Hemingway's Take And The Summer Sun

"Suspended in the Summer Sun"




 
by Luke A. Venters






Don’t ask Hemingway about the writing you have written.
He may not like it.  Or he may like it.  But he'll dislike it just the
same.  He'll feel threatened if it's better than his. 
And he'll feel distaste if it's not.  So either way you
lose for having asked.  Don't ask
Hemingway about the writing you
have written.
Just write it anyway, and stick it in his eyes like sties. 
Driving him mad with frustration and admiration.




Suspended Surprise
Basking In the Summer Sun
Wearing a Filson Hat and drinking


Pino


Pounding out Presidents
Like a Lump on a guitar
Feeling your father coming.
Not too far now.


Now holding your hair back from


Water
from wine


... ducksheen rain-walking between 


powerline portraits rising tides of summer heat
Over there there's a Dewdrop dancer pretty in Pink.


…drop your friend off in the mountains


Stop at Finley PointFor a while. Oh Your hair.Is so long now.
A Perfect little Bun.
Hearing the hum of the buzz hum


Incessantly hum.
Seeing the first fire on the sign.
And hiding from the heavy summer Sun.




Your brother amazes you. With his familiar eyes.  And his intelligence.
You’re amazed that he’s already twenty.


But not that he’s such a decent man.


Today we plan to go heartfelt
Lake land. 
And take the world in

In a swim.


The water won’t be deep.


But warm enough. 
enough to get in.




Byproducts of that summer Sun.




While flowers wait to fall.
Until the storm on God's command comes.




The heat
And the little things prance
The air floats hot–
And the people heavy


And the incessant buzz of that
Heavy hum - - -
plays tricks on my mind
​trying to hypnotize me.
and madden me





Like a sickly lullaby mixed with
​an air-raid siren
​as I try to


Stay Alert!




The wine and the time aren’t helping.

Ha ha



Neither is the heat of this blasted rich


Summer sun.


Yes, finally a breeze picks us up.


the heat, and the people, and the things in the air.


The sound and tempo increase with it.


The dance of the things.  And the interjectional deep hot rhythm of the


heat.




I wish my father would arrive.
And save me from this place.
I brought myself here.
And now I wait.




Leaning on this table.


In the heavy heat of this


Hazy summer sun.




Those sublimely happy people over there


Are spouting horrible, awful, nonsense


And sickly rich jibberish.


Like bind-weeds.  Like what people call Morning-Glory.


They are there.  Convolvulus arvensis. 
 
In the quantum mechanical garden of my mind.


Filling up the air with crap about stairs.


Dogs.  Boats.  And they’re hoarding all


The silence to themselves.


Why O’ Why won’t they give me some?


Like a fish in a pond.


Like a sucker-fish looking for scum.


I so desire it.  Why oh why won't they give me some?


(Especially in this humming-heat of this ridiculous summer sun)




A woman’s husband lost his phone.  - -


So I scrambled & slid down the embankment.


On the other side of the railing,


Down from this deck where I am writing.


To look for it.


(I didn’t find it)




But I did find a broken shot glass.


And a way (through it)


So perfectly.  And so momentarily.To find some peace.




For when I went downstairs to


Drop the glass in the trash,




I came across a group of people.
Waiting.
For someone to sing to them.


So I picked up a mic.
And sang them some Otis Redding.
“Sitting on the Dock of the Bay”
And that was that.


Tit for tit.  And tat for tat.


Sit for sit.  And hat for hat.
Which switch for which wrist swish?
And what cup cut for what rattatattat.


That was that.


And so I went back to my table.


Got my hat.


And in my car with my wine on the roof


I checked my phone for word from my dad.


And that was that and that was that.


At least I didn't forget my hat.~LV~ 8-7-2014 
at the Finley Point Grill, on brown paper with a borrowed pen from a girl at the bar