Wrestling Hemingway I wrestled Hemingway, in my head-- Inside my head, fire flickers of light, ashes dead. And where, you might ask, did this match take place? In the place where electrical impulses race! In my head, buried dead, living legends are there; To et tu, to you brute, to baa lamb and soft hair Too soft to softly stroke, then to whip and to burn, To find scattered and spurned: grey ashes, red urn. Thus he lies in a grave; does he lie there a slave? Or in spiritual places does he dance like a knave? I don't know, but I know that he came and he saw In this life he was too much, too far and too tall. by Randy Guess ©1997 [How Could I Ask For More?] [When Leaves Fall]    [About The Poet]    [Short-Timer] [A Sweeter Dragon Flame]     [The Devil and the Fourth of July] [Wrestling Hemingway]     [Wiggleworm] [A Silent Paean]    [Rainbow Color Reality] [Hear The Mountains Calling] [Fair and Moldy Muse]     [Ode to a Scottish Lass] [A Matter of Time]    [Understanding Anne Sexton] [In Praise of Earth and Sky and Sea] [Home]   [Poetry]   [Short Stories] [Quotes]   [Philosophy]   [Biographies] [Links]   [Copyright]   [Contact]    [Site Index] <top>