Last Night

*Disclaimer: This writing uses language some may not like to read. Skip it if you'd like.

Last night, after seeing Ryan before he went home, I went to Lou’s, sat, wrote. I left, bought cigarettes, and sat at the Language building to call Amanda, but she didn’t answer. I made my way to Riprocks, bought a dollar beer, sat and wrote. I left, went to Lou’s – nobody was there, so I left.
Headed for Andy’s at the square – quite a walk away – I stopped at an intersection to wait for crossing traffic when I heard someone say, “Hello!” I looked over my shoulder and he waved. “You want a ride somewhere?” he asked in a polite, flamboyant voice. He was overweight, balding. I said, “Sure!” and got in. The light changed green. “Just shove that stuff over!” he instructed in a hurry. “Hell, just sit on the shit! Help me out here, we gotta go!” I moved the things with some help from the passenger, and got in the back seat. “What’s your name, honey?” asked the driver and he reached his hand backward, lightly. I shook it, said, “I’m Brian.” The passenger sent his hand back and greeted me. The driver said, “You can call me Big Mama. This is Dan.”
The three of us drove down Oak Street, toward the square. Big Mama greeted the car next to us at a stop light. “Oh, you’re pretty, honey.” The light changed, the car drove off. “Come to karaoke,” he invited. “Well, I’m on my way to see some friends at Andy’s.” “Well fuck them. Come to the Boiler Room.” “What’s the Boiler Room?” I asked. “Oh, you know. Half straight, half gay. It’s fine.” “Well, maybe I’ll meet you there later.” We passed by occupied space after occupied space on the square. “Really? A fucking motorcycle taking up my spot?” The car from the stop light passed us. “Fuck you, honey. You’re ugly,” Big Mama shouted. We pulled forward, turned right into a parking lot, and Dan spoke up. “You’re gonna put me all the way over here?” “Oh, deal with it bitch.” We parked, got out, I said thank you, Big Mama invited me again, and I told them, “I’ll go to Andy’s and probably stop by here later.”
I did stop by Andy’s, only saw two old friends, briefly. And I did go to the Boiler Room. Wretched singing burst through the doors and I walked inside and down some steps. I handed my ID to the guy at the door and another man was walking toward me with a cane. “Oh, sorry,” I said, and moved my backpack and suitcase out of the way. “That’s right. You better get the fuck out my way,” and he continued up the stairs, grumbling, “I’m ready to” grumble grumble… “What have I gotten myself into?” I joked with the bouncer. I could give a damn about an asshole. The bouncer ended our exchange much more polite than he started. He had to give that little basement bar of half gays, half straights, and a single ass, old man a face lift. I walked to the bar, “You got a minimum on cards?” All I had was a debit. “Five bucks.” “Ah,” I slanted my mouth in a line of disappointment. “Alright, sorry,” and I headed back out the door where the bouncer had since gotten a tissue and continued to dig through his nose.
I went to the coffee shop, bought one cup, sat on my computer, made plans to meet an old friend and her boyfriend and his friends at a pool hall. She said, “Me and the boyfriend and his friends are,” so on, letting me know ahead that I wouldn’t end my night with her. It was good of her. But I got there and there she was, beautiful. She has a bright smile, long brown hair to the middle of her back, she’s thin with long legs and the bulbs of her knees protruded through strategic holes cut in her jeans. “It’s too bad you’re with him,” I wanted to tell her. Of course I didn’t, and I was polite to Matt and his friends, but we didn’t talk much. I’d arrived to see Cady, so we talked a while. Ended up seeing Austin from the party over the weekend – got his number. “Let me know if you wanna go to Austin this weekend or next, it doesn’t matter to me.” We agreed to let each other know, I have his number, he has mine, and he told Cady, “Sorry to interrupt.” “I don’t remember what I was talking about,” she said to me. “Your boyfriend was bi and Big Mama wanted to sleep with him?” Apparently, Cady had had a run-in with Big Mama before. He told Cady she was a cover-up and that, “Really, Mario’s gay.” Cady and I chatted a bit more and I rolled a cigarette for the road. We hugged goodbye and I stepped outside. I set down my suitcase, struck a match, lit my cigarette and made my way to Cool Beans to meet with Jamie.
We each had a beer, sat at a booth and talked about this and that, then went to the sandwich shop for fifty cent day-old bread. They were out. “We have fresh bread.” “How much is that?” “Two dollars.” I looked at the menu. A dollar more would get me a sandwich, but it was already 2 in the morning. I didn’t really have to eat – couldn’t afford it anyway. “I’ll give you a loaf for free,” I heard. I leaned forward, “What was that?” “I’ll give you a loaf for free if you pay for it.” How clever of him.
Jamie and I left, saw EB at his usual spot selling his herbal blends to relax, stimulate, focus, or cleanse your body. “Where you headed?” his friend, who happens to also be called Dan, asked me. “Not sure yet,” I told him. That was bullshit. I like to play up what I’m doing to the level of romance that may keep someone interested. I know what I’m doing, where I’m headed – well, I know sooner or later. I told EB I was just at Jimmy Johns and couldn’t afford the two bucks they wanted for bread, so I couldn’t buy tonight. “Well you should just do what I do.” “What’s that?” EB liked to say a quick something then pause. He’s a Renaissance Fair guy and loves to entertain and draw you in. “Go to Seven Eleven and get two hot dogs for two dollars.” “Wow, you’re right!” I exclaimed. In my mind I planned to do that the next day. EB and his friend kept talking about the good deals at Seven Eleven. I could only think about how terrible the food there is – terrible for you – which is how it usually goes when something tastes that “good.” (We all know it doesn’t truly taste good, but we think it does, as our mind turns grease and lard into flavor so that we can make it through good ol’, Yankee Doodle American food.) Dan talked about how cheap things used to be and so on and at a pause in there somewhere, I said, “Well, I don’t wanna keep her waiting,” and Jamie and I were off. “Good luck EB. See ya soon.”
We got to Jamie’s place. She opened the door, we stepped in, I set down my things, and she got busy to work setting me up with a place to sleep. She turned on the space heater. She got me two fleece blankets. She handed me another blanket her grandmother had knit. She handed me a bed comforter and a pillow. She asked if I needed water. I didn’t. She came back from the kitchen with two boxes of Teddy Grahams. “You better take those with you tomorrow,” she demanded. “You don’t want them?” “I bought ‘em thinking I do. Apparently I don’t.” She’d had them since November. It was presently February. I was settled in. Jamie handed me a DVD to watch and she went to bed. Her cat laid next to me on the floor, wheezing with allergies, sneezing. I woke up the next morning. The cat sat on the back of the couch at the window where the sun shined through. The cat snored. I was covered in the cat’s hair. I wrote a while under my blankets before getting ready for the day, out the door, back down those streets.

Friday Night, Walking

A yellow, plastic dump truck, a kid's bike with training-wheels, two lawn chairs and a grill, all lit by amber porch light; white lights shine inside. I walk through mild fifties under high cirrus clouds that dim the stars, but certainly not more than these street lamps. The middle school facade is lit brick, bright and proud.

This Can't be Right

A handful of clouds are lit pink on top where the sun's last Sunday light can reach, shadowy violet on bottom. Jet-setters soar by - birds perch on decrepit limbs of Winter's trees.
I've thought about drinking all day, and finally, "Brian, you want some wine?"
"I'd better not."
"You better not?"
I ignore the question, step outside.
I let my heart be wrenched by possibility of a past lover's moving forward - foolish me - so I sit with a cigarette; punish my lungs for my heart's childish hurt.

Continuing...

Continuing...

brian s gore
These are, my boggled thoughts in synchronized letters, typed from cold, dry, rashy hands. My narrow cheeks itch behind three months of trying to grow a beard. I’ll roll this cigarette.
I sit in a heatless house with a squeaky door at the porch on the side of a mountain alone.
I listen to inspiration.
In cigarette fogged dim – poets penetrate the silence. A cursor awaits my next words, which could mean less than those before them, which could mean not much at all. Someone needed to know what I was thinking, though.

Computer in my lap, smoke between my lips –
my itching eye-lids flake dead skin – my chin and throat and elbows are red with rash from dry desert cold and arid winds that seep through the windows and doorjambs – I drink water equally cold and dry – I drag.
One light glows inside, one outside, the fridge-motor stops humming with a click and the deck-door slams with each gust, otherwise silence.
My keyboard clicks by my mechanist fingers. “Hold my cigarette,” I tell them.
In my bed on the couch in the living room of a three bedroom mobile-home, I shiver.
In a hearthless house, I’m surrounded by echoing silences pummeling each other like waves.
Tempests bang drums in my migraining mind and I wonder – who is beyond this?

Why doesn’t know Conundrums are infinite, so the only way to follow one is to be at the center, with every eye open. They whirl about you, the ever diminishing veins of a single leaf found in a cyclone of brothers and sisters falling from their parent branches. Why must crows stay, reminding of stark winter’s sorrow? Trees in autumn are a ticker-tape parade, but it all fades the same. It’s just another claim to say that time is worth anything material. Pennies saved amount to pockets full of copper, green finger tips. Eventually, I’ll have enough to have something else. Why is that worth?

I still can’t afford this smoke (altered significantly since first printing) I sit in Texas’ musty Summer evening and see more jet-setters than stars in the sky. I feel free yet trapped
on old brick porch-steps; slugging a beer, listening to beats; and I still can’t afford this cigarette.


“My Fingers”
“Monetary systems are as true as a Geo-centric universe,” I tell them.
“And further, Life has no center.
It’s permanent as a cliff’s face, meaningful as erosion, and
creates as it simultaneously destroys.
There, I’ve said it.”
Back in my pockets, they fidget with coins.