A Few Words on Last Tuesday Night

At the Map Room, Guinness emits beautiful darkness like a black light. I hear the St. Ambroise Oatmeal stout is thick enough to walk on, so next time I'll drink that instead. During the school year I make lists of things to do later. Many times I’m just observing things that are beautiful. Well, that’s nice to see I say. Or I enjoyed eating that. And then I slip into quiet anxiety and grade. Outside I release my bike from its wretched On Guard u-lock, which is purely for appearances. That lock once fell apart in my hands in April rain. The droplets were too much and it disassembled. I think it is now held together by prayers and summer dust. Across the street three men were deciding where to park their motorcycles. They nudged around a BMW and kept reversing to get a full turn on the thin side street, Hoyne. The men were groaning and taking off their helmets to assess things better. “Don't, no--just, please do not hit the beamer,” said one. I stopped to admire the tenderness of these guys settling their roaring machines in place. Riding west on Armitage I caught the smell of Nehi grape pop, which is the scent of summer. Brianna says it is a sewer I am smelling, but she is not here in the present of my riding, so I think, Maybe a little sewer. And maybe the Blommer Chocolate factory on Kinzie blending with the leather tannery on Ashland and raw leaves. On my headphones I am listening to The Brokedowns/Slow Death split EP. The night heat is so exceptional that I do not want to go home, so I loop around and let the EP repeat, though only on The Brokedowns side. Songs are a language I’ve been trying to learn for fourteen years. And I still do not know it, so I ride around the block again.