beer

Brewing Beer

poetry

—for Mike

I can make a clone
if you give me the right ingredients.

Brewer: Me.
As far as batch size is considered,
taste my preferred draft first and if you like it enough, have as much as you want.
The color should come as no surprise: Dark—one might say brooding—and ambiguous with a bite.
Yes, it’s very bitter.
ABV? It’s called intoxication for a reason. The less I have to think, the better.
And most of my fellow brewers would agree.
I call it the All American Dream Ale.
Equipment? My equipment, of course. It’s all anybody’s got.
The Boil Time is all day, every day. Never know when you’ll need to be ready.
Don’t want to be caught unprepared.
Mash Profile: Single infusion, heavy body(burdensome even), and a lot of mash out.
Taste Rating: As long you’re not a connoisseur you won’t be able to tell the difference.

I can make gallons of this stuff
so close, you can’t tell I’m a counterfeit.

on my birthday

poetry

i want beer and yellow cake with
sprinkled frosting and then another
beer i want sunshine and wind
in my hair (or across my baldness)
i want donuts and beer and donuts
then more donuts and people
to tell me i’m special by giving
me beer and donuts and most of
all i don’t want people to leave
me notes on my facebook

beer, pipe, poop, lard

poetry

as the rings rise and hold steady
slowly thickening the medium that is the air
making it harder and harder to see our friends
sitting across the table as we hold a beer
and thumb over pipe after ring blown
through ring talking beer and then poop bad
idea after bad idea returning to already argued
points again and then once more simply to remind
us that none of us is anywhere near to the perfect
we’re glad we never dreamed of and then
it’s off for a midnight run to the arches of gold
where they say if satisfaction wasn’t found in the
beer than maybe it can be found in a quarter pound of
lard

because life really ends up being just about one thing – its just a question of how long until you finally own up to what you already know

poetry

giving up i
purchase a new gaming system on the way home
stop by the liquor store and pick up a bottle (or eleven)
order pizza and return home to rip my clothes from my body
stripped to my boxers i stand before
the monster screen i’ve earned through years of
something like hard labor
and burn new callouses in my thumbs
and cataracts in my eyes
passing two hours four hours ten hours – more
i drink and i drink
i play and i play
i order food and order more food
i indulge in any and everything i can possibly
afford in an effort to squander my savings
before my eyes close for rest
seeking comfort and hope and joy in a hopeless world
red eyed and naked
i forsake the cleanliness of my couch for the convenience
of not visiting the bathroom
and press on and press on and press on

lying sick and pre-hung over (quite drunk still
if you will)
i open my eyes and cry myself back to sleep
knowing i must return to the thing
the only thing
which brings meaning to my life
wishing i could abandon it and hope for something
new
perhaps different

suit and tie
replace fecal matter and i
showered climb
into my honda civic
and return to my hopeless world

my beerlema

poetry

i really want a beer now
but i dont want a beer now
because i also want a beer later
and i cant have both a beer now
and a beer later
two beers in one day isn’t a problem
except that i want two beers everyday
and two beers every day isn’t a problem
except that then i have three beers every day
and when i have three beers
some days i want four beers
and five beers is really too many
so i have to refrain from a beer now
for feer of beer too beerquently