October Goes Down like Whiskey

Full grown Moon Rabbit’s got my bones
restless. Stoplight shadows stain my skin;
the streets wail between the slow autumn
transmissions of summer’s orphan crickets.

The smell of death rattle leaves mingles
with the sweet, hopeful scent of perfume
along a neon sidewalk midway
with its roundabout carousels
and flashing life flight chopper rides.

“Mao?” She smiles, leaning on the bar.
“Not mao enough,” I mumble, I think.
I’m not sure if my lips part enough
for words, breath or just the next shot.

It’s been a long year with rumors
of an early rapture.

Tomorrow there will be a sad accordion
and glockenspiel breaths where pumpkins
listen on a fire escape, their  jack-o-scenes
as forever as our best moments.

Still, we can celebrate.

Lose your mask for me this holiday
and I’ll shed my yesterday skin.

Drink with me and I’ll tell you everything.

6 comments

  1. The ingredients, the herbs and spices you combine make this girl say, “Mmm…mmm! That’s sooo good!” What a master chef you are, Chance….you really should make us pay to delight on such fine literary cuisine.

    1. Wow… Thank you, Rita. You sure know how to make a fellow feel good about his ramblings. Seriously, I do appreciate your taking the time to read this stuff and all the feedback and encouragement. I never got around to thanking you for all the other nice comments you’ve posted here in the past. Thank you, thank you. Whenever I do compile that collection, you’re absolutely getting a free copy.

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