Drink on Hemingway

I drove through Islamorada in a fiery Mustang convertible with the top down and Marley and the Wailers playing over and over while my foot weighed down like gravity on the accelerator.

Spontaneous flight to Miami, now on the hunt for inspiration once owned by the man who left a blueprint to literary fortune in his short, swift typewriter strokes.


Hotel in Key West where a cute girl in navy blue g-string bikini waits poolside for me to make a move, but I'm incapacitated by irreverent sun beams and the beauty of her fresh tan lines.

Ernest Hemingway

Night falls. Drag queens on Duval Street singing Christmas carols. Ruckus up ahead, sirens and handcuffs, I turn left to Whitehead, to find blues burning from Caffeine Carl and the Funky Beans and wild locals getting loose on buckets of beer, drunk on the notion I'm in heaven, but it's filthy and lonely after a while.
Wallet empty, party strong, I leave dejected, seeking inspiration, call on Hemingway ... Show yourself, you son of a bitch.

And then I find it -- a five dollar bill in front of his house! 

After six long years of embellishment, I pick up the bill and head back to the bar for a drink on Hemingway.

But, according to my notes, the bill was one block away and I could not go back, chased by a black cat to the beach where I charge bare-ass into the water only to be devoured by camouflaged sharks and the wonder of how I will look back on this absurd life. 

Green Parrot Bar, Key West, FL

Unre quit ed

Unre quit ed is a bitch
A back to scratch that doesn’t itch
A nose to pick that always bleeds 
A potted garden full of weeds
A towel to dry unwashed hands
A container filled with rubber bands
Unre quit ed is a bitch
A gaping wound with no stitch
A mirrored ball with no dance
A matching top with no pants
A drink in hand with no thirst
A thinking man’s muttered curse
Unre quit ed is a bitch
A name I’d say but just can't snitch.