Bards & Brews Reader

Shotgunning Beers in the Parking Lot of the Country Club


A zenith of blurts
cast on cement, fraudulent
beer induced floaters
piled to invention
by force of light, father of
thought, they faltered
crepuscular like grass
on the slick side of
some pooler in water, still
cool in the breeze
as gradient blue
as a PowerPoint
option. In this city
airless mausoleum,
tepid as email, watery
as Hamm’s, night is a badge
of freedom for the young
and if I squint I can see
a me I still remember.
With enough money,
anything is possible.

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