0303
9802
2004

I see curves everywhere.
Curves on
the tidal wave,
spreaded peanut butter on a toast,
the crescent moon, and
a women's waist.
But the one curve I need is
the cold beer that crashes into the bottom of
an empty, chilled glass.

Do you remember the day we bought our beers, packed our bags and made our own party on the hill beside our building? It was just you and me and the sun. We were celebrating the first warm day of spring, but you still insisted on stouts, and they quickly lost their cool in the sunlight but I didn't mind. I brought my camera and photographed the wind curling through that blue and green sundress you loved, and you danced as if you were a leaf in autumn.

Until you spilled your beer, to which I reacted only with regrettable anger. You stopped dancing.

That lead us inside, away from the sunlight, to end the memory. You never wore that sundress again, and didn't enjoy those stouts the same way. We never celebrated another change of season, and I never again photographed you in the wind.

I'm really enjoying this little beer,
Each sip doth speaketh un to me.
The green tint glass seems so sincere,
As if the bottle also ponders me.

And when I finish this little beer,
I'll roll a smoke regretfully.
As the bottle sits so empty clear,
It's label will plead its identity.

no weapons, no drugs.
he had the eyeballs of an aztlan prince.
touches water.
touches hot-grill to meat /repeat/
/replete with cerveza.
                to roil in love of sun said lights, all things lovely.
                to return by city driven lights, lake to shore to shoulder.

[to sleep.]

[to dream.]

dad is on the grill, cookin’ up something scorched.
swill is on the lake, skiin’ up something else.
sweat &
stretching lungs, the sun busting gut.
unseen, bikini pink
& green sauce.
pass the tortillas.

winterous: awake.
ice-fish and stoke the pipes of flash and holy hash.
ice-fish our favorite frozen mass.
we all grow beards,
untrusting of men who wobble blades to their faces on the daily.

spring sprung and spigot. we
return to blushing shores of wet rocks
& girlfriends.
girl bands exploding amps from atop houseboats
in styles of the highly drunk and tameless.
plucked in memory
of the ******* to come before them.

He's a modern day cowboy
Drinking beer in a bar with rap
He rode up in a sixty-seven mustang
Wearing jeans made by the Gap

Never says a word to no one
If he does it's only to mumble
He drinks his beer by the hours
The barkeep can only grumble

From time to time on occasion
A female patron has been known to try
To get him to open up
But they get nothing whenever they pry

The tags on his car read 1998 from Texas
It's full of everything he owns
His head is full of tumbleweeds
On the road is where he calls home

There are no rings round any of his fingers
No necklace around his tight tanned throat
He orders another Lone Star beer
He's actually from Terre Haute

No more warring over God knows what.
No fretting over business matters.
Embrace the silence that precedes the dawn,
Or settles over a red-horizoned twilight.

Just chill on a slumbering beach licked
By a rippling ocean, as the sun sinks down.
Breathe deep and slowly and stay calm as you recline
On softening waves of slumbering sand.

Imbibe that smooth clear golden beer, its snowy head
Soothing your taste buds as it slithers down your throat.
Enjoy the glow of a chasing-whisky
As it spreads to parts that only it can reach.

Lay back and slumber down to dreaming
Peaceful scenes: remembering happy days
When all was well with the world in which you lived.

Sleep well, surrounded by peaceful people:
Miles of smiles from folk just loving life.

Paul Butters

Wish this was beer in my hand
Instead of mtn dew
So I could semi attempt
To forget about you

s.j.d

There was once a family of slugs
That lived in a cabbage patch town
They went out everynite to eat
Found a cabbage and began to munch down

All through the night they could reduce
A cabbage to a stalk in the ground
All night they would munch and munch
But you would never hear then , nary a sound

But Mrs. H was becoming fed up
Her patch was the proudest around
With malace , blood red , she schemed
She vowed to eliminate all those clowns

She purchased the best poison they had
She tried every trick she had read
But the slugs just kept on coming
Every night, long after it was bed

Then a local wino for he said
Out of the garden he could take
These inconsiderate gluttonous
Stylommatophora Pulmonates

So he began by opening a beer
Placing some into a sphere
Putting them by each cabbage head , he said
"This will make those slugs disappear"

But by morning the cabbage was gone
Worse yet so was the beer and
If you looked even more closely tiny signs saying , "Next time make it import you here !"