I dare you to read this but you won’t ....
as I wish I could write like Hemmingway, Ernest not Mariel, in those lovely short sentences that don’t burden a short attention span reader with long drawn out thoughts of trying to capture the minnow darting like workings of the mind short on attention, which can make the reader remember the time they went skinny dipping with the opposite sex for the first time and try hard not to notice the emerging differences, but never diverting the attention to the task at hand of telling those stories of bull fighting, big fishes that didn’t away, but dissolved in food for other fishes, (and what was the symbolism of that: darkness of always losing, I am not sure of ever going fishing again as smell of dead fish is not all that pleasant) of war heroes and expats in Paris acting of parts of bad soap opera, and yet the sun never rises on my mind to stop short as it goes on and on and on on trivial matters like the bus being late this morning and me being short in the wallet have no money for a simple Starbucks coffee and having to settle for hot water filtered through cheap grounds from home; making the morning short of anything but misery and dread, all the while wishing that I could write like Hemmingway . Heaven is sad.
Today, I tried to write.
While the writer,
which of course is me,
makes an attempt at humor.
An astute read will notice
that the above poem is a joke,
written in the style of László
Krasznahorkai. By taking the most
extreme form of anti-Hemmingway
style and ending with very short sentences,
he hopes to dig at the writer.
Which one? Hemmingway? Krasznahorkai?
Himself? All three? It is unclear.
What is clear, though. is the poet,
which is me, maybe a bit too
pompous for his own good.
Maybe the writer of the poem
Is just playing. No one can be
Certain, not even the writer,
which is me.