Thursday, April 7, 2011

Happy Thursday!

The critical opening phrase of this poem will always be the first beer. Which the hands unite to form a single unit by the simple overlap of the little finger. Lowly and slowly the beer is poured. Pulled into position not by the hands, but by the body which turns away from the target shifting weight to the right side without shifting balance. Tempo is everything; perfection unobtainable as the body coils down at the top of the pour. Theres a slight hesitation. A little nod to the gods...

Yeah, to the gods. That he is fallible. That perfection is unobtainable. And now the weight begins shifting back to the left pulled by the powers inside the earth. It's alive, this beer! A living sculpture and down through contact, always down, striking your lips crisply, with character. A tuning fork goes off in your heart and your balls. Such a pure feeling is the first beer on a Thursday. Now the follow through to finish. Always on line.

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