Early Morning Bourbon

it’s what kept me sane during lonesome winters
and mourning periods; suicidal thoughts flew out the fucking window
after glass number three and Jim Beam always knew the right thing to say.

pouring rotgut down my throat in a constant torrent of brilliance was the sole
way to survive the crepuscular days; without it, without the dives,

I’d be nothing but rotting flesh and disintegrating bones.

the bottles on my desk formed a formidable wall against
everything the world kept throwing at me.

in empty rooms, dimlit joints, and dark alleyways and parks,
bourbon maintained a balanced state of madness that kept me sane.