B is for Bourbon

bourbon

the last time i drank bourbon
reminded me the first night
i fought myself, the toilet,
and gravity. she was there
with her caramel tongue
freely distributed between
boys in a sugarcane field
the summer of 1984 outside
new orleans on a cloudless
night. ms. bourbon tempted
us with the allure of legs
or lingerie at the lusty
age of fourteen in nola,
'come hither young men, know
what your fathers do, older
boys brag of, &; the girls
you'll chase until they
are old unmarried women
taunt you with.' so i did.

what is the flavor of mysticism?
ice shaken in tumblers in short
glasses, or night-caps after
last call? the crazy language
we spoke that night portended
despiritualization to come
&; brain cells gone on holiday
for good. 'oh you don't love
me now, but soon you will,'
the moon crooned back &; forth
to the bottle, us boys, &; stars
which seemed to rush upwards then
down faster each time we glanced
nightward. that drunken night
who would have dreamed defeat
loneliness, stress &; shame
would accompany us from all
the way there to here;
the bourbon pouring out
the glass vessel into
my toilet, never to return