Lucid dreaming, I sit
                      in a downtown lounge,
swirling ice in my drink, listening
to tiny 'bergs creaking and cracking.
                                                       ­                   I raise the glass to my lips and
             imagine the taste of Shackleton's whisky, after those
100 years in Antarctic ice, assimilating a tinge of penguin, a pinch of
blubber, the turbulence of the sea, the still of the frozen mountains across the tundra, the desolation, the tenacity of survival, the bitter numbing cold, mixed in with
                                                   the warm peaty oaken goodness of Scotland at the other end
of the world.

Through the soles of my boots I sense the  
thin surface tension keeping my body, the table and chairs
from plunging into the frozen deep that
lurks somewhere beneath the Lower East Side, black and still,
       waiting
             waiting.

The band starts up in the
     next room.
A curtain parts and a blast of brass escapes,  a great honking
      sound that
reverberates in a molar,
before
    a female voice lifts me from my chair, drawing me toward
the source.
                     Pushing across the floor like Nureyev on ice, I slide deftly between amorous
couples, skirt the co-ed queue at the toilets, dodge the woman at the curtain collecting the cover charge, nod at my pal the bouncer returning to his post and finally
glide/float/fly through the velvet drapery,
                                                        ­                           focused on the rising soprano.

                              It's just a dream, I think. Why pay cover?

*Ode to the Living Room

Not knowing where I am going
I am lost in an forgotten hinterland

I used to have such direction
But now I have absolutely none.

Wondering in this place
I am lost in Outer space

Surrounded by cloud
Like cotton wool

As all my lists
Dissolve into the mist

I look north, east ,south and west
No land marks valleys or peaks

As I sniff a little heather
And become as lite as a feather

Somewhere in my stomach
I feel an empty passage

But I take a gentle breath as
Something says nothing is urgent

I am cushioned by the cosiness
of the spongy undergrowth

As I Feel myself grow I delve
Into the peaty marshes bellow

Lost in this sleepy land
I can not help but enjoy

The forgotten Hinterland

10years in a barrel
aging up just fine

I will have my scotch
you can drink your wine

Earthy peaty goodness
Scotland's where its made

I enjoy it and a cigar
while sitting in the shade

I will drink it on the rocks, but prefer it neat
40 bucks for my self is quite a treat.

Connemara morning early
iron grey sky
scarping waves
of sharp and tempered steel
and a sun barely creeping
on peaty bog
and marshy sheep-shod field
here dwelt the silent ones
fertile gods of Erin's clan
who fed the earth
and coaxed the land
solemn faces watch us still
through smoky mist
on emerald hill

There is a whole of an old world out there
It is a lemon
Growing on a lime tree
The color of a done deal
Swimming in low spirits
Each peaty drop
A moment
To forget
That which brings tidings
Tidily
Zipper undone
Shoes unwound
Stumbling for infinite
De-frocked of
Protection
Masculinity
Fumbling for Braille
A shuffling of Ativan'd feet
On a rent controlled corner
Cosigned to a binding lease

There is a half of a clasp
One side
Of a broken heart neckless
Cue misinterpretation
Of what is said
Supposedly
Saying something
Reminiscent of the time
She left us
Or left with us
Without saying anything
Words became twisted
Knotted the academic scarves
Infinitely
Interrupting
Breathless
Evicting another tenant
From the tenement's
Of her breast

A wide birth
A wisp of humidity
A will
To want
A want
To won't
A starry night
Presented
In a down pour
A downfall
A magpie consuming the fruit
Of a forever feeling
She hopes you understand

best wishes

the gorse and tough grass
on a mountain top.
a wind swept bog
at the edge of the earth.
silhouettes move slowly
leaping tuft to tuft,
avoiding the dark
still watery deep.
we were always told
to steer clear of the holes,
where pickled remains
of leathery Celts
lay waiting for hapless
travellers to stumble
and sink to the bottom-
less, peaty fold.
but tonight it's okay,
they move with such ease
in a barrow full laden
in the faintest of breeze ...

Pour the Whiskey.

Two cubes and amber waves,
the oceans tsunami in my glass,
I give it a swirl and a sniff,
before enjoying the burn.

Someone pass the Cheetos.

The paper rolled tight, opposite twists on the end,
a flick of the Bick and light it up,
a ******* inhale,
allowing the mellowness to seep in.

The Hookah

The water bubbles,
as the smoke rises,
filling the glass decanter
and rising toward,
waiting mouths and lungs.

Cuban Cigars

Rolled on the thighs of virgins
or so they claim to be,
either way, stoke it up
and keep your ashes long.

Beer!

In the bottle or the mug
dressed with lime or plain,
foreign or domestic,
as long as its ice cold.

Single Malt

Earthy and peaty
an acquired taste,
from Scotland,
simply the best.