I've always preferred the sinners,
the modest and damaged souls
who understand our vast imperfections.
The righteous and their values,
they've never embodied the ideal
way of life so many others pursue.
Give me the drunkard, the ****,
the pauper who blows powder
and his harmonica under the bridge.
They are my truths
in an ocean of lies.

The sun during winter
often plays the role of trickster,
a false prophet of hope.
Its rays of light bounce off
parked cars and shop windows,
luring us out of our cozy beds
under the guise of a warm embrace.
As fools, we venture outdoors
and believe the air will not assault us.
Unfortunately, we discover winter
has conned the sun to help it
carry out the vengeance
of a scorned Iover.

Independence is celebrated
as a resource of strength, power.
The problem with independence
is we often allow it to take over
our lives, to define us
and our place in the world.
That's when we push others away,
those who love and cherish us,
and they deserve the contributions
we have withheld.

The best whiskey goes down
smooth as the silky tongue
of a curvaceous young woman.
There are times when we desire
sips from brands known to bite
the back of the throat
with the gratifying sting
of fingernails dug in
between our shoulder blades.
Funny how the sensations
of pleasure and pain
have more in common
than we realize.

The fresh snowfall is celebrated,
adored for its natural beauty,
a wintertime treat.
The novelty of that beauty vanishes
with time and new fascinations.
As we step on and drive over
that which was once beloved,
a black slush forms along the curb,
used, tired, corrupted,
despised for its filth.

Indoors on a cold night
two days before the year's end,
a tall glass of whiskey,
and acoustic reinterpretations
of Pink Floyd fills the house.
No human has visited heaven
and returned to describe the afterlife,
but if it's anything like this,
I'm ready to give up the job,
the bills, and the disappointment
for a ride on that cloud.

A long time ago,
I thought about you every day.
The memories were fresh,
kind of like a new book
on my reading pile next to the bed.
Over the course of years,
new chapters of new books
pushed your memories deeper
into the bookshelf of knowledge and experience.
I haven't forgotten or lost love for you.
Your memories are part of my prized collection,
the leather-bound hardback
I occasionally read while sipping whiskey
after a hard year on this Earth.