Miller High Life: The T.S. Eliot of Beers
Superior ingredients, more grandiose pizza. Papa John’s.
Even when everyone else flicks the switch,
Plunging you in the darkest shades of black and blue—
We’re Motel 6,
And we’ll leave the light on for you.
Celestial currency.
Galactic gold.
Sun loot.
Cosmic cash.
Lunar tender.
Astro-dough.
Starbucks.
Consider us your glow-in-dark ceiling stickers.
Consider us your Batman nightlight.
Consider us your unbiased truth, your unrelenting informant, your flashlight application on your phone.
Democracy dies in darkness.
The Washington Post.
The skeleton in Victoria’s closet. The black cloud swirling in the pit of her stomach. The ominous seawater washing over the furthest corners of her consciousness, never ebbing. Victoria’s Secret.
“Do” is a pretty weak verb, so don’t just “do” it.
Just dominate it.
Just crush it.
Just emulsify it.
Just snag it.
Just liquefy it.
Just crucify it.
Just tear it apart, make confetti out of it, like it’s a New Yorker rejection letter.
Her hair is? The color of sunflower petals.
Her eyes are? The perfect blue of a cloudless summer day.
Her soul is? A glass prism, taking all light that enters it and turning it into a breathless scattering of rainbows, a kaleidoscope of childlike wonder.
She runs on? Dunkin’.
the happiest place on earth?
for some, it’s
gnawing turkey legs
wearing mouse ears
the stomach-drop of that first hill
on space mountain
but for me
it was a different kind of
stomach
drop.
a different hill—
the hill of her heart
gnawing not the dark meat of a turkey leg,
but the dark edges
of her mind
with her wearing nothing
but a smile.
for me,
the happiest place on earth
was those two weeks we spent
lost in space
alone, but together, with the stars—
until her career took off
and she moved to new york
but, sure,
let’s say
it’s Disneyland.
Maybe she’s born with it, maybe her parents knew the dean.
Maybe she’s born with it, maybe they bought those 10K YouTube views on her slam poetry video, I heard a lot of NYC poets do that when they’re first starting out.
Maybe she’s born with it, maybe she’s just a Rupi Kaur knockoff Insta-poet.
Maybe she’s born with it, maybe she once called my free verse piece “trite” and “obvious” and “a little bit jarring” in workshop.
Maybe she’s born with it, maybe no one has ever questioned my merit as a poet before, and it sort of turned me on.
Or maybe? It’s Maybelline.