Seasonal Beer

I don’t have an opinion on flavors
saved for special occasions, now that I
write about it, which is half the purpose,
don’t you think? To discover the pieces
of myself I don’t need? The arguing
unnecessary when I don’t believe
my side of the debate in the first place?
I’m not a fan of random pumpkinness,
but that’s a specific instance and should
not fill in for all winter, spring, summer,
and fall taste modulations. Eat what you
will. Enjoy the foods you enjoy. Or don’t.
You don’t need me to tell you what to eat.
This was a stupid poem anyway.


There’s a lukewarm pot of cider on the
stove, homemade, strong enough you can taste the
liquor flavor, not so strong it matters.
It’s mostly ignored for the countertop
bar, one half of the sink lined with plastic,
filled with ice, a nice selection of cheap
and less cheap bottles for do-it-yourself
concoctions. Despite the DIY, I
still adhere to BYOB, Guinness
for me, last year’s lost memory all I
need to keep me from the real competitive
drinking, the taste of everything, the
“Hell, it’s the holidays!” taint in the back
of my mouth. Won’t be a naughty boy, no.

Oatmeal Raisin Cookie

In my insatiable gluttony I
devour disappointment like Zebra Cakes,
not much nutritional value, but I
love the taste, buy in bulk, apparently
have a sweet tooth for sulk. I could at least
pretend it has some health benefits, a
homemade oatmeal raisin type of pain, mixed
with these two hands, baked at the exact right
temperature for however long the
recipe reads, for if someone else says
it’s okay, I can live with that. I’ll have
to adjust my diet, my caloric
intake, not make so many meals of my
disappointments, donate the leftovers.


We played soccer while the turkey slow cooked,
with the Mexicans from the kitchen who
half wanted to celebrate their newfound
Americanness and half were happy
just to have a full day off finally.
We watched football later in the day and
wondered if there were more traditional
sports that could be played, the Pilgrims’ ping-pong,
Columbus’ lacrosse, a Viking type
of tennis, snowballs thrown over the bow
of a long ship after a lengthy trip
into the unknown, some ancient native
game, perhaps, something lost forever to
time and race and smallpox and translation.


We’ve cut pieces of the earth up as stars,
a great pretending where each outstretched hand
is a stand-in for the sun. Watch how the
flowers grow as we pass our thin fingers
over them; see the petals drink in our
life, green all around and through, down to the
roots; admit you feel the warmth that breathes out
from this fist, pulsates with each cold hand shook.
And like the stars it is born from blackness,
cast out from nothingness by nothingness,
an entity existing to exist.
We wear rocks that cannot smudge, with no grime
or dust ever upon them, though still they
dirty our hands even as they light them.

Ice Cream

There are only so many flavors of
sex, the best always the original
recipes, homemade concoctions meant to
combine all your favorite tastes in one
sugary mouthful. The metaphor can
extend to toppings and creaminess, high
and low quality, scoop size, brand and price,
but all I care about is how nice it
makes me feel, life’s little dessert, a sweet
release at the end of a too-long day.
It doesn’t need to be gourmet, so long
as it melts at the right temperature,
and every so often I would love
to be allowed to have it for breakfast.

Election Day Haiku

No sonnet today,
but don’t let that crushing news
stop you from voting!