Am I Special ?


Would words collapse like a sink hole, too beautiful to be true
And I the wordsmith, pummeling the type writer keys
With a Hemingway streak, and the metal heads
Clattering on paper; Would I be special if I was Hemingway?

And then I think of all the Cuban cigars smoked in a lifetime
And all the whiskey swallowed in impunity
I think of all hummingbirds that buzzed in his heart
As he made love to parades of latino women

Through the vortices of one man’s sorrow and his tragic love for one woman
Words sprang from sugar cane, refined with correction fluid
And portrayed on creamy white parchment
And sugar-fed eyes had made love to words

And through the Mojitos, lemon strips and crushed ice
Though the hollow of an ink chamber, and a nib of indigo ink
I too poured out my heart, verse after verse, until
I thought I was special, like the legend with the Panama hat

And Hemingway flashed like an epiphany; and like a tungsten filament
Or a neon tube, I had light in me, but the moon or the stars
Were too far away. And all I wanted was Hemingway,
To be special as he was, when what that word meant to him
Was an ambulance driver falling in love with a care-giving nurse

And sometimes we are in love with the legends in us
When the man on the mirror is a perfect stranger
And through Hemingway, I found a little bit of the man inside
My own prison, my own cell with bars, passing my time in solitary captivity,
Imprisoned by my own dream of being special.

When special was an eternity of hummingbird salsa
Flickering their tiny bodies inside mariposa blooms

The tragedy of Hemingway’s ghosts – that phantom called love.

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