He heard it said

an alcoholic really

doesn’t like the

taste of booze,

all that much or

maybe not at all,

doesn’t even want

to drink the stuff

anymore after

all the years of

sucking down the

drowned worm,

playing hop

scotch, gin

rummy with John

Barleycorn,

Russian roulette

with a potato

fashioned as a

gun with the barrel

held between

his teeth and now just

solitaire. He would

agree.

Rather, wants

the buzz more

than anything

else until

it feels like a

buzz saw cutting

him in half right

in the gut around

the place where

the liver used to

be. In his denial

he figured he wasn’t

quite there yet, but

was honest enough

to know he was

getting close to the

point of no return,

the point where

there is no turning

back just saying

adios as he belts

back one more

baby blue agave.

Shake, shake, shake

till a few went down,

queasy stomach

from morning till night

and then he thought

of himself going

down, down, down and

decided to quit – Wild

Turkey. No liquid

would be in charge, but

having nothing, nada, nunca

delivered a punch harder

than Joe Lewis’

right cross and

bucked harder than

the bulls he used to

ride in the rodeo

until he broke thirty-two

bones in one fell swoop.

Day after day and night-

sweat after night-sweat

until the day he sat in

the circle, breathed

deeply and sighed,

“Thank you, Jesus.”

Unfortunately, being the

risk taker that he was,

he then bought the

Electra Glide in Blue

went out on the

streets of Phoenix and

bought the ranch

somewhere around

Forty-third Avenue and

Bethany Home Road.

Back East, they just

call it the farm.