whiskey in the evening

I remember whiskey in the evening,
Clear and concise,
With just enough room at the top,
To follow the virtue or discipline in
Preserving for the next night’s sitting.

I remember Mersault and the Sun,
And reading under the sun,
So easy it was to be irrational,
And find it all meaningful.

And I remember Raskolnikov -
His theory of the Extraordinary -
And mimicking the drawn-out mumblings
Of a disgruntled consciousness.

I remembering reading:
Being an Optimist without Hope,
Bearing that chain around my neck,
Or finding salvation,
Through the mutterings
Of the Underground Man.

All so exciting and promising,
To an eager mind
As “Steet Spirit” would fade
Into the walkman in my mind.