Currents of love,
I am caught.
Swimming forcefully against,
plunge me under and absorb me away.
invigorate my body.
steal my breath?
plunder my desire?
wrinkle my malice?
Currents of love,
I cannot win.
Surrendered to water,
parley no more,
wring me out, and,
if you dare,
plunge me once again.
Ever take a shot of bourbon on a Sunday morning?
It makes the singin’ more fun and the pastor a hoot.
Down the ol’ hatch it burns like that old-time religion.
Burns like Hell, but burns real good.
They say a Baptist or Presbyterian came up with bourbon.
Some say he happened to make it by accident, but I know it wasn’t no accident.
Enough people say you be speakin’ for God,
Well, you best get to hearing voices.
People shut their eyes, squint real hard, and start prayin’.
I did that too, once upon a time.
I thought, maybe just one time I’d see that fellar’s face.
Hain’t seen nothing but charred-bourbon-barrel-darkness.
I don’t know how people do it sober.
Preacher told me one time, “Boy straighten up! Devil gonna get ya!”
I told him that Devil better eat more shit and biscuits if he wanted to catch me.
Ain’t worried about the Devil anyhow – I go to church. Devil you know is better than the one you don’t.
Ain’t much on Sunday mornings I believe in, ‘cept shots of bourbon.
Only time I squint my eyes is after that shot goes down.
“Lordy mercy!” I yell.
Then I stare at the extra glass I leave out, just in case that fellar ever shows up.
In the beginning there was no bourbon.
After 33 years I never go to church without.
Don’t worry, hain’t never rund out.
It’s easy turning water into bourbon whiskey.
"Wood-soled shoes clip and clop past.
Each clip the sound of another nail
hammered into my coffin.
Each clop signals the past haunting the future."
"You’re still in the desert,
still fighting a ghost, still waiting
for some assholes’ made-up
bomb to smack you upside the head.
Hot damn, the mourning."