by Len Kuntz “I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” -- Jack Kerouac The rain beats down our impulses, beats and bleats but you find the storm’s cocky cadence comforting, caught up, as you say, in your own confusion. Everyone else is dry, inside a warm place. Some knit or preen or stay busy telling lies. A lonesome dog wails by the door. A father pours the last drizzle of topaz bourbon. The daughter cradles her doll, and asks, “What’re you thinking?” Outside you have made the curb your desk, your feet dangling in a suspect puddle. You have no coat or hat, no bumpershoot, just an old Smith Corona as your weapon, and so you blast away, key after key, word by wounded word, telling the truth so loud that the skies shudder, weeping even harder, mourning you, begging for one more wild ride.