The Houston Literary Review

Spring 2006 Poetry Pages

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In this issue we present the narrative realism of Bill Brocato.

He favors the prose styles of Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, and Raymond Carver.

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The Last Thing I Remember

 

...is lying face down
on a concrete slab,
11 pm Christmas Eve.

 

I could hear
St Michael's choir
and felt alcohol sick.

 

my pal, Jose Sena
drives up in
Amado Penas' blazing
green pickup truck.

 

I climb in and
we head down
Canyon Road,
peering out
at small houses’ filled
with Christmas lights.

 

I puke on the
inside of Amando's
pickup door,
pitch myself out
and struggle
to get up off
the frozen street.

 

We pull up front
of Evangelos,
crawl into
Santa Fe’s best
whore-infested dive.

 

Tossin’ tequila,
nasty shit,
we humble shepherds
worshipping neon
and the dark.

 

Later, I
follow the stairs
down. shoot pool
take a couple of bucks,
challenge some others,

go piss, count tossed
nickels in a
cracked urinal
and zip.

 

Tall blond,
pale legs,
scheming thighs
leans over our table.

 

I smell Sodom and Gomorrah.

 

Not long after, maybe
two-three games,
she gets horny,
so I take her in the back

we ease off a toot
chase a few shots
with a Corona,
she grabs my goy
cock.

 

I wrestle her
down onto my
swollen lap,
my face pressed
against her perfumed
thin neck.

 

All I can think is
watermelon pussy,
a black muslim drake.

 

We make it up
the stairs
out across the bar.

I wave at Nick,

the bartender.

 

I push her out
in front onto
the street

we turn left
off San Fransisco
down Galisteo,
near the News

and Fall.

 

Bill Brocato

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