Monday, February 24, 2014

A Curious Standard

An older gentleman in the bar
the other night admitted his
and adoration of
Earnest Hemingway.

He lauded his achievements,
and his toughness,
and courage,
as well as his being
an ass.

He touted Earnest’s adventures,
his loves,
his devil may care attitude,
and generally seemed to
wish that he had known him.

I thought to myself that if
Earnest Hemingway was the
standard of which to judge our
own lives against then we’re all in

I never fought a bull,
I never was a war correspondent,
I didn’t get to hang out with
Picasso or Flynn. I don’t have
a strange affinity for cats.

I have, however, loved with
passion, patience, rage, and
jealousy. I have thrust myself
against the ignorance of commonality and
been broken on the beach, only to find
out that I was actually standing at a
bar complaining about the lack
of napkins,

after I spilled my own beer,
because I was gesturing wildly about
something stupid.

Hemingway is a tough
standard to compare
yourself against.

And perhaps admiration
is due,               

but I’ll never
know what old man
will talk of me,
with honored and
cherished tones,
once I shuffle

Hemingway always

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