Outside World Of Beers
(for Diane)
My friend Geoffrey, he’s a poet,
once wrote a poem with the line,
You and me and the department of beer.
My friend Michael and I, who is also a friend of Geoffrey,
often blurt this line out in the middle of a Mets game
or a meal at Chili Peppers
or a walk through the woods somewhere on the planet of Vermont.
You and me and the department of beer.
When Michael’s brother died of cancer, we sang it to one another
to push back the grief
or to hold the grief closer.
You and me and the department of beer.
What is the department of beer?
It’s a song.
It’s a red winged blackbird.
It’s God and God’s horror.
It’s God and God’s happiness.
My friend Mark, he does not know Geoffrey,
but he knows Michael,
in the time of answering machines,
had this as his message:
This is Mark and Musette, not ya Mamma.
I used to call him up just to listen to him shout that out on the tape.
This is Mark and Musette, not ya Mamma.
I did not want to leave a message.
I had nothing to say.
I never have anything to say.
I love to listen.
Words are music and music is words.
Michael and I, in the deep valleys of Ohio,
driving at dusk through the intergalactic paradise of fireflies
in silence
found God.
Once in a while,
because God was too intense to handle for long periods,
we would shout out, This is Mark and Musette, not ya Mamma.
And I forgot to say:
Musette was Mark’s wife
who did not like John Coltrane
and would throw pans at his head when she was upset about the broccoli
but loved to rescue birds.
Oh, beauty in all its forms.
Oh, horror in all of its back-alley shadows.
Sometimes a phrase finds you,
attaches itself to you, a riff, a bar of music,
and it makes you a better person
because you decided to put it inside of your blood.
That’s what friendship is.
I have not seen or spoken to Geoffrey in 25 years
but he is in my blood
and the universe keeps getting bigger
and that is why when people die who you are close with, well,
they get closer to you
in the expanding out of words and stars and songs and poems
that are grief.
That is why you have to drink beer with the living
at a bar called The Starship Bar at The Beginning of Time–
with dudes named Mike, and Mark, and Geoff, and Barb.
You have to raise your glasses to one another
because you are fireflies in Ohio at dusk
who found each other a long time back
before God even existed
or had anything to say to you or the rest of the world.
