No beginning
The traveler’s tree is
A bookstore I’ve seen.
Been wanting to meet
With Hemingway and his team.
His words should be here founded,
The cobblestones tell me.
Seller of trees hasn’t
The faintest idea.
Raindrops wipe footsteps clean
And earnest.
His words should be here founded,
No doubt in my mind;
Even the blind can see
The magic of culture,
Hiding between real life
And the next.
Too bad they can’t share their
Vision on facebook.
A canvas, sure,
But a blog would be better…
The age makes for the fantasy –
Hemingway’s right there.
His hair much shorter,
Much more acne,
Yet the signs cannot be missed.
This must be the great man’s tavern,
Although surrounded by ten more:
Place de la Contrescarpe –
Home to talking boulders.
The pen I’m using for this record,
This futile seeming account,
Does as it pleases, leaving me
A liar homeward bound.
It won’t be coming out tonight,
That record-breaking piece,
L’oeuvre poétique that will
Savor what we seek.
…And Hemingway is gone…
An intoxicated fool cries:
Art, art, art,
Your genius resounds –
An artist’s heart pounds
In the streets.
Wee-ooh, wee-ooh…
But when those sonic waves
Will wade and fade under
Diplomatic pressure,
Not laissez-faire but
Ransacking,
Disrespectful leisure,
There’ll be no-one left to meet.
Beards will we beards,
And wine will be weird,
As history repeats itself
And the artist genius flees.
Diary of a Poet 
