bury it, again

Bury it, they'd say, looking up at me over the first page, halfway through the second paragraph. Don't hide prose in a dark concealed place where you might just find it again one day and hear the melancholy echo of that horrible word: Potential. Hemingway would say to take a shovel and dig a deep hole out back, bury it all in an unmarked grave in the pocket of a fighter with a huge hole its stomach, punctuated by the half-empty bottle whizzing by my head, shattering another hole in the wall, thrown as he sits alone, leaning against a soiled wall. Nice shot. Fitzgerald would be kinder. Bury it? Yes, but near a cherry tree, enriching the soil to produce the juiciest red morsels to top off delicate stemmed glasses. The kind of glass that leaves no marks upon the wall when heaved by red-eyed Gatsby, laughing harder and harder, engaged to the sport, a bored butler holding the next tray of cocktail darts, the room oblivious of my melodious latitudinal mouth searching Daisy's white neck.

Venus de Milo with Drawers (1936)
-- Salvador Dali

bury it