our friendly fire.


pistol-pestled caffeine
dissolved in whiskey sodas,
off the rocks, too warm for ice,
just two clicking golf balls,
sunk in our johnny fastwalkers.
energized, our sunni caddies
and our ak-47s strung along,
let's take to the dunes.

"my tee, ahmad.
my titantium titleists,
sticky with whiskey.
my 6-iron, ahmad."

we all take our
first swing,
hands choked,
knees bent.

and it finally sinks in.
the way that whiskey
will turn from a gentle warmth
into a syrupy burn, singeing
the heart and lungs in
this dry heat.

this was all just a sand trap.