I am small like a child,
wet face pressed against a massive chest. His arms crush me gently, wrap me in a shroud of sinew and bone as the smell of bourbon and musk fills my nostrils. His breath feathers lightly across the top of my head; reassuring whispers tickle my spine and tell me I am not wicked, I am not a useless, hopeless thing. I am perfect and flawed. I am loved. It is enough.
I just love my old grandad.
He was born in Kentucky, I think he has aged well. He joins us at family parties. He sits staight and tall but rarely, if ever, says anything. He brings warmth and good cheer while he quietly sits listening. Sometimes I look for him at the grocery store, though I seldom see him there. I just love my Old Grandad. He is the head of the bourbon family. Old Grandad. Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.
and dark chocolate are tender injections of love for the people who are not in love –Ron Gavalik
My heart has always been skeptical,
and sometimes I think that it's waiting. waiting to go back to being hollow, like that old church in Vienna, after mass on a rainy day in October. I stood outside in the garden: extracted my rib, ground it down on that stone, shaping it into a knife so that I could dig a small hole to bury my treasonous heart. You emerged into that dark wood, and we found a path together through moonlit streets and storms until we came upon a tavern- your laughter sloshing like warm bourbon falling into a glass. I'd watch you when you lost your self, and I could see the fire burning in you warming me, and in those lost moments I didn't care at all that I might get burnt.
The taste of your bourbon sweet lips
in the backseat of my car on a gravel road that I haven't visited since high school... If only we were driving a '91 Civic, I would swear that I was 17 again.
That bartender poured my bourbon
and took an interest in my life. 'What's wrong, pal? You can tell me. I have all the answers.' 'Great,' I said. 'I don't know any of the questions.' For the rest of the night, he left me with my typer and silently refilled the bourbon. -Ron Gavalik
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At this sushi joint,
she searched for the words to describe her dinner. ‘It's heaven,’ she said, ‘Yes, heaven.’ Call me a simpleton, but divinity on Earth is the sweet tinge of bourbon, the smoke of an acid 60 gauge that rolls over the tongue, and the music of Pink Floyd with the lights off. -Ron Gavalik
Hit Patreon. No, I’m not kidding. Patreon.com/rongavalik
To get lost on a shelf.
A journey, couch potato tourist, Book upon book, fantastical and fact An expergefactor for the literary senses. A sofa that swallows you whole with an old fashioned friend, stirring bourbon thoughts and swirling orange twists A wall of books, novels and tomes. Hemingway nestled next to Palahniuk. Generational angst and Alphabetical Chaos!
I just had a shot
Of Pappy Van Winkle neat Smooth with a good burn