h1

Black Label

May 10, 2007

Johnny Walked
into a bar,
his swagger prompting
the dancing crowd to part.

He made his way toward her
as she raised her glass
in greeting.
He stares into her eyes
with arrogance fermented
from bottles of anonymity.

They dance,
she succumbing to his tempo,
one mastered
with each sip,
each smile
in every blotted invitation–

intentions hidden
behind each gasp of
black swirling liquid,
searing
through cork and stopper
(throat and chest)
ripping
through the labels
(one button after the other)
pooling
on the floor
(when weakened knees give way).

Johnny walked away,
his swagger a tempered warmth
providing a cold safety
that lingered in the dregs.

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2 comments

  1. you make the whiskey proud
    it cares not to whom it gives comfort
    or what type of comfort it gives
    as long as the synthetic illusions
    are again procured


  2. a toast to that my friend. cheers.



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