Here’s to the memory of whiskey.
To broken down cowboys with busted faces,
Whores who fucked me for hours,
yelped like wounded coyotes,
and stole from me all that was left.
Days with an empty stomach,
searching for cigarette butts.
A landscape empty of everything but strangers.
The smell of piss and decay;
The difference between myth and reality.
A feeling of overwhelming isolation,
The hardened faces of damned men,
the memory of sweet water, and a Cheyenne girl.
To the memory of whiskey.
Women who have long forgotten me,
and married finer men.
Men, like my mother once hoped I would become.
The wide sky, my insignificance.
The memory of whiskey.