Whiskey. A Love Story

Kerouac and Hemingway
Never described it this way,
But to be active or in recovery
Seems to fit my personality.
The problem is that my nights
Have turned into something I might
Have gone to the cinema and seen
On some tattered movie screen.
Of course my attention wasn’t there,
I was distracted by her golden hair,
And in splitting my time I forgot,
And it was never so pleasant to be lost,
So I just lay there in her arms
And dreamed.


There is something beautiful, I know,
About seeing the snow,
And going from room to room
To find a coat to shelter you,
Only to discover the clothes of a lover
That your friend has tossed into the corner.
The vulnerability to nature and man
Makes you believe that you can
Perhaps go about without either,
And live life unfettered.


What would my Irish Grandfathers think
To see what has come of me?
Would they rejoice in my love of the drink
Or think that I had gotten along abysmally?
I love the fiddle and the bodhran as much as the tongue
And I’ve wept at the call of all their songs,
But perhaps now my time at the bar is done
And its time for me to confront my wrongs
Rather than sit here and cower
Behind the height of my drink,
Pretending to be both a cave and a tower
In which I can hide and safely think.
But god forbid you cross my thoughts
When I am in that place
Because I say things I should not
When I think my thoughts are safe.

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