At The Brewery Down The Street – K.G. Newman

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At The Brewery Down The Street

I moved past yelling at clouds and began emailing vile sentiments to every 
advertising executive I could, explaining how their vapid spots are the reason 
I’ll never buy their products again. All believed me except the beer companies.


Those suits rebuffed my dispute that a man and a woman smiling and 
clinking pilsners on the patio were something closer to kitsch than non-fiction. 
If bitterness reflects a false sense of depth — an inability to see beyond hops — 


then a six-pack should get you over it quickly, they said. At that point it was hard 
to argue much more, over a pilsner, while observing truth at the brewery down 
the street. Woman in a red dress, with a well-dressed man. Dark mash thrashing.


As In, Soon


We are both 
   the feeling of passing traffic on a train
and the grime
   impossible to uncrust in the corners of pans
like a reminder
   of when we hid inside an air-conditioned 
   shipping container
   during the years-long 
      haboob.


Opportunities coming with
   an element of Xanax.
Loss following and I 
   dumbed down 
   its definition.


As in, soon, I’d pack my soul
   into a briefcase
   and make plans to build 
   a downtown apartment complex 
   with a catchy name. 
The promise of drywall
   and forty boxes packed with
   thousands of steel nails.

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