Bars and Whiskeys, Gypsies

It's been a year of 
mountains and molehills

of open chords and secret thoughts.

Bars and whiskeys

gypsies.


Full moons and Junes
and meteorites

righteous prayers
that could have been more specific.

I didn't need that man in '68
I'm pretty good
at spelling out my own fate

from pilgrim's calls
to wooden walls

to insinceritys
and the small mercies
that hide
beneath the shoe-string fries.

So
here's to sharp knives
brandy and drys

and Prague's as yet unseen skies.

I dreamof moons
and Junes

and January promises
to provide
more mountains
more mole hills

more open palms
and open chords.

I'll be skipping and tripping
slipping
still, slipping

and still sipping that whiskey
the barman knew
would be smokey and smooth


while writing the next fairytale
that's bound
to come
true.