This crisp August morning
with razor sharp sun-shadows—
almost too clear to be real,
race by this page—
I will try to produce
spiked words, like mixed drinks,
dropping off a vodka tongue.
Images from a salt-stained heart
enter smoldering brain cells and
crash to the alphabetic letter:
—Will anyone know?
—Does everyone know?
The hidden memories bare the proof,
like those empty bottles hidden
behind copies of Beckett, Bierce, Brautigan—
blanked by booze and hangover fatigue.
This sickness, this “Irish” sickness—
oh, Christ, the lost years of spilled dreams
replaced by gutter screams and horror shows—
this whiskey reality
of Wino promises and total loss of self.
Timothy Resau has been published in the U.S., Canada, Portugal, and the U.K. Recently his work has been in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Sideways Poetry Magazine, Sylvia Magazine, The Beautiful Space, and an essay is forthcoming in Loch Raven Review, as well as poetry in Rat’s Ass Review, Native Skin, and Pure Slush. He’s just completed a novel called Three Gates East. His career has been in the international wine industry.
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