Something's rotten in Denmark,
maybe something awash on the beach
in a country where you're never
more than 52 kilometers from the ocean.

Møns Klint stands a spectacular natural wonder
overlooking the endless expanse of the Baltic Sea,
an imposing facade of white chalky cliffs
towering over the vast teal expanse of water.

There's 120 meters
and then there's 120 meters
to the horizonless sea below.

The glaciers of geological prehistory
gave us a stunning sweep, as breathtaking
a seaside vista as you will ever see.

We cure the meat with coarse rock salt, malt vinegar,
coriander, black pepper, garlic, paprika, and time.

We cure the meat until it’s a dried-out husk of rawhide,
until it’s inured against the winter, the rough journey ahead.

We can’t inure ourselves so easily, brine ourselves
against the bacteria and contaminants, and harshness of life.

When you're young,
lust burns like a wildfire,
wild and indiscriminate,
wayward and incandescent,
raging and all-consuming.

When you're older and settled down,
when you've accreted some experience,
a few creases, and maybe some midsection flab,
lust draws you to your yoked partner,
connects you with the reliable stability
of a gift shop magnet plastered to the fridge.

I wandered out of that rock club,
ears ringing with tintinnabulation,
gnarled and deadened ears unable to hear
as I stumbled around the empty courthouse square
searching for my parked car.

That indie band was loud,
loud as hell, loud to the point
where I was deprived of one my vital senses,
at least temporarily,
but I never had a better time.

Cardboard boxes proliferate
all across the empty room
awash with acid sunlight.

Every ending is a new
beginning, every conclusion
a fresh start, a blank slate.

All that serrated packing tape
signifies something more than back
strain and a change of address form.

Beer list:

A hoppy India Pale Ale
A hazy New England India Pale Ale
A West Coast India Pale Ale
An English India Pale Ale
A British Extra Bitter Ale
A Belgian Framboise
A German Hefeweizen
A Chocolate Coffee Porter
Sorrow
A lot of sorrow
Too much sorrow to drown
In the fortuitous marriage of
Hops, grain, and yeast

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth hour, the seventh hour
the fireworks erupted on,
and on and on and on,
like an artillery barrage that was being walked in
on an elusive target it would never strike,
one began to wonder if one would ever be free
of the lingering smog of smoke and the sonic assault on the senses.