Tag Archives: Ernest Hemingway

A Farewell to the Old Man for Whom the Sun Rises; Also, Don’t Kill Yourself

Let’s put the fun back in funeral, folks.

I have fought in wars. I have caught fish large

enough to swallow the pole I reeled them

in with. I have befriended people who

brought this world to its creative apex,

and others who have brought it to the brink

of oblivion. I have decided

that placing the double barrel of a

shotgun in my mouth is a fantastic

idea, and should not deter you from

thinking I’m:

                        a) brilliant beyond compare;

                        b) heroic and quite manly;

                        c) someone whom you should admire.

So please, enjoy yourselves, or at least try

like all hell. You’ll never be able to

do things quite like I’ve done them, but good luck!


You could deputize yourself, take the cold, stoney
hand of law as your own. Walk tall through dusty streets,
west of the Mississippi, immortalize your
name in local papers and dime novels. Maybe

shoot down big game instead—lions, zebras, German
soldiers—and write about it from across a great
expanse, wire in your manuscripts, your typed up
articles on the simple travesties of man.

Or if the cafés in Spain and Paris are still
too near, there lies a windless plain, basked in constant
siesta, untiring in its bold reflection
of your dirt-mouthed and fly-ridden Pamplona sun.

Giant steps are what you take, walking on the moon.
Big as Ernest Hemingway, walking on the moon.
No air for the temple fire, walking on the moon.
Fame can be its own desire, walking on, walking on the moon.