacted

mechanically reduced,

painful parts extruded and slagged

so that each time is now

the worst, uncalibrated to the cold and blizzards of year's past

with more contained in us than we can recall.