His first novel was his finest:
American expatriates partying in Paris and Spain,
looking for a life of authenticity,
fighting for a life worth living.

Wine, women and writing fill
the hero's days, a doppelganger
for Hemingway, hobbling with
his World War I injury: emasculation.

The idea of progress died in the trenches.
The Lost Generation on the road
to nowhere and back. Travel of the soul.
Dark night of the soul, lightened by *****.

Bullfights encircle death, a ritualistic
killing of innocence, which had already
died for the travelers. Look away from
the horses, disemboweled for not being bulls.

The sun also rises on the saint and the sinner,
the writer and the boxer, a fresh clutch of trout.
There is no path to salvation, even for those
who pray, grasping for meaning in ancient practices.

Living and drinking prove enough. The room
spins; seek shelter on the hotel's hot bed.
Love lingers as a way out of this hedonism,
this nihilism, this petty life. Isn't it pretty to think so?