full moon



outside after dark,

moonlight glints

on a pint

of Jim Beam

poured to


a shot glass

quickly tossed back

fast, down the hatch,

only wasting a few

drops on cold-wet

fingers licked

warm to burning hot

all the way down,

another pour, spilling

more—enough of that shit—

the pint grabbed,

the neck wiped

and tipped back to lips,

a nip, a pull, followed by

a two-to-three-swallow guzzle

till old Jim’s empty-dry

and full-high as

the moonbeam

flashing on tumbling glass

whistling overhead

to thud, thunk, crackle . . .

or score a tinkling crash

landing—hoots of laughter

that fade with the squeak-

twang-bang of a screen

door slam, muffled

voices clammed up by

a deadbolt clacking shut

as crickets and cockroaches

share the night dirt

crawling on the ground

through weeds, someone

grunts on hands and knees

blind as his thirsty love

for moonshine—the glow

of whiskey.

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