Last Call: Bar Poems, #3

By Randall McNair

Beer goggles, whiskey staggers, and a martini for a muse create an old-fashioned cocktail of toughness in this saloon-centered book of verse.

When it's time to wind down at the end of the day, the comfort of a neighborhood dive can't be beat. But when a poet starts downing drinks, the scribbled marks on his bar napkin result in a raw and rough-hewn look at man's most heartfelt emotions. And with alcohol-driven acuity, this book helps every whistle-wetter, day-drinker, and bartender find new enjoyment in the hardships and happiness of mundane existence.

From hilarious haiku to self-loathing limericks, soul-searcher and award-winning writer Randall McNair's carefully honed craft shines in this drunkenly introspective measure of human consciousness. Covering a wide range of themes that confront the absurdities of life head-on, this collection showcases his willingness to drink the dregs and come back for more. If you've ever thought of poets as staid or incomprehensible, the burn of McNair's high-proof stanzas will transform your viewpoint and take you on an unforgettable journey.

Last Call is the third volume in the Bar Poems series of vividly chaotic verse. If you like honest humor, dark insights, and rhyming under the influence, then you'll love Randall McNair's top-shelf shot of poetry.

Buy Last Call to stagger home to wisdom today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bits of Steak Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735108070

Book preview

AT THE BAR

Inside this bubble

of whiskey and beer, old men

dress their wounds and heal.

THE BEER AT THE SWINGING DOOR SALOON

isn’t one of those warm, half-ass beers

wouldn’t be at home in some swanky, uptown joint

chooses the hefty confines

of its frosty 30 oz. mug,

prefers the parched mouths of mechanics

who pour it past their lips like gasoline

into the great tanks of their guts,

swilling it with little bits of pretzel and steak,

fermentation of grain with bouquet of hops,

while churchgoers walk by saying Look

at those giant drunks!

Beauty isn’t the point here; of course

the beer is beautiful,

but not like Falldrecker at 16,

when his life stood before him like a chiseled god—

no, more like Falldrecker at 47

drinking away his minutes in his dirty double-wide,

his wife and kid asleep in their comfy tract-home

all the way across town—

the wife who doesn’t know yet he is dying

of liver cancer, as she dreams

of a better life—and

she is peaceful at last, her shiny black hair

a sinewy night sky atop her satin pillow case,

and she loved him, she really did love him—

that’s the kind of beer this is.

(Projacked from The Swan at Edgewater Park by Ruth L. Schwartz)

A HASTILY DRAFTED REVIEW

Crying,

the bargirl

bends over

to sweep

the broken beer bottle

from atop the bar mat.

She gets charged

for those.

So anyway, she bends over

and her tight ass

splits

her cutoff jeans.

Sobbing now,

she strips