the glass sweats
ice slips on ice
falling deeper
into the whisky
as i melt
(June 28, 2025)
Category: drinking
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the last bottle of champagne is empty
I pour a glass of malbec opened
for Christmas, three days ago—
there are no secretsonly unacknowledged lies
(December 29, 2024)
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“Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone.
“wineing the ghosts of yester year.”
—Ezra Pound
Last night conversation flowed
freely between wit and wisdom
as easily as comfortable privilege
protects the occasional faux pas.
What wisdom lacks is the bitterness
left with the dregs at the bottle’s end.
Alone this morning, I slowly collect
the mostly empty bottles scattered
about the house like an archeologist
sifting for hints of a civilization
in the shards of broken pottery.
I wash the dishes, slipping my hand
over the soapy crystal, careful not
to shatter the glass against the sink.
Last night’s Malbec has turned slightly.
I pour a glass, and sip a bit anyway.
Skoal! I am the only one still here.
I swirl the glass ruefully, as ghosts rise
from memory to confirm my sour mood.
Memory, after all, can only reflect
the present. Like the glass, it distorts
any clarity dispersed, any veritas
the wine might once have whispered
like a former lover years after the affair:
a version of reality dependent on what
had been said, and how much confirms
what was suspected, and how much must
be forgotten as a form of forgiveness.
(May 26, 2024)
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Together we drank and sang
into the night; we were true
to ourselves and each other.
Today, even the half-heartedare cut down by the heartless.
What chance did our song have?
Tonight in the distance,I hear a solitary flute player.
I think of you, and weep.
(June 17, 2022)
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four haiku with a tanka couplet
Old rock and country
play on the jukebox inside.
Song blends into song.
Men slouch at the bar,vaguely watching the Astros.
Once, they were children.
The volleyball teamsserve, set, and sweat in the sun.
We watch from the shade.
Beneath the old oak,I talk with friends over beer:
“Life is but a dream.”
The afternoon drifts like clouds;seasons fold into seasons.
(April 24, 2022)
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Next to the whorehouse
is a bar. How many desires
drown within another?
the sky grows dark in the rain;
I straighten my hat afraid
I will be misunderstood.
Somewhere in the distance
a monk sings without remorse
about the end of love.
Nowhere exists a river
deep enough to wash away
what I must now give up.
In fire passion’s refined;a body does not leave a mind.
(April 21, 2022)
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“In the end one experiences only oneself.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
the old sage asks as he dies:
who has my vision—my essential mysteries—
this blind donkey braying
my words off-key?
or the old drunk poetwho renamed himself—
the dream bordello—
then night after night
thirsted for more than water?
(March 6, 2022) -
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey: (68)
“I cannot keep my dreams straight.”
-Franz Kafka
some nights most nights
after a whiskey or more
years if not decades
swirl like blue smoke
at my feet
and I forget
where I am as time
falls away like an old drunk
stumbling on my way home
the familiar story
the soft path alters
and strangers step out
of the dark laughing
vaguely and I have forgotten
why I’m laughing
then laugh again
(June 23, 2020)
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Spring belies the fear
The birds flit from tree to tree—
Not enough bourbon(I know this makes light of a deadly virus. It was a result of a work related thread of haikus. I liked it enough)
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Bourbon’s no answer,
yet, our day begs the question—
Where else could I be?
(October 18, 2019)
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The bar exudes warmth.
The old bourbon is loquacious;
our talk’s tangental.
(October 13, 2019)
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