“He wrote an outline of a novel in motel rooms before they hit Central Falls, Rhode Island.”
After he staked the vampire king, he got
right to work — for the next book on his mind
wailed to be bodied forth. No, he was not
lazy, that guy, nor much toward rest inclined.
His solemn duty there was self-assigned.
He could have given weary flesh a pass.
Instead, he got his sad self realigned
as fast as possible — and moved his ass.
When we’ve exhausted all religious sass
and found the limits of transcendent white,
though sneering critics rule your efforts crass,
still you will fill the unforgiving night,
Benjamin Mears, with fierce illumination
and show the dark that work is our salvation.