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{inexplicable} peycho kanev I am drinking whiskey from a tin can – this line sounds so much like blues, but let me tell you the rest. This tin can is shiny and red- oh yes, many years ago, my grandfather, for many years, kept his pencils inside and some small notebook in which he scribbled late at night. Secret notes about his past, I presume, then just a blink of a supernova, and he was gone. After that, my uncle stored in it his old German ‘Luger’, which he cleaned almost every day. Maybe he was afraid of loosing his prolonged quarrels with cancer and immortality, maybe he wanted to go on his own terms. My uncle was a great admirer of Ernest Hemingway. He was gone one summer Sunday morning. And now the can is mine. I pour whiskey inside and drink it sitting in the dark. No music, no light- just me and the old whiskey, but it has some strange taste, almost like rust from an old pistol and fading memories of words never written. I lift it close to my ear and I can hear the whizzing of the chilly mistral, that so long ago licked the skin of my father. I sigh and say to the Time in my tin can: Please scholar me as you collar me, because everything fills- Now and then |
