I’m sorry to your craft beer, but I scan the cocktails. 
It’s not that I want a fruity drink— I just can’t pass the citrus. 
I’ve seen berries turn what’s sweet to sweeter then melt to nothing, 
but my mandarin soul could make a stoic pucker. 

My tangerine spine will take up space when it feels sour. 
My clementine memory can linger long enough to turn 
the most pretentious coffee bitter. My orange juice can spoil your taste
for minty peppermint fresh in just one grungy night. 

The lemon in soul can preserve guacamole. The pineapple in my heart
can break the toughest chicken down. My lime veins are always getting 
kissed by bourbon’s hottest fires. My grapefruit blood bathes in coconut’s milk. 
I’m sure you’ve heard that I can’t make up my mind, but I can make my mind into 

any of the things that I will always open myself to. I will let you peel my own
layers by yourself. My love will drip down your skin. You would have to wash
me off to forget me, but you will never want to wash me down, and depending 
on which version of me you choose, you couldn’t even do it if you tried.




(first feat. in The Fulminare Review)