httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zu0uOONkX-E

As I rule I suggest you marry yourself first. Take a moment. OK. Today we will marry a chapbook with a domestic beer.

“Lost and Found” (elimae stories) is glow for the hammock, though I suggest an older model, one swaying for seasons and made of fishing line—as in cutting into flesh–and below it a brush pile with a brown rat you name Brown Rat. You feed Brown Rat crumbling Cheetos. I think these flashes are fragile, about to collapse, falling, as in you/me/us…They disintegrate you forward.

She’s ruined this before.

Abfulled Plank Road (Miller) since 1885, Icehouse pours to a golden yellow, basically the color of human urine in the later stages of renal failure, but don’t let my description (sorry, former RN here) put you off your feed. You probably have some hazy nostalgia—possibly college, a dorm room bathtub full of ice and balthazars of beer?

“I’m not very modern, I’m afraid,” she said.

Outdated things make me sad, like the word, “howdy.”

At 5.5 % alcohol, you will want to trouble the whole thing into your gullet. Swish and swallow. Yes, it is raw on the throat, but the gods exact a price for swimming, even if only the eddies of the brain. All the way or nothing, really.

What It’s Been

“Perform, bitch,” she said. “That’s my life, what it’s been.”

She stood up, then sat back  down. I put my feet in her lap, and let her touch my toes. In many ways, this felt as ordinary as anything else.

You will note a substantial amount of foam, a speckle of flotsam, settling quickly into a ring, what us semi-oeneologists call lacing.

Cousins sat around like petals.

I like the blue of the chapbook cover and beer label. It’s the sort of blue that could take you places you would regret and return to. I have hemorrhaged before on a similar blue.

His ice blue cell phone in his back pocket like folded money.

Sweet and bitter, a smidgen of grainy undertone, like a well-chosen ______. I would say the taste of the liquid and lees is like running past a stable of small horses.

His tongue tasted like fruit and tacos. Sweet and sour and rude.

There is a process note: “How I work—Meg.”

I never read process notes.

Cooper Renner is badass at the visual arts, too, sometimes we forget that…

I keep reading Meg’s work everywhere. She is brew master of flash, I feel. I was thinking, She must have a book coming. She does, soon, Press 53.

…the theatre of my inner eye…

These qualities often came bundled together.

It isn’t what she says, but how she says it.

Indeed.