from The Black House Poems
Presidential Log, supplemental
I was under the impression—as commander-in-chief—that I would be happier by now in the Black House. I’m so tired of myself in the context of my own history. I felt compelled to do this. To “run.” To imagine myself here, in the distance, then be here in the distance. I had to make a house of shadow and door and climb in. Do “the Work.” And yet—I’m scared that was all a huge mistake. I thought, at this point, working here, in the house painted the color of rich soil, the humus of ore and currant jam of my life—I thought by now I’d have trained myself, slowly, with ground beef and corn, to be a good leader, willing to “make the hard choices,” and then, (worst of all), deal with the results. And yet...I find myself on Route 7 tearing my hair out; storming around. It feels lonely, demonic, selfish—something Don Giovanni would do. Like, I never had goals to begin with, only tragic desires, rolling around like a goose hit in the head with a golf ball; weeping with no end in sight. No language to assign blame with. No love cure for the people.