Ernest Says…

“Go on then… one true sentence… it’s not going to write itself!”

He then goes on to chortle at me from the corner,
Muttering something barely audible or understandable,
Likely to do with the emotional suicide I’ve been committing,
Daily for months,
One letter followed by another,
Only to be erased,
Something I promised myself I would never do,
As I seemingly was sinking deeper into the dark melancholy,
My black dog,
The bitch was back,
Along with the horrors that delight her,
And then when coming close to that shotgun,
I was reminded,
As before,
Why I am here,
What my purpose and mission are,
BEYOND these words…

As I write these words,
Over my shoulder,
My constant companion is now laughing;
“On you go my boy…”

Satisfied I presume by the fact,
That I’ve given in to his endless demand for a drink,
While these words from the Ether,
In my trance like state,
Flowing wilder than the Colorado,
Freer than the Amazon,
And mightier than the Nile,
Ethereal vibrations from elsewhere,
Whence I don’t know,
Coming to this poetic savant,
To forever transform the lives of those,
Who gave me back my own,
To eternally transform the lives of those who give,
So I can give,
My purpose and my meaning,
Without reward or adulation,
Rather the quiet hidden knowledge,
That when no one else cared I did,
Did you.

“More, my boy, more…” Ernest snorts.

“Scotch or words?”

“Both you fool, both!” He laughs (as usual)

Though the rest aren’t laughing,
Picasso reminds me how he used to pay his bills,
Before he could pay his bills,
Joyce reminds me that I have the fire of the Emerald Isle inside me,
Pound states;
“How far are you willing to go for your convictions? For them? For yourself?”
“Jail? Death? LIVING?”

Zelda now jealous that love now sits beside me,
Knowing she can not taunt me as she did F.Scott,
Does, (he reminds me),
F. Scott, as he has told me before, reminiscences,
“You are neither East or West Egg, you are GOOD PEOPLE.”

I nod my head in humble thanks.

Toklas and Stein,
Grandmotherly and matronly in their demeanor,
Are sitting in front of me,
Lost in the picturesque view over my shoulder,
Of a coconut palm,
And the approaching clouds,
Wondering what I might do next,
For those who have done so much for me.

“Write, write, write, write, write,” Stein says,
And I obey,
For these words were bought and paid for,
Through a donation,
To people whose lives were changed once,
And are now,
Through these words being changed forever once more.

“GOOD PEOPLE” Fitz is now yelling,
“GOOD PEOPLE” my generation, lost resounds,
Hooting and hollering,
Glasses raised,
And toasts beheld.

Save for Ernest;
“You’re finding it my boy. One true sentence. Keep going!”

And so I do,
Finding myself,
Pushing myself,
To do what I can,
Every day,
With love in my heart,
Gratefulness in my soul,
And graciousness in my spirit…

Ernest says a lot to me,
Feeding my melancholy,
As a doctor a laser to a tumor,
My days with Ernest, he reminds me predates,
Midnight in Paris,
Hemingway and Me started long ago…

Ernest says that Churchill was right;
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

So I do,
Ernest and I,
Hemingway and me,
Touching the lives of so many,
Just as the lost generation continue to touch mine,
I will persist,
Hoping to touch yours,
Knowing those who these words have nourished,
Figuratively and literally,
And I am touched.

Ernest says;

“That’s my boy, onward and upwords.”
He also says;
“It’s not a typo and you should think.”


(This piece is dedicated to another donor who would like to remain anonymous for a campaign I am running to help twelve families affected by a flash flood of their homes…… I can also take interac and paypal payments directly. Contact me for details)


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