pretending to be someone else, they say it’s exhausting, but i guess that all depends, i’m ruling out hunter s. thompson with all that hell’s angels gonzo-journaling, and not raymond carver, chain-smoking to avoid the booze, and i could do without hemingway’s dangerous summer, slurring bullfights with blotchy skin, nay to virginia woolf’s last walk into the river ouse, and maybe the worst, sherwood anderson’s demise by toothpick swallowed, no doubt a martini taking slow revenge, none of the above, but maybe marianne moore, humor-filled poet of the common & uncommon, lover of athletics, teacher at the carlisle indian school, i do these things which i do, which please no one but myself, & to wear a cape and tricorn hat, well, that’s where it’s at!
Tag: writers
Caffe Trieste: North Beach, San Francisco
Last Words Of Ambrose Bierce
as to me, i leave here tomorrow for an unknown destination-ambrose bierce 1913, old writers never die, they just fade away, at least that’s how wikipedia says it happened, but what do we really know? stories replicate stories, screens duplicate screens, people pretend to know, and someone, somewhere, used to know something, bierce disappeared in mexico, that has been proven, but not by screens, rather, letters, paper, parchment, something that was held, not just screen seen, everyone has their secrets, even with all the camera phones, tracking cookies, and incessant internet, we all still get to have a little bit of bierce mystery, we all end up in an unknown destination, eventually.
Daniel W. Polk 