Send me a Hemmingway Heroine

Who am I but a downtrodden whisperer?
Barely able to spell out the truth;
unable to resist her…

Dear Mr. Hemingway, I found your number
strewn about the Saturday evening newspaper

Not so much in print but in
perfect typography.
How sir, do you do what you do
Thoughts guiding wisdom through
prune-like fingertips,
Held beneath the surface of the water like
Drip, drip, drip…

Oh how you knew the female persona.
I can, sir, excuse your primitive machismo.
Your words stifle the modern mind
They’re fermented like liquid candy
The very crux of the simplicity you defined
Has shriveled up and died…
We have become so stale, disengaged from what is real

America struggles to define democracy anymore…
You wouldn’t much understand our ways, sir.
Neither parent nor child
is truly a member
of your lost generation
And yet we are so lost in cynicism
a simple misrepresentation…
as a general rule.

We have sons who are much transformed
some of them like yours…
became our daughters.
I’m thankful for them, but that’s all…
we are not our best characters;
we have no device by which to live up to that scenario
we were born devoid of any literary compass.

If there were ever a sense
that our hearts knew the truth,
It’s deteriorated with the passing of you!
And we truly believe we “won the war.”
It’s no longer a matter of the heart, sir.
Vaudeville died out…along with the 1930’s,
Followed by several lady murderers.

We don’t hang violent criminals;
rather, we sing them solemnly to sleep
and then flagrantly curse their name…
needle still in hand.
I’m sad to say,
we are blind to our own contradictions
these days.

Yes America has forged its way out of adolescence
with bravado, although, youth has not evaded us
Oh no…
We have reached a time of political bravery
yet we cannot even value that today!
We have only just begun
tearing down our filthy walls!

And even our charismatic, prophetic president is unappreciated,
While certainly more educated
than our greatest educators.
Oh yes, we criticize…though not from Montreal,
we sit in our homes anonymous
scathing with hatred, pouring it out over the internet,
and spreading a thin layer of perpetually sticky bullshit.

The disease of our ignorance is unabated;
Our elected leader is permitted no remittance!
And he was born in Hawaii;
It’s printed on his birth certificate!
Cynical little children of God!
Like a hellacious, unappreciative teenager,
Stumbling steadfast towards adulthood, giggling and awkward…

We are filled with fear and lust,
both excited by and afraid of sex.
While Europe has mastered the art of it,
refined its stench for centuries,
American’s pretend it doesn’t exist,
Only to get caught in the tempest of perversity,
publically humiliated…that is how we like it.

We come to the aid of suffering nations
by logging online and buying a bracelet,
no need to worry, all the donations
are equally divided three ways
to cover extensive marketing expenses
to afford the cost of a ten-day vacation
to fund a jail stint for public masturbation

We will surely help suffering children,
just as long as they’re Christian…

Could you not leave me one great Hemingway Heroine?
to take my breath away, fictionally or literally; I’m not so sure
I know the difference, anymore.


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