The Bourbon Machine

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Frank Sauce Never Lived On Bourbon Street

There's a knowledge of more
in the birth of bourbon inside a man
who has his hand around a bottle, the bottom of tomorrow

There is nothing but birthing in the Bourbon Machine
except the death of morning and all it can bring to a man last drunk
on memories of could-have-beens
if it weren't for the Machine of Bourbon inside him

There is mystery in whiskey,
this night steeped in the distilled mash of days behind us
moments stacked in a lush mind
for one last smile that may be as empty
as a kiss from a booze-hound's lips

All the beauty of now that comes with the forgetfulness of bourbon
I stare down the bar at all the beasts and cuckolds
with their hands wrapped around an almost empty glass
their eyes droopy drunk on beer and wells
half smiles on their faces because they cannot remember
yesterday, and even if they do, it doesn't matter anymore

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