Sunday, June 23, 2013

When the Whiskey Goes

What bullshit enlightenment is! I just want you with your clothes off. Lay back, pull you on top, lock eyes, kiss: any other prayer's a lie.

Deep in the forest, I make a small fire. Wade to my shoulders in the pond and sink down. Below the surface, eyes open, I can still see stars.

And come up laughing. Writing this way - on a little phone - is hard. My body dries while I type, the fire crackles, kind of like your name.

The dog dozes under honeysuckle twenty yards away. What happens when the whiskey goes? Curl up by the fire and sleep is what.

I remember my sisters crying so hard and wanting them only to shut up. Nobody can find me out here or even wants to. Traffic on 112: faint, racing: everybody wants to go somewhere.

But nobody gets anywhere! Jesus reaffirms me four, five times a day now. Whenever you're ready, Sean . . .

I tell him about you: there's this woman I want, makes me crazy and kind of hopeful, has me drinking whiskey naked by a 3 a.m. fire. We talk it over and he listens as always: and says when the whiskey's gone he's going to talk to you for me, see what he can do.

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