Post by goldenmyst on Jul 25, 2023 17:42:45 GMT -6
Smoky Bourbon Years
My smoky bourbon lady puts her hand on my arm like a priestess blessing me. And sweet jazz from a distant club seeps through the open window to caress my innermost thoughts along with her tender touch that warms me like a barrel fire for homeless wraiths in a back alley of winter.
But the throb of my heart beats to her metronome and finds solace in the embrace of her smile, a grin that checks me into her villa of love whose room key is mine to hold. And I hold her deep in the night when love is an apostasy whose gnostic allure is a lifetime pass to paradise.
“Give me your hand in marriage,” I say.
“I did forty years ago. Have you forgotten?”
“No, but a renewal of vows is a heady wine.”
“There is no priest here.”
“All the better. No religious figure to intrude.”
“Shall we seal our covenant with wrinkled lips?”
“But who will witness our resolution?”
“The bartender will officiate our ceremony. We haven’t been to church in years but the pub is our home away from home.”
So the procession of years has taken us into a Cathedral of quiet reverie where all the tears have been wept in a sacristy we have abandoned whose dust we sweep like motes of time into trashcans of eternity. Yet, the mass has let out from St. Louis Cathedral onto the streets as Ave Maria serenades us while her touch anoints me with prints of her sacred finger oil.
“It’s our ruby jubilee. Forty years of connubial bliss. What do you say we go out on the town?”
“Aren’t we a bit long in the tooth for that? It’s past my bedtime. Besides, the husbands in the burbs get their wives ruby rings or pendants.”
“I got you a string of pearls for our thirtieth.”
“They were faux pearls, costume jewelry. I am desirous of a ruby.”
“I have something for you. Take a look in this little box.”
“You sly devil. Tell me that is a genuine ruby and we’ll paint the town red.”
“I hocked my autographed 1st edition of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ to buy it for you.”
“You little devil. How could I not go out with you to show off that ring my very own honey-man bought for me?”
“Lucky us. We never pawned our wedding clothes.”
“Even poor folk like us keep some things sacred. Poverty can’t crush our spirits.”
“We’ll be newlyweds for tonight.”
“Until our last breath.”
“Yes, my love, and in our next life when we’ll have children at our knees and live in a house on the prairie and grow wheat.”
“Can’t we do that now?”
“Not now my love. It will have to wait.”
“I don’t want to cry on our anniversary.”
“Let them be tears of joy my love.”
“Tying the knot with you was the happiest day of my life.”
“I’ll get a state job and we’ll live in style. The Ritz will be our new address.”
“You think by our fiftieth, Jack?”
“Before, my beloved.”
“Before we need hearing aids so you can eavesdrop on me gossiping over the phone with my girlfriends?”
“Even before we need dentures to chew the fat pardon the pun. There is a bottle of Kentucky’s best waiting at Charlie’s just for us.”
“Well, I am one proud Donna. Be a gentleman and escort your lady to that there watering hole.”
Like on so many nights before, we close the doors and lock our vestibule as our journey takes us to the streets where smoking tires and golden rites of passage greet us in the midnight of our faith. We roam the roads of our fallen city to find what lies beyond the idols of American greenbacks into a derelict neighborhood of broken glass and the scent of whiskey spilled onto the asphalt leading to our poker palaces of rose-scented perfume and whiskey nights.
We search the avenue for what we left behind on the boulevard of the past. The tender leaves of autumn gather at our feet like crumpled bank notes from accounts long emptied in a time of lush life. Pigeons congregate at our feet pecking the popcorn scattered by moviegoers in the theater where Garbo sanctified the screen. But life is not a film and I know all too well the perils of falling for a screen star when the sweetheart who walks beside me is no Hollywood ectoplasm but rather a flesh and blood woman whose salt of the earth voice heralds each of our dawns.
I hold her close as I did on our first date when the moon rose over Esplanade Avenue and we breathed the purest air we ever dreamed of.
But sunrise is a far-off camera angle we do best not to take for granted. So we wander like gypsies past soup kitchens shuttered for the evening where we dine like king and queen in a world of our own.
The crunch of dry leaves follows us like the familiar tune of autumn in the park where odes to trees are written in the sonnets that are waiting to be born. But our poetry is that of vagabonds who haunt the cool air while seeking the bullion of youth long past. The liquor dispenser is our fountain of youth that pours liquid magic for our eager tongues to imbibe.
But tonight the bottle is filled with love and the treasure of life is lips pressed like flowers in our memory book. Lethe is banished as the pungent scent of her perfume is a recollection of boudoir love on the mattress soaked with tears and beers.
The sparks from a trolley are lightening for the night when the drawers of my persona open to costumes I once wore for the masquerade that once hid my real face in a haze of mimicry.
Now, the thunder of her hand in mine rolls through my mortal coil only to shake the foundations of my soul with happiness I don’t deserve but relish nonetheless.
We sidle up to the bar. Donna holds her fist up to Charlie’s face. “Hey Charlie, my husband got me a real ruby for our fortieth.”
Charlie replies, “That a mighty fine looking rock. I bet it costs a king’s ransom. So tonight drinks are on the house. Happy anniversary.”
If only the doors would open once more for our footsteps to fall gentle as dove wings on the breezes of summer. But the neon whispers of time find our castle of cheap wine and beer where old men play pool and grey beards sip wild Irish rose where the maple leaf rag plays on the slow road to our jukebox heaven.
My smoky bourbon lady puts her hand on my arm like a priestess blessing me. And sweet jazz from a distant club seeps through the open window to caress my innermost thoughts along with her tender touch that warms me like a barrel fire for homeless wraiths in a back alley of winter.
But the throb of my heart beats to her metronome and finds solace in the embrace of her smile, a grin that checks me into her villa of love whose room key is mine to hold. And I hold her deep in the night when love is an apostasy whose gnostic allure is a lifetime pass to paradise.
“Give me your hand in marriage,” I say.
“I did forty years ago. Have you forgotten?”
“No, but a renewal of vows is a heady wine.”
“There is no priest here.”
“All the better. No religious figure to intrude.”
“Shall we seal our covenant with wrinkled lips?”
“But who will witness our resolution?”
“The bartender will officiate our ceremony. We haven’t been to church in years but the pub is our home away from home.”
So the procession of years has taken us into a Cathedral of quiet reverie where all the tears have been wept in a sacristy we have abandoned whose dust we sweep like motes of time into trashcans of eternity. Yet, the mass has let out from St. Louis Cathedral onto the streets as Ave Maria serenades us while her touch anoints me with prints of her sacred finger oil.
“It’s our ruby jubilee. Forty years of connubial bliss. What do you say we go out on the town?”
“Aren’t we a bit long in the tooth for that? It’s past my bedtime. Besides, the husbands in the burbs get their wives ruby rings or pendants.”
“I got you a string of pearls for our thirtieth.”
“They were faux pearls, costume jewelry. I am desirous of a ruby.”
“I have something for you. Take a look in this little box.”
“You sly devil. Tell me that is a genuine ruby and we’ll paint the town red.”
“I hocked my autographed 1st edition of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ to buy it for you.”
“You little devil. How could I not go out with you to show off that ring my very own honey-man bought for me?”
“Lucky us. We never pawned our wedding clothes.”
“Even poor folk like us keep some things sacred. Poverty can’t crush our spirits.”
“We’ll be newlyweds for tonight.”
“Until our last breath.”
“Yes, my love, and in our next life when we’ll have children at our knees and live in a house on the prairie and grow wheat.”
“Can’t we do that now?”
“Not now my love. It will have to wait.”
“I don’t want to cry on our anniversary.”
“Let them be tears of joy my love.”
“Tying the knot with you was the happiest day of my life.”
“I’ll get a state job and we’ll live in style. The Ritz will be our new address.”
“You think by our fiftieth, Jack?”
“Before, my beloved.”
“Before we need hearing aids so you can eavesdrop on me gossiping over the phone with my girlfriends?”
“Even before we need dentures to chew the fat pardon the pun. There is a bottle of Kentucky’s best waiting at Charlie’s just for us.”
“Well, I am one proud Donna. Be a gentleman and escort your lady to that there watering hole.”
Like on so many nights before, we close the doors and lock our vestibule as our journey takes us to the streets where smoking tires and golden rites of passage greet us in the midnight of our faith. We roam the roads of our fallen city to find what lies beyond the idols of American greenbacks into a derelict neighborhood of broken glass and the scent of whiskey spilled onto the asphalt leading to our poker palaces of rose-scented perfume and whiskey nights.
We search the avenue for what we left behind on the boulevard of the past. The tender leaves of autumn gather at our feet like crumpled bank notes from accounts long emptied in a time of lush life. Pigeons congregate at our feet pecking the popcorn scattered by moviegoers in the theater where Garbo sanctified the screen. But life is not a film and I know all too well the perils of falling for a screen star when the sweetheart who walks beside me is no Hollywood ectoplasm but rather a flesh and blood woman whose salt of the earth voice heralds each of our dawns.
I hold her close as I did on our first date when the moon rose over Esplanade Avenue and we breathed the purest air we ever dreamed of.
But sunrise is a far-off camera angle we do best not to take for granted. So we wander like gypsies past soup kitchens shuttered for the evening where we dine like king and queen in a world of our own.
The crunch of dry leaves follows us like the familiar tune of autumn in the park where odes to trees are written in the sonnets that are waiting to be born. But our poetry is that of vagabonds who haunt the cool air while seeking the bullion of youth long past. The liquor dispenser is our fountain of youth that pours liquid magic for our eager tongues to imbibe.
But tonight the bottle is filled with love and the treasure of life is lips pressed like flowers in our memory book. Lethe is banished as the pungent scent of her perfume is a recollection of boudoir love on the mattress soaked with tears and beers.
The sparks from a trolley are lightening for the night when the drawers of my persona open to costumes I once wore for the masquerade that once hid my real face in a haze of mimicry.
Now, the thunder of her hand in mine rolls through my mortal coil only to shake the foundations of my soul with happiness I don’t deserve but relish nonetheless.
We sidle up to the bar. Donna holds her fist up to Charlie’s face. “Hey Charlie, my husband got me a real ruby for our fortieth.”
Charlie replies, “That a mighty fine looking rock. I bet it costs a king’s ransom. So tonight drinks are on the house. Happy anniversary.”
If only the doors would open once more for our footsteps to fall gentle as dove wings on the breezes of summer. But the neon whispers of time find our castle of cheap wine and beer where old men play pool and grey beards sip wild Irish rose where the maple leaf rag plays on the slow road to our jukebox heaven.
