bitches brew

It’s Hollow’s Eve, a night of costume orgies and bloody whacked eyeballs, traffic and jammed bus lines, armpits and sweatstains in my face, children cackling, their tiny pink hands gripped tight onto trashbags full of Mr. Goodbar and Snickers and Pixie Stix and Raven’s Revenge and promises of trips to the dentist, tired parents chatting business and politik with the parents of kids their sons and daughters are kind to, out of towners screaming obscenities and where-the-fuck-are-yous into chipped slippery cell phones, the embarcadero lit up with people, the liquor in their bellies warding off the cold fog rushing in from the Haight spilling into Market and beyond, girls assemble without thought into groups and take pictures of one another,  capture memories because they are too important to not be cataloged, the drunks stumbling home cursing the MUNI bus driver who still demands fare but even on Halloween dude? cabs pewter out with white young professionals assuming the line, bumming smokes while waiting, is there gonna be a cover? Can your friend get us in? Can he really get us in? and the rain, the rain the rain the rain thwarting or enhancing? everyone’s chances for meeting body to body with the ones scattered about after last call was called, the black doormen too busy flirting with skinny white nurses to give more than even a passing glance at the incoming, now with maglites in their heavy hands, so heavy they could hold you by the throat and break your motherfucking neck, a spotlight in your eyes, swinging swinging high, your pupils temporarily blinded its so fucking bright, somehow, like some UFO beam forcing you outwards again, again into the cold, cold night.