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.

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.

First Morning

The delirious wake of rising heat pours the morning sunlight out over the sheets and the tide of night gives way to its passing, like a deep sea of darkness strangely unraveling (around us. )The dawn of day aches to invade the window pane that floats above her bed, and it is only a moment before we’re swimming in it… jarred by the pain of total consciousness. Still, she smiles like the radiant sunrise unfolding between us has given her everything she’s ever wanted

And she is mine

She moves over me, a deliberate affect, and stops with a long holding stare before she passes my eyes like a gilded flickering light. Somehow she staves off the gravity that pulls at ME, and I am rushing headlong in total, unfettered want. I pummel toward my own vicarious and reckless thoughts, yet she demonstrates a royal vigilance that makes it almost unbearable to let the day light in and settle for her “good morning” kiss.

It suites me, none the less to poignantly play along; it is her sovereign authority to assert dominion over me, after all.  But it isn’t long before she can’t stave off the salacious thoughts, nor can she avoid the intrusive winter air that entreats her to come crashing into me with shaky fingertips and a mouthful of kisses… even her words come out uninhibited

And aching

She fits into this picture like a monarch successor, a beautiful gift at the end of so much suffering. I listen to her speak and she says my name like she chose it…hanging on to every last syllable until the letters melt into my heart; she is the world as I see it, a stunning monument of unexpected contentment, for the first time in so long…

I am speechless.

First Morning

The delirious wake of rising heat pours the morning sunlight out over the sheets and the tide of night gives way to its passing, like a deep sea of darkness strangely unraveling (around us. )The dawn of day aches to invade the window pane that floats above her bed, and it is only a moment before we’re swimming in it… jarred by the pain of total consciousness. Still, she smiles like the radiant sunrise unfolding between us has given her everything she’s ever wanted

And she is mine

She moves over me, a deliberate affect, and stops with a long holding stare before she passes my eyes like a gilded flickering light. Somehow she staves off the gravity that pulls at ME, and I am rushing headlong in total, unfettered want. I pummel toward my own vicarious and reckless thoughts, yet she demonstrates a royal vigilance that makes it almost unbearable to let the day light in and settle for her “good morning” kiss.

It suites me, none the less to poignantly play along; it is her sovereign authority to assert dominion over me, after all.  But it isn’t long before she can’t stave off the salacious thoughts, nor can she avoid the intrusive winter air that entreats her to come crashing into me with shaky fingertips and a mouthful of kisses… even her words come out uninhibited

And aching

She fits into this picture like a monarch successor, a beautiful gift at the end of so much suffering. I listen to her speak and she says my name like she chose it…hanging on to every last syllable until the letters melt into my heart; she is the world as I see it, a stunning monument of unexpected contentment, for the first time in so long…

I am speechless.

If you must know

In truth, the lightening in the wide space above me could not take from the sky what you have taken from me. In desperation, I allowed the tears to melt through the perfect layer of paint I carefully caked onto my face to be exactly who you wanted to see every morning in my place. In disbelief, I wrapped my hands around my thumbs and beat them emphatically against the walls, as if the truth had evaded itself– or somehow left me physically bruised. With the brunt of my broken heart completely exposed, I cried out with the most desperate part of myself, in all honesty, if you must know.

The Perfect Ending

The perfect ending to a three ton mistake
Hangs in the balance with the noose that she made
In my honor
While the luck she stacked beneath my feet
Was collapsing right beside her in the coldest
Persecution winter could have fathomed
She was waiting for my heart to break
And hoping it would shatter
The gracious thing had no intention of serving
Its own purpose
Perhaps clairvoyance could have predicted
The evil that she harnessed
In my favor
With a Bell-Jar wrecking ball tucked in her back pocket

She removed the ropes from
around my throat
The moment that my heart stopped
Beating.
The perfect ending to a three ton mistake
Resulted in the derelict mess that she made
An intruder whose poison has caused
Enough pain
To move a moment of ravaged restraint
Until its effect begins to take place
And she runs to hide just as quickly as she
Came.
Shame cast out to greet her disgrace
And her only regret was exposing
Her face.
Yet I still look to help her
back up to her feet
the perfect repose for the ultimate
deceit.