Message in a Beer Bubble: Ten for Today


Happy hour. A hearty hoppy beer might make things go right for a short while anyhow. Maybe even release the vise grip on my brain. This tension headache brought to you by your local, fucked up telecommunications service. No tv, then no internet, and no rhyme or reason. “We’ll overnight that modem to you, but it will take 3 to 5 business days.” What do you answer to that kind of math?

But at least it forced me to work at my favorite watering hole for some atmosphere, compared to my usual, dull writing environment: dusk-lit room, dilapidated desk over-cluttered, bed beckoning from behind my back, and puppy chewing on my bare feet as I try to focus on a screen that sometimes allows me to reach the world outside–when the internet hasn’t drifted in then out. Today, like yesterday, it’s all out.

And then there’s the election. It’s worse than anything I can remember in my public awareness age. Yes, even Watergate. This trumps all, pun intended. The banana republic antics. It’s hard to stomach any more. It’s like stupid times infinity, as we used to say. We’re sliding speedily down the ice hill in reverse. I can’t watch–but like that carnage on the side of the road, I must. No entertainment. All sadness and nausea. There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach that threatens to swallow my entire body, engulf it in burning bile. 

Or is it just me? I can’t tell any more. As I look into the foamy, golden crystal ball of my immediate future, cold and wet to my clasped hands around its glassy trunk, I ask, “Is it just me?”

She answers from inside a beer bubble, “It’s always been just you.”

Tomorrow it will rain

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Tomorrow it will rain and clean us.

Tomorrow the winds will blow, the

Seagulls cry and the oceans below

Swallow us deliciously deep inside.

Tomorrow it will rain sorrow’s smile

Amniotic wide soothing wild comfort,

As prickly mist-spray freckles faces

That gather and drip in blind rivulets.

The forest hounds heard it first again.

Tomorrow’s earth welled in tears will

Return us breathing wet gilled gasps

Coughing air empty as the promise 

Of flight in flapping wingless arms to

A raging sun’s scourge to proud men.  

But tomorrow’s rain will drown sins of

Stories told and re-told, lies in truth,

Til we too believe the cause-effect, a

Cumuli soothsayer’s scientific stream,

Meteorologist, fortune-teller and god,

Tomorrow it will rain and clean us all.