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.