May 21, 2002
Water. Malted barley. Hops. Yeast. Beer. From a bottle. Not from a can. Drink it down. Or from a glass. Once I met a poet who wrote exclusively about beer. In iambic pentameter, beautiful odes of love dedicated to the one he adored. Sensuous language and surprising similie- beer is love consummated. I scolded him, you are wasting your talent, what of the world outside the bottle, outside the bar? He squinted and told me I didn’t know what I was saying. Now, happily beer tranquilized, I think I understand. Sorry, Matt, keep on writing your glorious verses. Cheers, mate.