Full moon on a
Friday night,
sipping whiskey and
watching sky,

Howl, howl,
at the light,
The wind is pure,
Conditions right.

Southern Comforts I
hold dear,
Seasons won't
affect us.

Peace and harmony,
right here,
In the heart of
Texas.

Light my smoke,
unleash my dog,
A friend is cooking
his dad's wild hog.

Sipping whiskey,  and
making fog,
Full moon on a
Friday night.

A little more ice,
A little less beer.
A little more light,
A little less fear.

These Southern Comforts
I have here,
These friends who sway,
Around me.

The whiskey flows,
The fire glows,
These guys start talking
about old "hoes,"

And everyone knows,
how that **** goes,
Full moon on a
Friday night...

As Baudelaire said:
"Be always drunk,
on wine, poetry, virtue"
or what-have-you.
And after sobering
from aurelian dawns
and whiskey-drenched stars,
I find solace in tipsiness
on irreverent magic eyes
from the bottom of a margarita
or a paint-stained enigma
from behind a glass of red.
Slowly, carefully, languidly,
Quietly.
Flirting with possibilities
of being drunk once more.

your smile
is like a
thousand shots of
whiskey
drowning my anxiety.

I think about my future children
And how they will come about.
Will I adopt, have a surrogate, or have them myself
Who will be my mate?
My partner through it all
Oh how I wanted it to be you.
But now that fantasy is over
I hold it together for those sweet future babies.
Grab another whiskey drink and dream of tomorrow

clutching my crumbling holy relic,
that trace of her final kiss
still threading heat through quivered lips,
rise to find shelter,
move it safe from noise and haze

stumbling through shadows,
like uneven, forgotten lumber
patching gut shot with used bandages
the faded, drunken hymns of heart flung sadness
hang along Cahuenga Avenue, old and overplayed
wilted spider silk across a concrete violin

each parking meter my next crutch,
arguing with stoic streetlights,
giving their cold flicker that same
blood stained sermon,
self same pity, worn and overused

I warned, I was wounded, the cut never sealed
Never bled, just trailed smoke.
it whistled in the wind some nights,
she knew, it was permission to leave
reading the eviction note
on a house that never had walls,

from edge of a coin- I’ll scratch out her name,
from a nightman’s club- the darkness can fall,
from the tear of my eye- she’ll melt away,
from the skin of my teeth- I’ll feel the dawn crack
and learn, again,
to crawl

The best whiskey goes down
smooth as the silky tongue
of a curvaceous young woman.
There are times when we desire
sips from brands known to bite
the back of the throat
with the gratifying sting
of fingernails dug in
between our shoulder blades.
Funny how the sensations
of pleasure and pain
have more in common
than we realize.