Anorach


a whisky enthusiast's muse through art, writing, painting and drawing



‚Äč-- whisky startles the imbiber into alertness --

i remember when...


my father drew coca-cola

out of a litre bottle 

and poured it

into a ceramic mug,

and my brother and i

would hover over the drink--our

foreheads pressed

against each other 

as though tension would lie

between two scalps divided

by the berlin wall--while we


kneeled on top

of our 1950's dining table

to fight over whom

would have the first sprig 

of fizz, how our faces

would almost touch

the edge of the cup

to watch carbon

drop

on top of ice cubes.


each bubble snapped


its juices like caviar, busted

between tongue and palate.

and as i came in

for a swallow 

i thought of the industrial 

waterfall, siphoning

inside glass bottles,

while carbonic acid



fingered my nostrils

on every triplet note.

and i was reminded

of paper airplanes

turned into b52 bombers

that eject dirty bombs


out of chutes to land 

into the nocturnal 4th of july.

i fast-forward time,

22 years later, no longer

am i visited by soft drinks


but am toying


with a moscow mule

set on top of a granite slab

for me to sip solo.

the gases in my cup

no longer skitter on ice

but tinker inside a container,

to swim like luftwaffe-air sacs.

it is the kind of zeal that wets


kold draft machines

during the first october 

spring, where metal touches 

the inner base of raw lips

before it vibrates, teeth

and tongue, so ginger 

beer can mate with vodka,


as i, the patron, can make love

to copper tins skinned 


in mundane condensation. 

-- the copper tin --