the mission

To provide a forum for the intersection of spirit and art - a place to share what creations we must manifest to continue living in a meaningful way.


I'm open to what develops here - poetry, fiction, non-fiction, images, videos, quotes, insight - mainly looking at this blog as a record or shared diary in a spirit of playfulness and inspiration....mental froth, mind's eye materialization, and life songs lost and found.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Blazing Paddles


Ode to my beer sampler at Deschutes Brewery, Portland, Oregon.

Red Wheat: She had a more bitter beer on her lips than I had expected.  She took my breath away and sent it on a bus on a microbrewery tour through Portland. “Why can’t I go too?” I blurted, envious of my own breath. Redheads have always had an easy way with me and her untraditional smoothness made me forget we were sinking even deeper.  As her wheat-colored hair whipped my face, I drank thirstily of her oral cavity. “I’m gonna want a tip,” she said like a sweaty waitress. “Just the tip?” I interpreted incorrectly. She finished me. 

Whiskey Coleman Oak-aged Stout: I was shocked by the taste, locked into curiosity, nay, bewilderment.  The beer knocked on the door of my tongue, ran away when I answered,  knocked a second time with some mustard-covered juggernaut. My house, self-assured knower of basic ales, unprofessional but not inexperienced finally stuttered, “Come on in” and had to redesign it’s kitchen for the guest. “...‘nother whiskey shot,” the beer stated clearly. A virgin to whiskey I gulped again and wondered what prophylactic could protect me as Stout gushed through the windows. 

Genevrier Wit:  Sipping this beer is to lay down in a grass field in the summer with a thin-lipped woman who kisses quickly. Dust remembered from too good a place. A short shower, a subtle power. A tease of breeze on a humid day.  All this to enjoy between good friends. 

Strong Man NWPA:  “Is this beer?” I wondered at first.  So much like...which juice? Papaya? Perhaps. Another sip. The first tongue touch is citrus but the mid and after taste...wait, no....definitely grapefruit juice. A slappy fella.  Rumination: Old Tropical.  Faces: the sky.  Drink: undrownable, thinkable, more than beer. 

Chainbreaker: Full disclosure demanded, this beer broke through my mouths’ walls speaking, “Tell all, tell all!”  A conversationalist, interogatting, IPA. “Why are beer and urine cousins?” “Well, I do remember urine after drinking this beer......and drinking of course leads to urination. If a ‘coner’ is a boner for your cousin this beer has a stiffy as thorough as a bladder  infection. Not bad, mind you. 

Nitro Obsidian Stout: if it was an orgy, I would save you, German Lady, for last.  A truely dark brunette babe with hips I have yet to touch. Take me to your delicious tavern and turn out the lights. After a little, I want alot.  Like to be stuck underground with you after apocalypse. Black out my liver. Midnight my mind. I forget coffee. You delete chocolate. Only you.  I welcome winter.

C.I.A. Dave

Day 2, Coffee: The CIA man in his 50’s style Panama hat and aviator sunglasses called himself, “Dave.” He called his coffee, “Doris” and asked the same barista for her each morning as a matter of course. The fan rotated and it seemed to scatter coffee grounds and raw sugar dust into the air. 0800 and I was already sweating. 

The CIA Dave stared quickly at me with beady steel eyes then quipped to the bar, “Make Doris strong today, Muchacho, I’m taking her to Portland.” For a moment I felt bad that Doris, or anyone for that matter, had to travel in someone’s bladder. Then again, maybe it was a first class bladder and Doris was a happily coupled woman. The more I thought about Doris, the more I wondered if my coffee wasn’t too sweet, too watery, too unfeminine. 

I lifted myself to the bar and said more boldly than I had said anything, in a voice reminicent of my puberty but amplified, “ I’ll have Doris too, please.” 

Blank stare from the server. I could feel CIA Dave’s eyes on my back, heard a sound like a hand reaching for a gun. The fan came to a stop.  I silently ‘sharted.’

My chin hit the bar and I broke a tooth or two.  Warm blood pooled in the front of my mouth. CIA Dave held my head to the bar by my hair. “Is that enough Doris for ya, punk? Maybe you want a shot?” He punched me in the kidney and it crippled me, that is to say, my legs buckled. I tried to keep myself up by holding onto the barstool but I hit the floor. The gun pointed at me. “Maybe that shot wasn’t strong enough? Maybe you want another?”

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