The Whisky Blot
What I ask
is a memory. What I get is a story
about the sun. The smell
of seagulls, sand, oarweed,
the smell of rot, outfielder stats,
the sheer fountain of brown
waves over the feet of an unwanted
son. I get chatter of divorce,
the smell of pot, talk of war, and its harsh
in the air. Some sky writer’s joke
about drunk co-eds, a pun that echoes down
the OC boardwalk meat. The heat
is not the illusion, but the joy
is, unseen as it is. Unwanted sex running
down legs, long hooks
of sweat fall into blankets, into the bookbag hidden
with beer. My wrinkled hands go thick
Some days you drink
for meaning, some days
to keep the world in place.
Today the booze’s burn keeps
the blood interesting,
I focus on getting through,
the skin of my arm becomes
an ocean of anger I always understand.
C.L. Liedekev is a poet/dreamer who lives in Conshohocken, PA, with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, MacQueen's, Hare’s Paw, River Heron Review, amongst others. His poem, “November Snow. Philadelphia Children’s Hospital” is a finalist for the 2021 Best of the Net.
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