by Benjamin Nardolili
The Scotch is not Scotch at all,
But they put a man with a kilt on it,
One wonders if you tip it over
If the plaid cloth will go flying up.
The vodka is distilled in Kentucky,
It is closer to the Bourbons
Than it is to the Romanovs,
Yet it has a double headed eagle on it.
The gin carries the elegant weight
Of the Old British Empire,
You can consume that former power
Without worrying about the dead Indians.
The wines really do come from lands
That they are named after,
It is the law that designated them,
But can you taste the grape picker’s hands?
This is the fetish that matters, the magic
We fashion and the idols we make
Out of what we bring into the world
Through pangs of collective exploitation.
When you begin to consider the efforts,
The wages of those in breweries,
Mix your liquor and beer together
Under a dead poet’s name, like Bukowski.
Benjamin Nardolili is a twenty five year old writer currently living in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Super Arrow, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly. Recently a chapbook, Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publishing his first novel.
photo by Dan4th.