Pumping Gas with Hemingway by Beth Gordon

I’ve always been more of a Faulkner
fan, his delicious decayed vision
of the South, tormented drunkards,
in-bred geniuses, every emotion wound
tightly into each wounded word.  Lush
with perspiration, he transcribes
the crimes and passions of his cousins
and second cousins and third cousins
twice removed.  He went to Hollywood,
drank his heart to death and maybe killed
someone. But maybe that’s just another
fiction.  I would have liked to party with
Hemingway, though.  All his words stripped
clean of emotion, marching out like a line
of ants to follow the spilled rum.  Cousins
are for the weak. I bet he laughed himself
to sleep every night and woke up under
mosquito netting, sometimes with a wife,
sometimes not.  Hollywood? he scoffs,
in my dream where I meet him at the lone
gas station for miles around.  Bill’s such an idiot.
It was never supposed to be a job.

Beth Gordon
Beth spends most Friday nights in the home of her friends, JD and Dale, drinking wine and writing about drinking wine. After doing this for a couple of years, they decided to see if anything they had written might entertain other people. Her work has recently appeared in Into the Void, Calamus Journal, Slink Chunk Press, Five:2:One, Barzakh, Dime Show Review, Drunk Monkeys, Rabble Lit, Black Napkin Press, After the Happy Hour and others.
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