I was a ship inside a bottle.
I had to collapse my back
to pick my spot atop the clay.
Sometimes I watch videos
of African wildlife battling
for survival. Painted dogs
and hyenas and lions.
Gazelle with broken legs
collapse in the dirt while their
loved ones run away.
A lawyer once made fun
of me for being a door man.
It stung so hard, I pulled my dick
out and pissed all over
their car door handles.
Anger and pride plucked
the eyes of shame.
On Christmas Day at 2AM
I called my mother on my break.
We cried on the phone.
It began snowing.
I hadn’t been home in years.
He is down there,
under the bar,
between the building
and the earth.
In a hazmat suit he
purchased off Amazon
he collects dead rats in
a bag and disposes of them.
Fifty dollars a corpse.
What do the other rats think
when they are eating dinner
and see their dead buddies
thrown back into the dumpster?
Tonight I looked back on
my friend’s teenage suicide
and realized only decades later
he was abusive to his girlfriend.
What does it mean?
I used to know things about whiskeys.
I served 120 dollar an ounce shots
of Pre-Prohibition era bourbon
to men in suits with company cards
while other people drank dollar beer cans
and gave each other hand jobs beneath
the counter coated in thirty years of gum.
This bar used to be The Crash Palace.
Mike and Herb came here drunk to show
the guys the new Beach Boys record.
Everyone was smacked out on heroin,
passed out in front of their beers.
They started dancing on the bar,
pretending to surf to the music,
drinking straight off the taps.
They took money out of the drawers
and went on their way.
I like to lay on the floor
and pull the string for
my daughter’s toy
that makes animal sounds
and says their names.
When I imitate the noises
she has the cutest laugh
exposing her gums and two
tiny teeth.
I’ve had thirty-year-old Ardbeg
and drank Old Rip Van Winkle with
the master distillers.
I’ve been on zoom calls with
some of the most prominent
mezcaleros in Mexico.
I went to a casino in a white
wife beater and knee-high combat boots
with my hair spiked like the statue of liberty.
They didn’t bother to check my ID.
I do not even exist in their memories.
Brendan Kelly told me
this guy Jackal came to the bar
to kill him, and he had
to jump out of the second story
window just to get away.
Cookie got a lollipop tattooed
over the spot where a wedding
band was once inked on his knuckle.
“Because I was a sucker”
he explained to me.
My wife plays videos
of jungle noises
to sooth our daughter when
she cries.
She laughs at the panther.
I think of The Jungle Books-
Remember Bagheera loved thee!
I first came down here fifteen years ago.
Me and my buddy were trying to put a
poster up to find musicians for a band.
The door guy denied us and sent us home.
The owner covers the bar tables
and walls in posters he designed in
the 90s for his DJ nights and
beer specials.
Shit’s tacky.
We went home to his bed bug
bedroom and drank bottom shelf rum
mixed with Root Beer.
We were so hopeful back then.
We wanted to catch lightning in a bottle.
Every step forward we made felt like
we were on the verge of something big.
But there is no verge to life,
no edges, no borders.
The universe is constantly expanding on itself.
Life is re-creation. Duplication. Death. Repeat.
Nowhere was anywhere we were
was everywhere, was just as random
and disorganized a fate
as a bullshit artist tossing
paint against a canvas
and swindling a bunch of
rich art pricks for a tax write off.
I was supposed to know something about whiskey.
I was supposed to know something.
I was married, so I was supposed to know
something about love.
I was angry so I was supposed to know
something about truth.
I labored physically so I was supposed
to know something about strength.
People think the quiet ones
must have some wisdom.
But all I had was hate.
I had confined myself
to a bottle
and to do that
you must
collapse.
— Adam Galanski-De León is the author of the story collection, “The Laughter of Hyenas at Bay” (Raging Opossum Press), and the novel, “Szarotka” (American Buffalo Books). His work has been published in various journals and nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Adam lives in Chicago, IL with his wife, daughter, and four cats. He maintains a website at http://www.adamjgalanskideleon.com.