love or glory and hemingway
i’ve been pacing around
like a man in need of a cigarette
hemingway said that he
never thought about his writing
once he left the table
but hem blew his brains out over breakfast
because he couldn’t write anymore
and i’ve been thinking about my
words a lot these days
what to do about them
in love with the idea of not putting it down
sleeping in later and later
watching the sun filter in
through the dusty blinds
wondering what’s the point?
reading nothing of value
walking these streets like a clown
killing the soul with drink and apathy
shoveling snow to stave off time
shoveling shit to hamper memory
i finally realized that
i can’t talk to anyone anymore
no on interests me
through not fault of their own
the faces of the many scare me
their words, like mine, make no sense
everyone looks so ready to kill all of the time
constipated dullards with nothing better
to do than pounce on one another for sport
and i can’t relate to the newspaper either
all this ink and drama, war and death
like a romance gone wrong
i’m growing a beard instead of taking these pills
or lowering this noose
i’m playing papa caught in the death throws
daydreaming daiquiris in havana
marlin off the coast of miami
watching movies that bore me out of spite
wishing that i could shoot my television
the way that elvis did
i’m growing my hair long to cover my eyes
so that maybe i can hide
my fat and aging face from myself
find some blind solace in this mirror of gloom
cultivate a little love or glory
communicate unrecognizably
maybe have someone else stare back at me
for a change
or locate something that no one else has found before
i’m setting up my symptoms in rows
like little plastic soldiers
getting ready to do battle
on the carpets of my youth
i’m rooting around in this refrigerator
sifting past the rancid fruit
and outdated condiments
past the scotch bottle and flat champagne
searching like an explorer
staking out a new territory
hoping for something fresh
a pathway to salvation or antarctica
a bagel not yet stale
or a little orange juice with no pulp
a nutritious spread
served on a table in idaho
with jam and a little honest conversation
over an old god
dead for almost fifty years
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Terrific John, perhaps because I am sorting through this thing myself, and found my answer - own private Idaho in the woodsy swamp right outside my door in suburbis where no one but me goes - and writing -
"getting ready to do battle
on the carpets of my youth"
Fantastic line.
But I think that this resonates to any writer/artist/craftsman that inevitably comes to the thoughts you reveal so well, not just this fading fellow, and often more than once in a life.
One of my best reads recently,
Walt
Walt
thank you so very much for your kind and thoughtful words.
Post a Comment