“Eveleigh” by Justin Kinnear

Steer skulls and Edison light bulbs hang

from the ceiling as we talk California slang

over rye whiskey, bitters, cube of ice,

orange slice: Old Fashioned. Beyond

those saloon doors, Sunset traffic

is a slow drizzle of molasses

from an antique spoon. Our high

noon cocktails run dry like killing

time on a Sunday. Armed to the teeth

with words loaded in six shooters

for a sibling rivalry standoff, we

trade gut shot for gut shot without leaving

our barstools and curse the mother-

fucking tourists moseying up to the bar.

Justin Kinnear is in love with Lady Los Angeles and tattoos lines and images of American blues using Bible ashes and guitar strings and whiskey stains and knuckle blood, and calls them poems.  Friends describe him as a moody lyric, an electric misfit, and an unbroken listener—