<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
the garden of gethsemane<\/strong><\/p>\n i can taste i think two weeks away from a job but one day back can strip it all away and then she comes in<\/p>\n she looks like the nun this old hen who used to torment me because i never bought into the bullshit so i take an instant dislike to this woman<\/p>\n i don\u2019t appreciate her smile always stuck talking to assholes like me<\/p>\n and, oh, how i can taste that first scotch she asks me for help and there is under five minutes left in this work day<\/p>\n when i look at my watch i tell her yes, it\u2019s called my life<\/p>\n i tell her the sun has gone down on my benevolence she says but isn\u2019t the customer always right<\/p>\n not in my tree, i say<\/p>\n and then i go to shut off the lights in the building four little, five little, six little scotches<\/p>\n she just stands there i give her one last look and think fuck it as a final salutation this woman calls me lazy then i pop the first switch<\/p>\n i let each light click off slowly finally holy<\/p>\n after all of the hours that it tangled and made a sacrifice of my soul.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n John Grochalski<\/strong> is the author of The Noose Doesn\u2019t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out<\/em> (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City<\/em> (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), the novel, The Librarian<\/em> (Six Gallery Press 2013), and the forthcoming collection of poetry, Starting with the Last Name Grochalski<\/em> (Coleridge Street, 2014).\u00a0 Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he constantly worries about the high cost of everything.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" the garden of gethsemane i can taste the first of a few scotches i think two weeks away from a job a man can get too used to freedom but one day back can strip it all away and leave his dignity hanging by the noose and then she comes in she […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7241","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7241","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7241"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7241\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7244,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7241\/revisions\/7244"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7241"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7241"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7241"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthe first of a few scotches<\/p>\n
\na man can get too used to freedom<\/p>\n
\nand leave his dignity hanging by the noose<\/p>\n
\nwho taught me all the way back in eighth grade<\/p>\n
\nwith declarations of hell<\/p>\n
\nnever accepted that sad imp jesus
\nas my one and only savior<\/p>\n
\nit has a reverent smugness to it
\nsafe in the knowledge that she\u2019s always right<\/p>\n
\none little, two little, three little scotches<\/p>\n
\nschedules, tax forms, reading recommendations
\nfor genres that i don\u2019t give a shit about<\/p>\n
\nshe asks me if i have somewhere else to be<\/p>\n
\nand now it\u2019s time for the real me to rise again<\/p>\n
\nso i can spend the night forgetting myself
\nletting my liver make love to a bottle of clan macgregor<\/p>\n
\nthat smile still plastered across the face
\nlike that old nun before she\u2019d tip over my desk
\nor kick me out of her classroom for a week<\/p>\n
\ni let my river of alcoholic bliss take me away<\/p>\n
\nand storms out of the building<\/p>\n
\nuntil the whole space is dark and silent
\ndevoid of nearly all flesh but my own<\/p>\n
\nwith my mortal coil<\/p>\n