Posts tagged ‘Whisky’

June 11, 2015

you look like you got some sun

One of my favorite phrases to hear on Monday is,
“Oh, you got a bit of sun over the weekend…”
The idea of going outside and sitting in the sun
without buildings, without work, without people,
without being stuck in-doors, without a thing to do,
without being paraded around like a fool at a party,
without the constraints of what society deems correct:
you should wear sunscreen, you should cover up!
you should avoid a sunburn—it will cause cancer!
I have to assume that people die of accidents daily.
You should avoid cigarettes, and expensive scotch,
and domestic beers, and fishing, and jerking off,
and relaxing for no reason, and not doing anything,
and cooking raw red meat, and frying fillets of fish,
and reading a book, or two, and driving an old truck,
and thinking about sexual fantasies, or debauchery.
Yeah, you should probably avoid all of those fun things,
and while you’re at it, make sure to hide from the sun.
Nah. I want to say, “You didn’t get any sun at all?
That’s great, I am sorry to hear you are a shut-in.”
But rather to save some time, I just say, “Yeah.”

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May 10, 2015

It was Highland in a Nutshell

It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.

It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.

It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.

It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.

It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.

It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.

It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.

Oh, it was…

April 26, 2015

Human Beings at Wm O’Brien State Park, MN.

Morning.
A passenger side ranger inquiry,
lead to fresh blinding light
and splashing potable water.

Campfire embers smoldered
after an evening’s neighborly introduction and proclamation
of “Uptown Pride.”
—We, not so much.

Dusk.
Shown tattoos
and mushrooms,
no room for outside,
where the suburbs subside.

Today.
Huddles of families on holiday,
weekend campers on parade;
an International Airstream
sat local in a vast
golden marsh glade.

Yesterday Afternoon.
Pulling from the Bulleit bottle,
to crack a cold and wet brew,
gathering sticks with the best,
for firewood,
for warmth under
the firmament in rolled tents.

Last Night.
Loud bullshit and no possessable fish,
dirty fingernails and a waxing moon paled.
Lagers along a road near the St. Croix river,
walking long lengths pinecone covered trails.

Morning.
Shoes on jet rocked gravel drive;
smoothed stone,
downed trees,
white smoke,
where the sunrays seeped cutting dried eyes.

Here was Sunday morning,
a question,
packed and coming down
to the sound of classic rock, shutting doors, and moving tires.

How it got away.

March 22, 2015

Perfect Artist

Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;

at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.

One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.

Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
your art,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.

We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.

See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.

Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.

There’s advertising.

(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)

Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.

That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.

November 8, 2013

South, Prairie du Chien, Steamboat Travel

South, Prairie du Chien, Mississippi River Valley

Terry Scott Niebeling

 

Wake up in Prairie du Chien, Nähe Le Villa Louis.

 

Lay cold to the touch, on a rolled up sleeping bag.

You are not within.

You are without.

 

So early you feel like askin’.

-Time is it?

5:30 AM.

 

Surrounded by what you need:  Water.

Drank so much it made you so thirsty.

 

Noise from the generator wakes you-

A voice, Dave, a question-

He, a tall blond first mate, imagine rugged, stands above.

 

We refuel.

 

River smell rich, insects, and spider’s webs remain about you.

You ponder, your eyes shift, how many did you swallow?

 

Sit perched below the bar rail, a kicking spot.

-A useless lot.

-Where you squat.

You sad sit this shit.

Might as well sit out.

Close to go, avoid the hitch.

You have all the wherewithal to slouch.

 

Sleep eating, drinking-peeing, while hardly sleeping through the night.

Mop in hand, Dave asks again, cleaning a mess.

 

I pissed the deck, didn’t I?

 

He says, “Get Up!”  You say you haven’t slept.

Mums the word, I am told.

 

Sore throat sun in your eyes- weak dried out post drunk haze in your mind.

 

The smell of gasoline-or oil, or whatever powers this big bright red paddle.

 

Feels like a stiff neck, stiff legs, and a stiff arm, feels like it just hit me, my alarm.

Feels like a stretch.

 

Over the next few moments everyone showed.

There was an hour’s ride home-no service, no phone.

 

Took in whitecaps and tree tops along the drive.

Times like these along the river so full of insight.

 

Thank you for the ride, it’s good to be back in La Crosse.

Now Goodbye.

August 11, 2013

Wooden Table

Wooden Table,

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

Wooden Table hold me stable,

Prop me up when I am down.

 

Make me able to talk of fables.

Help me drink until I drown.

 

Wooden Table you know me,

Console me when I frown.

 

Wooden Table help me,

If you are able,

I am lost, make me found.

July 18, 2013

How To Drink/What’s Your Problem?

Old drunks at a bar-side paradise:

An enclosed patio, surrounded by lattice and gratis-what a place-ladies lack lace, most come accompanied with baggage.

 

A few of these and I’ll forget my place, yet I care to save face.

 

I should just throw away my I.D. and my wallet.

They sponsor all of this.

 

Unisex Observation:  they all look the same; bloated, speckled; unhealthy, abused, used, depleted, and ashamed, with drinks and age.  Some wear purple bruises, others look like they need a snooze, they all say they have a choice to choose.

 

I am not rude, more scared than amused.

I don’t want to see a mirror.

I might change my tune.

I might see things more clear.

What’s to lose?

 

I pray for this to not be my future-I wonder if this was their past.

 

I examine my drink, ice beading water to my hands.  Here I sit, holding this plastic glass.

 

Throwing my life in the trash.

Gulp by gulp, ash by ash.

 

This drink will get me smashed.

All excuses amassed.

 

I am ready for the criticism.

 

Here’s to you and me and us and we.  Fuck it, here’s to that one guy who overdosed-he was in Glee.

 

All wires and chords, a man sings; no one is bored, yet nothing has been absorbed.  Shocked, I am ignored.

Watch the pour-ask for more.

 

I still enjoy beating a dead horse.

 

THE IRONIC ABSENCE OF A PROBLEM:

I DON’T HAVE ONE.

 

These patrons have hardly enough energy for a proper applause.

 

Remember: lay off the sauce at all cost.

These words are muted sip by sip.

 

Who’s the sailor of this ship?  I’ll run it aground just to hear the sound.

 

This is their familiar, I have been here a few times before.

Maybe a few times less as I measure cost and score.

 

Take a long cool drink, and He winks.

I feel tip-top, now, let’s hit the door.

This is no time to stop.

 

Bartender… One more!