Whiskey Balls
By Jason Fresh
I turned my face to the sun this morning. He didn’t acknowledge me at first – thought I was some other fake sonofabitch, a basket case, a mess of degeneration. He was partially right. Then the Sun said, “Oh, shit. I know you motherfucker. I know what you’ve done, where been, I know your works and the lies that you’ve penned. You read from the tombs of Osiris, from the woods with Pan, you’ve stood with demigods and the prophets of this lost land. You’ve stood making music on the holding altar; you met Joseph Smith Jr. and John Kennedy Toole and all those who falter. You sing your ass off to the moon and you wait for Isaac and Mohammad to meet your tune. They won’t, Jason Fresh. They won’t.” I walked away from the Sun (which turned to moon) and decided that I would no longer eat food as long as there is strife, as long as there is beef dripping from our money, as long as I have water to drink and for nutrients I have honey. No more questioning what happens. Open to everything and attached to nothing. My yoga is practicing this moment, it is singing this song, it is having this conversation. So, I will make it the other side. God won’t be surprised to the face of my grandfathers. There has got to be some job or chore up there that the angels can’t replace. There is a sorry softness in my cells for the way that they died. My brother and my sister will meet them on the other side. I will try to find the light – I’m going to try to mend my whiskey balls. I going to try to get it right.
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