Finished a poem yesterday . . . one of those delirious two-day writes, as if a ghoul had risen from hell and infested my tongue, fingers, heart, eyes. In this case the ghoul was that horrible psychological autopsy of the Lake murders, and the poem is constructed around the myriad voices of people who saw what could happen while also seeing nothing. It is one of those poems that drives the poet into sickness and brutality and could be an advertisement for why being a writer doesn't make anyone feel better about anything. Nonetheless, I think it's a real poem, though it will give no one any pleasure to read. 

And now I will turn my attention to cole slaw and a Christmas party. Thanks for being my friends.