(666) ALL-GONE

there are no marathon nights to fill the divde that lies between us like a moat.

there are barely enough sips of whiskey to keep us from going down each other’s throat

regardless of what was spoke.

there are only a few minutes left to fight a savage tiger or a darkly driven goat.

there are beasts foraging on the corner for blankets, steaks, salads and coke

it’s a zoo and we’re all so broke…


Thanks For The Stagg

In a beautifully clean and shiny corporate steak house, bright with manufactured ambience, me and a woman belly up to the bar and order two whiskies.

One, is a rye I recognize as being one of my favorites, sharing the first letter of our names, my affinity for this particular brown has us bottled in bond and bonded by blood.

The other, is a tall bottle of bourbon I vaguely recognize with antlers on the label and two g’s at the end of its name.

My god, this deer whiskey aged however many years in bliss and oak tastes like ridiculous heaven, black pepper and chocolate, smooth like my head on a good day and clean like a bright blue sky.

The rye, a familiar friend, $8 by the glass, was hot and spicy as if I was lovingly whipped in the face with a delicious horse crop, a 100 proof kiss I’ve grown to savor to no end.

The bourbon, unbeknownst to me was $50 a glass and despite thinking it was arguably the best whiskey that ever dripped onto my lips, my female friend accompanying me was convinced the rye was the better drink. Regardless of price, she thought the rye was just tastier.

Taste should never be dictated by cost, value or hubris. Taste is derived strictly by what is appreciated.

Never assume quality, price and flavor will coincide neatly, what tastes good, looks good, and feels good to you is your style and adoration. Yours alone.

There are days when an eight dollar rye just tastes better than a $50 bourbon.

(I honestly don’t know what days those are, you’ll have to ask her.)

Snorkel Notes

Chinese kid losing cell phone. Turned boat around to fetch it. Kept boat waiting for 35 minutes. He moped horribly when he got back on board. Wept, shivering in inner tube on the water, filling his goggles up with tears. Eventually had to be carried off by his friends. One should never invest that much into inanimate objects.

Karaoke in drag, coconut bras and a makeshift 4-piece whose drums were soup pots and flattened hub caps.

Snorkeling tour becomes a dance party with drunken Canadians and German girls whose monkey toes gripped the boat planks with long, knuckled feet, terrible American pop music blaring across the bay as we sail pointlessly to islands which no one leaves to visit. Ain’t no Black Eyed Peas on any of them islands!

Body bashed against rocks slick and barnacled, the snorkeling was less like a tropical excursion and more like a choppy battle against waves splashing down through the top of the tube.

All the fish went home for Tét, anyway.

Straight Bourbon and Straight Razors

straight bourbon and straight razors,
wild happenstance in dark bars.

no words will calm the danger
that stalks her from afar.

there’s nothing god gave her
beyond what’s in her heart,

blood and bruises, not from anger
mark the spots that map the art

down the skin and streets of a stranger
where fate played a part
from the start.