Thanks to John Patrick Robbins for posting my poem in The Dope Fiend Daily.
Abating sentries of rev’noors,
these now impeccable brewers
offer steep drink within lawful lines.
They’re no longer part of a sinning legion.
Once clandestine lodging of glass bottles,
hidden under haystacks,
and behind hollow brick facades.
Chosen by disobedient revelers,
with a glib indecency,
and a whacked fetish for drink.
The history of moonshine reflected
in poorly remembered scenarios,
in suppressed neighborhoods,
along some preferred mazes
of streets and alleyways.
A nauseous whirlwind
of heavy boozers weaving their way home.
And wives with no resolute sleep,
offer a dramatic welcoming back home.
Their ramshackle boom,
loudness in the living room.
In a lunar instant,
a starlight grenade he offers in response.
And landlords cite an embarrassing dread,
as families face a rancorous displacement,
and bags of empty vessels are left behind.
Kentucky stills now in the open,
Pray no more families become broken.