J.P. Grasser
Alpenglow (n.):
more likely a cocktail-alias at the fusion bistro
these days, than a momentous light show.
You know
the place—its kitschy logo
underscored by a lone, scantily-fletched arrow;
upscale, downtown, small-plates, service slow
enough to shame a three-toed
sloth & wall-sconces lit so low
you can’t tell ass from elbow from the ox-bow
running to rust, hung on the portico’s
exposed brick. The drink itself, apropos
of nothing (certainly no
mixology with a lick of sense), blends espresso-
infused rye, a jigger each of Ouzo
& Límoncello,
a splash of Rose’s for that fiery glow,
blood orange garnish—tree-ripened, non-GMO.
I’d like to say my soul drank it all in, the real alpenglow,
from the window
of that Denver-bound redeye, the sun’s crescendo,
the creeping progression—from shadow
to merlot
to cherry, sherbet to canary-yellow
to sun-splotched calico.
I’d like to say I saw god get full-on Van Gogh,
impressing on the snow, aspens, boulders, & ice floe
his divine palette, that some sublime overflow
tickled my noggin to spontaneous clairvoyance. But no.
Only laundry & debt stirred me, thoughts of tomorrow,
& tomorrow, & tomorrow.
J.P. Grasser's poems are forthcoming in AGNI, Linebreak, & The Adroit Journal. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, where he is a PhD candidate in poetry at the University of Utah. Find more at www.jpgrasser.com.
Return to May 2016 Edition
more likely a cocktail-alias at the fusion bistro
these days, than a momentous light show.
You know
the place—its kitschy logo
underscored by a lone, scantily-fletched arrow;
upscale, downtown, small-plates, service slow
enough to shame a three-toed
sloth & wall-sconces lit so low
you can’t tell ass from elbow from the ox-bow
running to rust, hung on the portico’s
exposed brick. The drink itself, apropos
of nothing (certainly no
mixology with a lick of sense), blends espresso-
infused rye, a jigger each of Ouzo
& Límoncello,
a splash of Rose’s for that fiery glow,
blood orange garnish—tree-ripened, non-GMO.
I’d like to say my soul drank it all in, the real alpenglow,
from the window
of that Denver-bound redeye, the sun’s crescendo,
the creeping progression—from shadow
to merlot
to cherry, sherbet to canary-yellow
to sun-splotched calico.
I’d like to say I saw god get full-on Van Gogh,
impressing on the snow, aspens, boulders, & ice floe
his divine palette, that some sublime overflow
tickled my noggin to spontaneous clairvoyance. But no.
Only laundry & debt stirred me, thoughts of tomorrow,
& tomorrow, & tomorrow.
J.P. Grasser's poems are forthcoming in AGNI, Linebreak, & The Adroit Journal. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, where he is a PhD candidate in poetry at the University of Utah. Find more at www.jpgrasser.com.
Return to May 2016 Edition