The whiskey hits me in the mouth

and down long arms

into my fingers,

pushing sad sad sad, tired feelings

and thoughts into my stomach.

I’m swimming in it.

Frozen tips on

thunder

birds’ wings

touch my spine.

So soft,

with wings of pain and hurt and damage,

but brushing gently-

a dog’s tail on a baby’s face.

You’re not here to drink it and

maybe you won’t drink it again,

but I am here.

This whiskey rides the lightning

and my soul feels

good.

The years pile on and

I break,

slowly.

The tragedy of the leaves,

or of my youth,

leaving.

The bones are still good,

but I need a full reno,

no lipstick pig makeover.

I’m weaker –

I break easy,

and into soft

parts –

I’m stupid and

rotten and

failing.

The once-sharp mind,

now an old worn-down baseball bat

of smoothed, bleached wood.

I’m too old for this shit

and too young to be feeling

this

dead.