I drink so many shots of bourbon in a night, I smell like a fucking distillery
when I wake up in the morning. The bird bath is filled with piss because I sleepwalk,
and all the bluebirds are lying dead in rays of morning sunshine near wiser finches
who warble-warble, tweety-trill in the scent of Jim Beam because they bathed in it
instead of drinking it. Apparently bluebirds are like me, they can’t resist a few fingers
in the morning, and seeing that I’m completely out of liquor, I contemplate a pull
of the Yellow Emperor’s Xiang Xi whiskey. The Hindu doctors say it won’t kill me.
Perhaps it is a terrible idea. Bourbon distillation is a communal endeavor for the lonely.
The mash contains 51% corn and is made in hard, limestone Kentucky water,
making a smooth bond that persuades and hugs you. Driving down I-64 to Lexington
there is the new Jeptha Creed distillery, born and raised as they say in the old tongue,
but I’ve never tried the fare, I’ve been off the sauce for two years.
I’d hate to be like Old Jeptha, Judge over Israel, defeater of the Ammonites.
He promised to sacrifice for his victory the first one out his door. It was his daughter.