ernest
When I wake up tomorrow I might be a great writer
but chances are my gift of trite phrasing
will still be my best selling point
... editors rarely drool for me
or my religious hangups
or my endings that never quite HIT
But when I wipe the drool off my face
and taste my stale salty breath
I'll remember the dream I had
Went a little something like this
Hemingway was fourteen once
and his mom walked in on him masturbating
I know she did
And the first words out of his mouth
could not pass (to any well-trained eye)
as stark
brilliant
dialogue
So the next time, after I've woken up
that someone comes hurling criticism
I'll look them in the eye
and tell them
that to make the sun rise
you need more than a typewriter
and before you can lay there and die
It's best to get some living in.
poetry
away
