Once, I wanted to be Hemingway.
But so did Hemingway. That act is hard—
dumb facts decked out as art, and anyway,
who gets what they want? And then who cares?
What matters when the water at your feet
is running out without you? I grew my beard
and bought a little boat on credit, named
it after myself and painted all of it blue,
then put us out to sea. And when it’s calm
and when the sun is out, we disappear.
We’re gone. What else was I supposed to do?

Related Poems

My Teacup

trees are steaming
ever more vital pliant DINK
I can’t see a thing in the sky
I choose George
Stanley over Fear 
and Trembling 
Tell why you chose
to do this or that
on each occasion
Nothing with hooves 
or heels was it? 
Excuse me for not thumbing
the abyss, “the goading urgency 
of contingent happenings”
how stretchy the membrane
how drunk the ship
breaching the freight 
we port with
however it is 
I am and come to know
the ruby field of feeling
and isn’t a life suddenly 
laid in all its excess
of doubt & dualism
gag in the mouth I forget 
to give sense to 
relations that animate 
to be carried among them
you are not an engineer
yet forms persist 
so topple the column
any place there’s a rope there’s 
the earth is not enough
I stick my head in it
I lose my coat