Hemingway and a Hand Grenade

It’s 30 below
In the valley of Mount Kilimanjaro
The plane crashed moments before
The departure from the runway
Like the spreading knees
From the flaps of skin pulled back
Push bitch
And he never understood the pleasures of the peak
the mountain top
The feelings of inadequacy
That they’re all so better than me
Better than I
That’s the way to die
With a red pen
Mightier than the sword
Correcting and critiquing
All the way to hell
But reassurance
In the bottom of the bottle
At the end of crooked spliffs
The King conquering the corners of the world
Too tired
Too pained to leave his throne
To guide his throng
The slave
That would rather take the dirt
In the wounds
That stains his shirt
Than to stand up
And dedicate his life
To a cause much greater than he
Or anyone else
May ever understand.
I wish to be this slave
I wish to grab the teeth of the nine tails
Of his sordid whip
And pull him forward.
Knock him off his feet
Or at least stumble
futile rebellion
Then die
Knowing I took a stand to a power
That as far as I could ever foresee
Or was
Entirely unstoppable

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