i still drink my beer how i drink the sky;
i carry it in a plastic bag as heat pinches its summer cheeks and huffs outward
towards my tilt to blow me over.
i find inspiration in the non-inspiration finding rituals,
the forgetting fucking fart jokes,
squeezing out the marrow of inspiration like some forgotten lore subject blowing jazz in a mid-era kerouac scribed novel.
my coworkers ask me how i frown all the time when i walk down the street but keep a good humor,
i say, 'it's st. louis baby' and leave it at that,
i drag my beer down the sidewalk in a plastic bag
then to the alley for idle consumption somewhat before the porch,
the thing stretches so much as to nearly break
and fizz all over the alley cobblestone,
and, 'that's st. louis baby' i think,
and walk on.