Whiskey Poem

I.
Woke up in a field of whiskey
And torn bras strewn
Like spider webs across
The broken rusted truck parts
I call home.
This field of dreams
Is dying one old man
Soaked in old spice
Hoarse with old crow
At a time.
And while the sun is always rising
For those whose flesh
has not yet
Begun to rot
from the over activity of
swollen sexual organs,
I am now beginning
to eat my days
One bowl of grits at a time
In a sour mash of jazz music
And corporate
Clockwork bank scandals
that lead only
to a shinning box
of Ebony,
covered by a few
handfuls of crumbling dirt.
~ For Jeffrey Haloff and Charles B.
II.
A field of Whiskey
Goetia and Heroes
Voices of animals
the distant callings of angels
Swirling night after night
Body after body
From distant caves chard
With the black of Men and Women
Who we can only guess at
By the Cleavages of bones
And dust of sorrow
Upon blackened moist walls.
Who brought this first into our blood
This throbbing warmth
Of a demon and genius
This Fluid of Life and Death
That scatters itself like broken glass
Generation after generation
Onto the floors of cracked dreams
And crystal brandy snifters .
That man, or that woman,
Who first quenched parchness to
to find stumbling, muttering
Incomprehensible and heroic words?
I wish to kiss them,
For making man,
And woman
Something miserable yet interesting,
A field of dreams
Where animals and Goetia
play and heroes rise.

III.
Torn Bras
Victoria secret catalogs
The scent of sex
clamors over the dust and moss
of this world like
fruit flies
over wine in July.
Keep it covered they say
over and over again
those apostles of the dead
with their black tongues and black eyes
But nothing can keep this covered
and thank you to the earth
for producing a generation fearless
in its sopping fruit dripping
with youth and moans
who have torn asunder
the veils that separate
flesh and spirit
like dawn tears away
darkness’s velvet curtain
So roses and lilac may bloom.
May they rise
glory of taught muscles
and swinging thighs
with endless fertile bacchanal dance
trumpeted by Satyr’s cryptic flutes
and swayed by nymphs glances
and red lipped moans
volcanic creative spirit
sundering red and white explosion
life tremors vibrant threads
unabashed free release
from strings of deceitful lords
that would cover
your ecstatic lightning
in leaves of fig
uselessly trying to contain
your flesh born birth right bliss
attempting to strap and own
like those cheap bras from Victoria
that tear and scatter across the floor
useless in commodity.

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