Tag Archives: guinness

Cider

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.

Poem for Brian McGackin

A short, simple burst of verse that appears
at first mundane, a slacker’s sonnet, a simple
twist of words that somehow still obscure these
patterns, little games of surreptitious puns and
plays on phrase that only the most astute readers
will pick up on, pick upon, between the subtle
allusions to Seal, or Harry Potter, or, inevitably,
soccer, this false banality that hides a sense
of suffering, of Guinness, of meaning that is
all too often missed though it’s clever when it
lets you in and waives its endless turnpike fees,
a strong syllabic voice that set this website
into motion, keeps my sentences on track, even
when he was kind of a dick about it; but in the end
the purpose or intention is made clear, often
through a seemingly non-sequitur saying that sneaks
in at the climax, the culmination of a short
linguistic journey that illuminates in retrospect
the bullshit lines before it: Happy Birthday.

An Official Message From the Boston Police Department: If You Got Arrested at this year’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade – You Probably Did Something to Deserve It

“Congratulations. You’re our first customers today who haven’t come straight to the bar to order Irish car bombs.”

“But…it’s only 12:02.”

“…”

“And you guys don’t open til noon.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve only been open for 2 minutes.”

“…”

“And there’s no one else here.”

Yeah.

“…”

“…”

“…Oh.

“Yeah.”