The Whisky Blot
Journal of Literature, Poetry, and Haiku
What does it mean to be
planted in one patch of soil for your entire existence? To stand there forever because your lone leg can’t go anywhere. The struggle for survival no less bitter, overshadowed by this one’s leaves, out-drunk by that one’s roots. An orchestra of bark flutes played by each passing wind. The winds which one day will lay you out among the corpses of your kind to slowly become the loam in which you were born. There is a sort of horror to it all, so much beauty too, reaching for sky and sun like you really mean it. Putting the rest of us to shame who walk where we will heads down, looking into the earth and seeing nothing for what it is. Kurt Luchs (kurtluchs.com) won a 2022 Pushcart Prize, the 2021 Eyelands Book Award, the 2021 James Tate Poetry Prize and the 2019 Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest. He has written humor for the New Yorker, the Onion and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. His humor collection, It’s Funny Until Someone Loses an Eye (Then It’s Really Funny)(2017), and his poetry collection, Falling in the Direction of Up (2021), are published by Sagging Meniscus Press. His poetry chapbook, The Sound of One Hand Slapping, was issued in 2022 by SurVision Books. He lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Comments are closed.
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