“He’s a good writer, Hemingway. He writes as he is. We like him. He’s a big powerful peasant, as strong as a buffalo…But giants of his sort are truly modest; there is much more behind Hemingway’s form than people know.”
– James Joyce
Whelp, one more of my Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poems has been banned from another Facebook Poetry Group. How many is that? I’ve lost count. I consulted my lawyer for his usual ground-and-pound advice. Then Doctor Reality recommended I offer an explanation. I damn near spit my mescal all over his legal briefs. OK, Doc, I hereby submit my defense.
What in the Holy Hell is a Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem?
Rhyming Response to Hemingway’s Own Original Story via Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem
Hagiographic Homage via Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem
Superfluous Suggestions for the Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem Picador
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Same altruistic time, same charitable channel.
How the Hell did Jaggerbush get himself up there? He was clawing his way up into the open window above the Science class door like a real-life gargoyle. The blockhead of a wooden mallet stuck out of the back of his Toughskins where his butt crack was. He wore three sets of the scuba mask goggles they made you wear to keep your eyeballs from boiling out of your skull in case there was an explosion in class. He wore one over his eyes like a normal human being and one around his neck and one on top of his head so his brown hair stuck up all around it like weeds in the cracks of the sidewalks. Just one of anything was never enough for my little brother. I didn't know what he was up to; he never revealed his secret plans to anybody, not even me. He just hatched them. Then I'd have to swoop in to the rescue, as usual. Jaggerbush slithered through the window and was gone. I stood guard under the window waiting to catch him in case he fell during his escape. That's what brothers were for.
Who was yelling my name now?
Read the rest at Eclecta Magazine here.
“They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet.”
- Ulysses, James Joyce
Today’s very scary sonnet:
A Waking Nightmare
Doc Reality’s latest reading task:
James Joyce’s final curse, Finnegans Wake.
But in that moon shadow I fear to bask,
Sooner face vampires without wooden stake.
Pandemonium, pendulums and pits
Crawling with creepy insect anagrams,
That mask red deathly sins mankind commits
Like Lecter’s in The Silence of the Lambs.
The Wake’s dark nightness will surely damn me.
Treats as tricky as Eden’s walking snake,
More fearful than the Tyger’s symmetry.
Doc! Spare me this terror for my soul’s sake!
So, to Ulysses’ daylight sun I’ll scram,
And not ensnared by Joyce’s pentagram.
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Same terrifying time, same Charon-owing channel.