Tuesday, September 01, 2015

the darkest hour

A man sits alone in a park. The steel bench he's on is covered with a relatively broad canopy of trees. The wind blowing through their branches produces a subtle sweeping noise along the length of the interconnected foliage. The sun slices through in small rays, taking advantage of the few bare spots in order to ignite the pathway in front of him in small pieces. He procures a newspaper and sets it on the bench next to him, sure to be quiet. He extends both arms on the bench and takes a deep breath, allowing his head to loll on his neck, falling back, gentle as the breeze. He can hear the faint bustle of the wind through the leaves before he lets his breath out. There is no one else around. With his eyes still closed the man reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and removes a small revolver which he places to his temple. Calm and smiling, he pulls the trigger. The click of the firing pin against the empty chamber makes a small noise, an absent-minded pen tap on the table as you struggle with a form at the doctor’s office, a nervous finger when they inform you that you are manic-depressive bipolar with schizoid tendencies and that clinic is your best chance at departing in comfort. Medicated. Separated from the world, its guilt, its eradication of happiness and love. The man places the revolver back into his coat, gathers the newspaper, and walks away.

Monday, August 31, 2015

every weekend

Every weekend I go out I constantly have the same hope. I anticipate I’ll come across some guy who’s secretly considering the same thing and he’s eager the weekend holds what would be a miracle.
Before or when I’m out I usually take a few shots, enough to get tipsy. I make an effort to be ready for an occasion that has never happens. Most of the time I enjoy myself when I go to parties although I am always looking for a guy. My nerves are low and I browse for eye contact….I don’t know any other way to do it. I’m a relatively good conversationalist so that makes parties all the better, and I suppose it eases in accomplishing mission: find a guy. When talking to random men at parties I’m hoping for the smallest indicator. Throughout the party it always becomes apparent that there aren’t any other gay men…or I simply didn’t discover them.
Needless to say, it’s Friday night and foolishly, my hopes are high again. I aspire nothing more than to have a successful mission.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Saturday, August 22, 2015

ruined

There nothing like teen ass, I thought as I pushed into the young man with daddy issues; they were always so tight, so fresh, so naive, so easy to manipulate, to control. Like little Francisco here, wriggling and grinding and whimpering and groaning on the end of my cock like a speared fish, the raven-haired twink I had met two hours prior while strolling through a local park. So needy, so desperate for attention it had been almost too easy.
So you live around here? Yes. That’s good. What do you do for a living? Me? I’m a writer. What about yourself? I attend the Uni. I am taking economy classes. I want to open my own business one day. Your own business, that’s a tough nut to crack. I never met a writer before. Are you a journalist? No, nothing mundane as a journalist. I write novels. What do you write about? Ha…garbage apparently. Oh, they can’t be that bad. No, not that bad. You want a horchata or something. Yes, it’s hot this afternoon.
I yanked hard on his hair and twisted my grasp around his thin neck, his back arching, his asshole twitching around my jabbing erection, his copper-colored flesh so smooth, so beautiful, his ass tight and wet I had to hold myself back as I began lunging into him. I began to fuck him brutally, overwhelming the bucking teen, feeling him tremble beneath me.
Where are your parents? My mother passed a few years ago of cancer. I’m sorry. Me, too. I miss her. My father is still alive. You talk to him? No. Not anymore. He’s a monster. I hate him. He was a fiend when we were kids. Very bad father. Me, too. My mother is still around. My father, too. But he is drunk most of the time and beats my mother a lot. Yeah, that’s tough. Why is it family’s the worst? Aren’t those the ones who are meant to understand and console you in this mad world? I chose to separate myself from them. The lies, guilt, false accusations. You are very young. I like older men, though. Do you? Yes. How old are you? Nineteen. Well, that’s just dandy.
When, after almost fifteen minutes of pounding into him, his slippery asshole drooling its need all over my cock and down his hairless thighs, I jerked my cock from him and flipped him over, pushing his slender teen legs wide apart so I could drill him as deeply as possible, the expression on his wasted face was priceless, his hair sticking to his sweat-covered forehead, his lips open, his jaw slack, his eyes dull, empty.
I hate my life. Why? Life is good. No, it is not and the thing I really hate is when people attempt to convince me it will get better. It will not get better. Ever. If anything, it gets worse. It’s what you make of it, I suppose. Then I’m fucked. Do you ever think of killing yourself? Constantly. The dire matter is I never can bring myself to do it. However the thought hangs over me like a thick, suffocating fog. That’s not healthy. I am not healthy. Are you crazy? You have no idea.
I look down and he retains the face of a fucked-out doll, gaining momentary animation as I slammed my hips forward, burying my erection deep into his spasming hole, his back arching, a moan escaping his gasping lips as I continued to fuck the teen, thinking how much fun it was going to be to completely and utterly ruin him for every man who came after him.

Friday, August 21, 2015

new town, new therapist

I keep my eyes plastered on the increasing numbers next to the elevator door. It makes me silently sigh and shift my weight from right to left. I can feel my face flush when I remember the man standing behind me. His presence makes my shoulders hunch, slightly. Ever so slightly. Why am I holding my breath? Why is the floor to the new therapist’s office so far away? An new therapist. My old one of thirteen years back in El Paso decided to quite on me. Damn him.
When I hear a ding and the doors open, I give a polite smile as I step off. The man only has a view of my back. Why did I smile? The sound of my heels on the marble floor makes me shudder, slightly. Ever so slightly. The hallway is endless and the lights are so bright. My eyes tear with feeling so exposed. Passing doors to the right and left, their numbers blur together. My destination being the door at the end of the hall. A red door. A numberless door.
I ignore the buzzer on my right side, just for a moment. The palm of my hand, fingers spread open, glides up the length of the door, slightly. Ever so slightly. The side of my face presses against it, breathing paused as I try to pick up anything audible on the other side. Silence. Comforting silence. Exhale. Eyes close, mouth parting, neck twisting as my whole body gently pushes up against the door. Inhaling and holding it, my chest feels tight. As consciousness begins to slip, I stumble backward and into reality again. In embarrassment I quickly press the buzzer with my head hanging, slightly. Ever so slightly. With a click the knob turns. With a minor groan the door gently opens.
The lighting is dim inside, for which I am eternally grateful. The carpet plush on my hobbled feet. A single pane of glass encompasses the entire wall on the far side. It is night. Did I know it was already nightfall? A sea of city lights gaze up below me. The expansive room is empty save for two low-backed armchairs in a dueling position, a standing lamp between them. Why have I come here? Should I turn and run? Should I throw myself from this colossal window to the illuminated maze below?
My body has tripled in weight as I make my way toward the chair on the right. Does it matter which chair I take as mine? As the backs of my legs make an awful sticking sound to the leather chair I can feel my palms begin to sweat, slightly. Ever so slightly. Am I having a heart attack? Will I urinate on myself? Or worse, on this chair? I don’t see a clock, but I can hear the relentless ticking.
The slightly shivering shadow, sitting across from me utters a sound, "Where shall we begin?"
I mumble, slightly. Ever so slightly. "You tell me."

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

that’s what tomorrow is for

“Here we go”, Cesar stated, “Another round before we all succumb to cancer or swine flu or whatever bullshit that'll cause us to become more relatable as characters” - his delighted morbidity was a trait I, to this point, found to be quite endearing.
He poured two modest glasses of well-aged tequila, tossed a couple limes in each, and slithered across the hot, cigarette-butt littered bar floor with them - each of his hundred-million eyes were locked onto both of mine. His cheap summer shirt – a too short, wrinkly, white thing smudged with god knows what - clung to the bones of his lanky torso, except the parts where bits of caramel-colored flesh popped out like a broken can of biscuits. I probably loudly swallowed.
"So, what we waitin’ for?” He beckoned. “I don’t got a lot of time left”. I sighed a heavy sigh and felt the cartilage in my neck crack and then separate, releasing what I imagined to be some sort of fossilized, gaseous, tar. Liberated from the innermost workings of all of the accumilated aches of all of the creatures on the planet, ongoing since the dawn of time. Seventeen billion years’ worth of stress had dissipated from the train wreck of a body I’d been lugging around the previous five months. It was a nice moment.
“To heck with it", I croak.
I took the beverage and threw it all down into my insides. Herds of rhino and buzzing insects. In the back of my mind, a voice, That was really a mistake. Sorry, honey, that’s what tomorrow is for. Tomorrow is for dealing with now’s mistakes.
Cesar, now apparently super pleased to see I’d decided to join him on whatever lascivious adventure he’d been cooking up, was already holding the swinging bar door open for me.
Leaving the cantina, we scurried toward a taxi waiting for us in the rain. Its headlamps shone toward the bins. Broken caguama bottles, used condoms, needles.
He smelled a bit like mold, nonetheless his smile was a bug catcher and my entire heart crumpled like a stink bug who lost its limbs to some miserable child with a magnifying glass and a free afternoon. He could scoop me up and trap me in whichever jar he chose and with no hole in the lid, I’d suffocate happily.
The cab pulled up to the curb and I don’t know where I am. He pays the driver with a colorful wad of peso notes and flashes a glance at me like “why didn’t you pay the driver?”. I simply sigh and mumble gracias toward the driver and look around at the dreary industrial surroundings.
It’s raining still and I’m beginning to smell like mold.
We walk for a while, shooting the shit. Catching up. Remembering drips and drabs of how the evening had progressed. Unconsciously as we walked, we were both avoiding stepping on the cracks between the shattered pavement. Not for fear of causing further anguish to our poor old mothers with their leaky spinal fluid (bless ‘em) but because both of us were warned that night that crack can kill.
“Crack kills”, Cesar murmured as he merrily skipped across the stones. He paused and took my hand. “This is me”. It also happened that we were stopped directly adjacent to his ‘living arrangements’. A dilapidated adobe building with peeling, graffiti covered paint, barbed wire, rusted metal balcony. The corpse of a rotting dog lay near the entrance in a pile of soggy garbage.
We enter his apartment – the over-powering reek of mold mixed with dead bugs and dried semen and we watch television all night until dawn climbed its lazy ass over the horizon. As he sat slumped snoring on the ratty couch, I slipped out and made my way home under a gloomy sky.

Monday, August 17, 2015

grinding the gears

It has been over a week since my return to this broken city in which I desired so much to come back to. It has been bitter sweet, to say the least. All my old friends are dead. I feel as if I am a lost phantom returning to a mausoleum. Sad, really. The Tijuana I used to so passionately write about has passed, it no longer exists. So, I will stay a few months more and see what I can muster up. A move out to playas is high on the list.
I am at the moment residing in a room rented in a large house catering to a gaggle of dreary and very homophobic Americans. My patience is at an end with these characters. The rent is too high and the amenities are far too low. The only breath of fresh air is that this marine had recently moved in and we have been hanging around. He is a good conversationalist and not too bad to look at. Indeed he is hopelessly heterosexual, but nobody's perfect, right?

Well, anyway, here: Enjoy some pictures I had taken around town:





























Monday, August 10, 2015


Me playing monopoly with my friends.

Tuesday, August 04, 2015

¡tijuana!

I wake before the crack of dawn and drag my suitcase across the sleeping Calexico streets to hop a bus west. I sit in that cramped and crowded carriage riding high in anxiety and mounting fear as I neared my final destination: Tijuana. What will it be like? What insufferable hell am I to be exposed to? When I debark the bus in San Diego amid a mass of howling homeless (they have relocated the station from Broadway to smack dab in the center of skid row) I wade through the throng of screaming derelicts and jump a trolley south toward the International Border. I realized I was in Califas on account of the uncounted multitude of signs posted. All forbidding, denying, warning, stating no. Fuck. How can people live under such suffocating restrictions?
Through the website craigslist, I contact a man named Jack who was renting a room in a three story hacienda. Flashy pictures revealing a snazzy set up of outright bohemia. Only when the time to meet arrives it is milled in misfortune and bad connections. I cross the border (which has changed in my 10 year hiatus, the entrance to walk into Mexico is behind the San Ysidro McDonalds and not over the pedestrian bridge spanning the Interstate as before), pass the line of impatient people a million bodies deep, and hail a yellow taxi to the hotel Economico on Madero where I am checked in by an over the hill hooker. She flashes a gold tooth and refers to me as guapo. I sit in my stuffy room and wait, finally receiving the call from the previously mentioned Jack.
He picks me up on the corner under the Millennial Arch on el Revu in his ratty SUV and whisks me off toward his hacienda with a pink-haired snaggle toothed broad and sulky white boy. Jack was a garrulous, potbellied bearded gnome in a Hawaiian shirt, deftly attempting to impress me with his lascivious tales of titties and hetero porn infatuations. Girl, if you only knew.
The house is huge and basically a hive for Ugly Americans untrained in the life south of the border. A multi-raced mix of burnt out misfits. In desperation and out of options, I rent basically a stuffy closet-sized room, bare walls and sagging, single bed with a pole nailed across one end for clothes. The first annoying shock was on the first of three floors, there were a gaggle of screaming children from the age of one to six years of age bouncing on a trampoline which took up the entire front yard. Their screeching caterwauling annoyed the fuck out of me. Oh, how I loathe kids! Secondly, the walls of my room stopped an inch from the ceiling and I was subjected to the rasping sounds of my neighbors fucking – he being a snarling hillbilly in a wife beater named Rocky and she a meth-mouthed hag – I forgot her name. Horrid. On the contrary, since I am one to make lemonade from these fucking lemons, the upswing is I can now locate a decent apartment firsthand instead of relying on misleading internet photographs.
My first evening in this town of ill-repute was spent up on the roof patio with a toothless old geezer named CJ and his once handsome heehaw friend called Hank. We smoked weed and chatted of casual things. So…here I am. Once again in the city I so dearly love, only how much has it changed? Is it still the lurid town of lore? Has it changed as drastically as I have? Time as they say will only tell…

Sunday, August 02, 2015

break the silence


For nearly a decade, I witnessed human degradation, experienced the worst in society. American society. Self-imposed, admittedly.
Disenchanted with fate's hand, I stood numb with discontent in the midst of vast, empty south-west locales, morosely listening to the low winds moaning through dead shrubs, suffered the soundless hum of loneliness pounding down across sallow prairies, dusty ergs, crumbling barrio streets. The bitter countenance of passerby on paranoid calles and trash-lined boulevards of broken hopes. Resting my borrowed flesh in moldy warehouses and dilapidated grottos commonly associated with lost phantoms wrapped in soul sucking manias or pain alleviating addictions from nameless substances with the ever constant waft of feces, tepid urine, odorous feet, unwashed linens - all masking the possibility of any hope.
Meeting certain arcane criteria, I was labeled insane by The State and awarded free income in lieu of discontinuing the lifestyle I chose, content to dwell in a government-issued apartment and self-administer mood deadening medications. The state medications altered me. I lost the passion which made me love who I was. Nothing was interesting. The gray screen only became grayer as faceless doctors upped the dosage every time I commented I did not particularly enjoy the after effects. This ultimately caused me to develop into an unfeeling, apathetic corpse wallowing in nostalgic recollections without the energy to leave my dark room and undertake anything I previously enjoyed.
For far too long I have held back. Waiting. Calculating. Thinking. I reserved myself, afraid to make a move. Mired in doubt and paranoia. In a self-imposed exile from a lifestyle in which I held dear and rather quite enjoyed (disclosed by life-hating caseworkers and psychoanalysts that what I did was wrong. Wrong for whom? If I enjoy it and not harming any one, how is it inappropriate?) I found myself becoming a virulent recluse holed up in some shit poor locale fearful to go out and live.
No longer.
I will take control again and partake in the obsessions I desire.

Saturday, August 01, 2015

i lived a little

Yesterday I took some shots then we got on your bike. I didn’t have a helmet and I asked you not to go over 30 mph. Never the less, I knew you would and when we hit 100, it felt good. The acceleration, realizing it’s all in your fingertips, the fate. I laughed so hard. I lived off those seconds. Too bad, once I come down, I’m back to dying. But I’m still alive while I’m dying. I can’t figure myself out. I looked in the mirror and I didn’t recognize who I saw. Sometimes it’s strange to think that’s me.

Friday, July 31, 2015

death a waits


It was cold that Christmas day as we ambled across a vast, rubbly lot. The sky was a crisp Texan blue and the solitary sound being the biting wind whistling through snagged, discolored plastic bags caught on dead yellow brush. He stated earlier he was horny, so we were searching for a private place to give a blow job.
We met at the Rescue Mission a week or so prior. Tall and lanky, he associated with several of the derelicts, entertaining them with corny card tricks in exchange for cigarettes. One dusky evening, I was passing through the sagging fence of the mission when he popped up from out behind a crumbling factory warehouse. Long, grey trench coat fanning out like a demon who recently escaped from Hades and brandishing a grin across his thin face flashing a row of white teeth like a predator. He casually asked for a smoke, introducing himself as Jessie – not Jesus, but Jessie, understand. He loathed that name. I inquired what he was up too and his face rumpled into that maniacal grin again, “No good, man. Always up to no good.”
The days that followed, we casually chatted and I even invited him for coffee at a local downtown cafĂ© wherein I dropped the fag bomb. He asserted he had a wife and two baby children in J-Town, but was not homophobic. He constructed a rose from a napkin as a homo/hetro peace offering. Educated and well read, we spent hours discussing literature, film, politics…and I appreciated his dry sense of humor.
Jessie and I would haunt the seedy dive bars in centro El Paso on occasion and get ripped. The beer would take its toll and he would make sexual advances toward me at the bar right in front of the row of unaffected boozers roosting along the decaying counter like brooding vultures. When he laughed at a remark I quiped, he roughly grabbed me by the face and with a drunken glare, “Gowdammit, you’re cool as fuck!” He would then kiss me. No one cared. Except for the bitter fat bitch tending the bar. Fuck her, mind your own bussiness or no tip.
On Christmas morning, we both get the blues, that unbearable cold lonesome which undoubtedly effects every hobo in every shelter across this nation that magical time of the year. Jessie and I decided to tromp down town for coffee just to relieve the holiday boredom.
As we casually ambled past silent and foreboding shops dangling with tinsel and dusty garlands, I lit a cigarette. “Whatcha want for Christmas, Jessie?” I asked jokingly because I was broke and in no condition to buy him shit.
“I want my dick sucked.” He smiles that shark-like smile.
“What?”
“Did I stutter? I haven’t bust a nut in like two months.”
I agreed to the request, I mean, come on – it was Christmas. The problem being no place to do the deed without the prying eyes of the authorities or some quivering old fuck stomping around sniffing for trade. After about an hour of searching down alleys and other such lurid locales, we settle for behind the closed central library in an alcoved exit. No cameras. No one around. Nothing but the faint echo of Christmas carols broadcasted from an adjacent park.
Pants unzipped, I kneel in front and Jessie offers a long, circumcised nine plus inch cock. It must have been a while since he came, because within a few short minutes of me swirling my tongue hungrily across the head of his penis coupled with long, wet strokes of the shaft with my mouth, his cock suddenly jumps, he issues a raspy ooooohhhhh fuuuuck and lets loose a thick cascade of jissom down my anticipating gullet.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year…
Our friendship at the mission remained stable enough and we enjoy a few more kicks until the eventual time of me moving on and continuing with life. Actually, the day I relocate into a new apartment, Jessie calls and reveals he had been tossed out from the shelter in lieu of drunken misconduct. He pleas to room with me in which I state a flat out 'no'. I was in a dire frame of mind and simply wished to be alone for a while. We lose contact after that.
Months pass. Jessie and I become reacquainted on the street. He is awfully thin and looks like a terminal junkie. A bloody bandage is swathed around the right wrist and he has scabs on the other. Hair unkempt and in need of a shave days ago. It was obvious he had not bathed in quite some time. After casual patter of what we have been up to, he asks if I could help him recalibrate a laptop which he claimed he found.
“Where did you steal it?” I ask dryly.
“It’s not stolen. It was a gift.” He states.
I agree to help for old times’ sake and as we are sitting in the public library waiting for the programs to update, several police enter and approach us.
One office asks, “Are you Jesus Barraza?”
“I am.” He says.
One points at me, “Who’s this?”
“He’s a friend helping me with my computer.”
“Come with us, Mr. Barraza.”
They escort him out. When I am exiting the library, I notice Jessie sitting on the curb handcuffed and surrounded by a multitude of police.
I looked at him and mouthed, “What did you do now?” He silently looked away.
I soon found out…



Jesus Barraza; 34, Jerry McGavitt; 22, Thomas McNair; 19, Marcus Adkins; 28 and Brittney Stewart; 18 were arrested in connection to the slaying of a person who was found beaten, gagged, bound and burned inside the basement of a downtown El Paso building. The victim has not been identified. Police at this time say the body is of a male. Stewart is in police custody in San Angelo, Texas and is expected to be back in El Paso. Reports of a body found inside a building in downtown El Paso had streets blocked off near Mesa Street and Texas Avenue Friday morning. Police said a burned body was found in the basement of a building at 101 Mesa St. and was discovered by an employee with El Paso Electric. Several sources including witnesses told KFOX14 the body was not only burned but bound, gagged and dismembered. Detectives were at the scene all day canvassing the area and talking to those who live and work nearby. - El Paso Times

Thursday, July 30, 2015

alejandro

I met him sitting on a bent metal folding chair in the Opportunity Center surrounded by shabby, foul smelling derelicts and thugs. As with myself, he futilely attempted to drown out the over-bearing orchestra of manic cries issued from the insane and angry. He displayed an expression on his youthful Mayan face of deep sadness and paranoid regrets. I introduced myself, he said his name was Alex. We chatted. The stilted discussion casual and non-intrusive. Being soft spoken, he chose each word and thought carefully. Not letting his guard down. Certainly not with some unknown gringo whose obvious leering glances were of a lurid nature.
The weeks passed and we hung out occasionally. During the evenings, as three hundred or so transients lay on their filthy mats lounging in self-doubt, urine, and garbage, he would set up a make shift stand on the previously mentioned chair next to his tattered mat and vend cheap dehydrated soups, candies, and sundries he purchased with his food stamp card to earn money for real food. I didn’t blame him, the center’s food was foul-smelling, unappetizing slop.
If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat anything.
The money, unfortunately, rarely went to nourishing food and instead alcohol was purchased. He would saunter and sway inebriated, timidly laughing and scratching at the multitude of bedbug bites along his brown arms and neck. The center was indeed infested, but no one cared.
"What can you do?" He smiles and shrugs.
I hand him a dollar for a pack of crushed donuts. He looks at me with sad, crimson eyes and sincerely slurs thank you.
Being the only homosexual in the joint who didn’t constantly bother him with overt sexual advances, consequently we became friends of sorts. He would smile and laugh off the blatant chatter from the Chorus of Queens: “You need that cock sucked, hunty!” or “I’ll pay you forty dollars to cum down my throat, baby.” Usually blurted over tables during dinner or hollered right in the middle of the main dorm from some deranged, pot-bellied monster who gave up life decades ago. He casually shrugged the advances off. Alex looked like a seasoned hustler, a veteran of dark alleys, public restroom glory holes, damp truck stop urinals, back rooms of dive bars, the decayed reek of cheap hotels - but he wasn’t. And was not in the situation obviously to bend to any of their faggoty shit.
Be that as it may, through fate and the assistance of alcohol, I entertained the chance to masturbate him in the showers of the Center. Amid mildew streaked white tiled walls hidden behind a discolored shower curtain, he stood stoic and unmoving, water cascading down his dark and lithe form - legs separated, hands clenched behind his back, eyes closed with head tilted slightly back - the steam enveloped us as I stood to one side, slightly hunched, my eyes luridly scrutinizing his delicate facial movements as my hand worked furiously on his thick, short cock. Eventually, his chest heaved, he rose slightly onto his toes as he squirted globs of milky semen onto the tiled wall and floor.
Oh shit! splat! splat! damn, that was a lot...
One morning as we sat on a concrete bench in a park sipping cheap coffee - dead trees whispered in the chilled wind, yellowed grass crunching under our scuffed shoes - I asked why he seemed always so sad. He confided in stilted tones he was struggling with a problem concerning the authorities. The problem being accusations of sexually molesting an eight year old boy.
“Did you?” I asked earnestly.
“No.” He stated, staring at the five or six flattened cigarette butts at his feet.
“Then, there is nothing to worry about, right?”
Two nights later, an entire squad of SWAT barged into the center inquiring the where abouts of one Alejandro Montelongo. (I had known him only as Alex Esparza). Dirty fingers of all the Center's rats pointed toward the twenty-five year old who sat forlorn on the bent metal folding chair. Surrounded, thrown onto the floor, searched, and hand-cuffed, he was lead out, head hung low in shame and guilt under disdainful accusational glances and gasps of disbelief from the Chorus of Queens.
I stood emotionless near the entrance and watched as he was brutally shoved into the back of a van. Sex with an eight year old boy? I cannot wrap my mind around that concept. How does one choose to steal the innocence of a child like that? I seriously loathe pedophiles.

The following day, I sat in a cafe and sipped coffee as I read the local paper:
A man sought on child sex charges was arrested Wednesday afternoon at an El Paso homeless shelter, an El Paso County sheriff's spokesman said. The U.S. Marshal's Lone Star Fugitive Task Force arrested Alex Montelongo, 25, on warrants for aggravated sexual assault of a child and burglary of habitation, a sheriff's spokesman said. The task force includes members of the El Paso County Sheriff's Office, El Paso Police Department and other law enforcement agencies. The charges are out of El Paso and Montelongo was jailed under a total bond of $102,000. - El Paso Times

Saturday, July 04, 2015

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

how I breathe

I will insist on writing even though very few are reading. Writing is how I breathe. An artist simply creates. Good or bad, he creates. Writing is not my trade, not yet. However, I will forever insist on writing anyway. “Real” life can be as real as it can get and art may never have a part to play in this “realness”, but it is a part of me. I will continue to create because I am not yet finished. Because I have a dream. I will continue to work for it, and work hard, which means I will not wait for inspiration. I will work! With schedules. With patience to endure every daunting task that needs to be undertaken. I will hustle through the gruntwork and the research and the continuous learning and the endless honing. I will not forget to create. Indeed, I will continue to send my writing out, in what sometimes feels like a void, for a possibility of an audience, no matter how flimsy that possibility may be. That is why I am here. I have a process and this is a part of it. I have an identity as an artist, and this is a part of how I am: stubborn, imperfect, driven. I’m also here because I have to be read. Because you may not have anything different to write about, but it is something, and the way you write it is different from how I would. I may love or hate it, but I will learn either way. Because I am a part of this tribe and acknowledging it is important to my growth.
I may be a voice which is largely unheard, nevertheless I am a voice and will remain here because I can be louder. Hiding my writing is not part of how I am. There are people who read me, and that is enough. I will continue because there is a chance for the number to build. And yes, I believe it will.
An artist creates art to share it. And these are the things I have decided to share. Each piece is something I am ready to let go of, so I can create more. And believe me, I have more. I am a feast, and when you realize this, you will wolf me down. 

Monday, June 29, 2015

insensatez



I stood in the door to the manager of the mission’s office. We chatted casually about the upcoming Star Wars film. The pro’s and con’s, our opinions shooting back and forth like seasoned internet nerds. My attention was caught from a shadow blocking the main entrance. He was in his early twenties, athletically built in black t-shirt and shorts. He wore a black baseball cap which covered equally black and closely cropped hair. His dark, Mexican features where boyish in a machismo kind of way. He attained that look that so many desperate old fags from the States fight and quarrel over down south of the border.
He smiled at me and said Hola. He thought I ran the joint, but in Spanish I directed him toward the manager. I gave his appealing torso a once over and returned to the dim coolness of my bunk.
I must had dozed off for a bit from the heat of the day, because when I awoke, the guy was lying across from me smiling. He inquired in Spanish if I worked for the mission in which I stated I did not. He introduced himself as Ramone and he came over from Mexicali to gain employment harvesting the local fields for melons as did the other residents of the mission, sans Your Author. We chatted casually of things: my travels, writing, his wife and child and how to attain better employment within the States. He had a positive attitude and it did lift the bought of depression I was currently fighting.
Thirty minutes before dinner, I decided to take a shower and wash off the day’s sweat and grime from the humid climate of Calexico. In the shower, as I was lathering up, I noticed through the slight break in the dingy shower curtain Ramone standing there watching me. I peeked through the curtain, smiling, to ask what he was doing, yet he quickly and wordlessly returned to the dorm.
After my shower, I went to my bunk and Ramone began a stilted conversation concerning his wife and how he missed her. Okay. Ignore what just happened then. Play it cool.
Ramone and I ate dinner sitting across from each other, silently watching the boxing match on the cafeterias television screen amid the slurps and chatter of the other dozen or so clients. Intermittently, we would comment on the match, although other than that, he said nothing.
Later, Ramone lay in his bunk, listening to ranchero music through his headphones as I scribbled notes for my novel in progress. Promptly at 9pm, the lights were shut off. The standard orchestra of snoring and farting escalated as the clients fell asleep. In lieu of the heat, Ramone stood and disrobed down to his boxers and lay above his blanket. In the dim, green glow of the exit sign attatched to the opposite wall, I noticed his hand was down his shorts and rhythmically moving. I stood up and hissed, “Ven.” And nodded towards the bathroom.
Quickly, we found ourselves facing each other in a mildew splattered shower stall with curtain closed.
“Why were you jacking off?” I whispered.
He smiled, “I was thinking of my wife. We had such good sex the day I left. I miss her.”
I looked down and his shorts were poking out. He noticed my lurid gaze and I was surprised when he didn’t flinch as my hand languidly brushed across it. The stiff organ throbbed in waiting anticipation.
“You like?” He asked in Spanish.
I sighed yeah or some mundane remark as I yanked his shorts down to his bare ankles. His penis was short, thick, and un-circumcised. A pearl of pre-cum formed at the tip. From my view, I glanced up and noticed that look of acceptance in his eyes. I devoured his erection, swirling my tongue along the shaft as I slid my lips up and down along the shaft. I massaged his sagging testicles with my hand as my other hand grasped his flexing buttocks. He must had been pent up, because after only a few quick minutes, his penis sprung up in my mouth and ejaculated his semen. I swallowed. No need to leave evidence.
Quietly, he pulled his shorts back up and returned to the dorm. Not before a whispered gracias from him and a casual hand through his hair de nada from me.
The following morning, when the lights snapped on at six, Ramone's bed was empty and his bag gone. I felt somewhat saddened. I rose, washed my face, brushed my teeth, dressed, and got ready for another day.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

walk to ceres

The American Astronaut (2001) or, How to Make a Film for About Twenty Bucks. Through sheer force of creativity, apparently. One of the joys of the film is watching this guy overcome his money obstacles, one by one, with a simple elegance that approaches art. If you're thinking of seeing it, watch this first. If the style here escapes you, you haven't a chance deeper in.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

Thursday, June 18, 2015

meteo

To me you are really beautiful.
His words drew me in, like a slurping – soul gone, my bones with it. Yet as soon as I heard you speak those words, I knew I wouldn’t believe them. For a second there, you seemed like a blind fanatic, heaping praise at the wrong pedestal.
When has someone ever said those words and meant them to me? A person who looks at the mirror and sees only disarray. See, there’s a movie which can explain this. Filmed in the scale of 33 years and archived in my brain. Watching it is akin to seeing a god wield an axe to sunder the Tigris.
Flashback to childhood: a beautiful boy. Wide-eyed, hungry for the world, a fearsome inquisitiveness scorching behind the face, an old soul interred underneath chubby cheeks, always sticking his nose in magazines, drinking up the colors of their silken doors that opened to sleek universes. Plump-faced, huge steel-blue eyes, lashes like taffeta, a little nose, and lips to rival the angels’ in Boticelli’s paintings. And would you believe, skin that was flesh-colored fair?
What happened to that boy?
He discovered the beauty of men’s bodies. The hardened jaws of older males, their masculine mouths, their unapologetic brashness, the curves of their labor-muscled arms, the fullness of the serpents concealed between their legs.
And how these men hated him. The boy, now a young man, becomes a fragile vat of absent self-esteem, open for the Harpies to descend on and befoul whatever goodness existed in him. A cowering nerd, victim to unsolicited appraisal, repeatedly under-assessed, maligned, and verbally abused: Deviant. Possessed. Maricon. Pervert. Faggot. Cocksucker. Catamite.
And the once pseudo-fair complexion turned burnished, crimson. The little nose turned stout, the lips fleshy, the eyes weary and darkled deep.
The words were attacking physical attributes now. Words became harsh, with the malice in their resonance, and they stuck like gospel: Negrito. Charcoal. Midnight. Black Hole. Abyss. Bushman. Mixed with the subtext of faggotry, the words took more creative forms. Above this, one word stuck, a single word to surpass and encompass them all: Ugly.
To me you are really beautiful.
To hear these words from someone as beautiful as you - as nonpareil, as cultured, as timeless - is like listening to a siren’s deadly song. Terrifying yet addictive. A gorgeous destruction.
I want to believe you. I really do. That love can look beyond what the eyes perceive, or that I actually possess the beauty that you see. I look in your eyes and I am enthralled, spellbound by my reflection there, mesmerized by an image that sadly I can only accept as fantasy.
To me you are really beautiful.
How? How can I compare to the gods and goddesses that surround you? What is it that your eyes absorb when they fall upon my face, my insecurities, my painful past? What curse has been cast to erase my hideousness from your sight?
I want to be trapped in your fascination. But when you’re gone the mirror returns the same unsightliness. How can you love someone who cannot reconcile a love for himself? How can you see beauty in someone whose belief in his repulsiveness has been so deviously ingrained?
I weep. I don’t see anything in that mirror. The glass only echoes me.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

spokey dokey

I am the third drag of a cigarette midnight observing the moon traverse navy sky blinking stars like rain on a windshield fading in and out in and out in and outside there is no one else for miles the world stopped to watch the smoke curl like clouds around my trembling fingers and I don’t know when I’ll shower wash the disease from my skin but I smell like the wafting cow dung of Calexico hot damn I’m craving explanations giving not receiving let me write all the reasons I deserve love I can justify my entire existence if given the chance just oh god hold me for a second I’m sorry I haven’t slept in a while perhaps years I can’t remember however I can almost feel a voice deep and kind like a blanket covering my shoulders while I lie there body shaking leaving messages in Morse code and hoping someone can tell me why I don’t just open my mouth to call back I wonder how long it will take to find my center how can I make peace with this sickness this sorrow I mean how much mourning can a man take come on it gets better it has to get better right?

Friday, June 12, 2015

past-midnight insomnia


As authors, as poets, we are often criticized for saying ‘I’ too much. For starting and ending every sentence with 'I.’ However, I’m not writing about Elizabeth from Oregon or Dan from Kentucky or Ernest from Barcelona. Don’t you get it? I’m writing about my bones, and my blood, and my heart. Because this is all I know.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

thoughts

When it comes to writing, I don’t believe in bad guys or good guys. A story is all about perspective. From one side, a guy wanting power is viewed as a villain and must be stopped. In my eyes, all I see is a person stricken of control as a child and is making up for it in adulthood. It’s a tragedy. It’s sad because this said character had no experience of control or leadership and so they feel they have to prove to others that they are strong and will do anything to reach their goal. I believe that there are no bad guys or good guys but instead, people driven by different reasons and beliefs to do what they feel is right and anyone who disagrees with that are the enemy.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

the merry go round broke down

Trying my hand at flash fiction for an online writer's 'zine.


Octavio was a writer of class conscious poetry. Born of an illegal immigrant father and a mother who he’d hardly known, he crossed the border into the States and toiled the heated, dry fields of southern California harvesting broccoli and writing in sloppy long-hand on anything he could find. So far today he’d written sixteen sonnets, a play, and about a thousand haikus – mostly concerning a meat pie named Sebastian. Fred and Alice – owners of a vast empire of locally sold produce located near El Centro - worried Octavio would never pay his rent, they opted for the only thing which made sense and tossed him into a nearby lake while he was asleep.
Over dinner the following evening, Alice found a note slipped inside her trout. “I poisoned this fish…with feelings.” Fred chuckled and thought it was somewhat amusing, but he still felt it was a good idea to eat vegetarian for the time being.

Monday, June 08, 2015

down in mexicali...again


I decided to take a Sunday excursion into Mexicali. Firstly, I simply wished to check it out and secondly to finally dig up a bowl of menudo and a pack of Luckies. Once in downtown Calexico, I sat momentarily to smoke, when a ragged hobo approached me and offered to buy a cigarette. With an extended hand, shiny over the dirt, he presented thirty something cents in nickels and pennies. Momentarily I glanced down and noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes – blackened toes poked from ragged, sooty socks. I inquired were his shoes were and he simply shrugged, smiled, and stated they were stolen. I handed him a smoke free of charge and invited him to sit and chat.
At that moment, a shiny, black Lexus pulled up and some old codger obviously richer than fuck poked his head out the window and snarled, “Hey, buddy, I’ll give ya a dollar for a cigarette.”
I agreed and after the rich old fuck took off, I handed the dollar to the hobo and mumbled something to the extent on going to the 99cents store and at least picking up a pair of flip-flops.
As it were, I said goodbye to the kind gent and made my way toward the international border. I always liked the Mexicali crossing, a winding tunnel of decaying concrete running under the main street lined with farmacias and dusty curio shops. Once immerging onto the other side, I hit full turistas mode and shuffled around el centro snapping pictures. Mexicali seemed a vast expanse of crumbling, graffitied structures infested with a million chop suey joints.
Meandering over smashed sidewalks, I continued through the humid heat keeping one eye out for any sign of the elusive menudo. I do not know if it was either Sunday or too early or both, but many of the shops still had their steel shutters down. I did find some whores working the morning shift as I quickly bopped by, they languidly hissed psst-psst! grudgingly realizing I had no time for their shit.
I darted through the glass fronts of the Hotel del Norte and sat in the cooled air sipping hot coffee and attempted to down the biggest goddamn bowl of menudo I had ever been served in these long years. I ate it all, though. Trust me, you would’ve too. It was that good.
Afterwards, I purchased said Luckies from a corner Oxxo and relaxed in the shade of a nearby park, sitting and admiring the legion of weary campecinos lounging in the grass. Their faces, though ruggedly attractive, were sad and forlorn as they patiently anticipated to cross that great fence which separated the haves from the have-nots.
Becoming bored of this tripe and somewhat over heated mostly on account of the sun, I made my way back stateside – I even purchased a local newspaper in a half-assed attempt to perhaps rent an apartment. Fate, that old bitch, deemed it no as the classifieds only displayed one single add for rent.
As I was crossing, the custom agent – a rather handsome Asian with a shaved head, asked me the usual questions followed by: “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer.”
“What do you write?”
Apathetic shrug. “Stuff.”
“What do you mean stuff?”
“I write about my travels…the people I meet…”
“Are you one of those beat writers? Like Hunter Thompson or…uh…what’s his name? Kerouac?”
At that moment I realized I was conversing with not simply your average border patrol pit-bull, but actually someone who held a glimmer of intelligence. The skies opened and followed by a chorus, we were bathed in golden beams of light.
“Are you published?”
“Yes. Seven books…so far…”
He retrieves a pen and pocket notebook, scribbling, “I’ll take down your name and look you up. I like reading that stuff.” He smirks.
I left the border inspection station with a slightly higher regard for the human race. I am oft quoted as saying that there are still good people in this world, they are far and few between, but they’re there.

Sunday, June 07, 2015

the way it began

The sunshine was golden and honey colored as ever when it seeped into your bedroom window, peeking out between the clouds, endeavoring to caress the world again as it did the previous morning, like it did every morning since the beginning of time. However this morning, the clouds eventually told it to be quiet. A performance was about to take place, and the sky required all the attention it could get.
Unfortunately, you were still asleep and only awoke to shifting next to you in bed. He was getting up and stretching his arms, covering you in his size. You blinked at him, vision not 100% clear yet as you rubbed your eyes in the shade of his arms and torso.
“I’ll wait for you.” He smirked while he dressed and began downstairs.
You got up too, lured to the kitchen by his warmth, sitting abnormally as you ate. When you finished, you two simply sat and looked out the window, entwined under the roof as rain began its abrading symphony.
It was a slow rain, one which filled the sky with great grey beasts grazing the air above your heads. Eating only to eat, the sloppy pieces of cloud which descended from their mouths turned into tiny raindrops as they fell, hitting your roof and the ground, filling the air with a conforting hiss.
All you could hear was his breathing, the rain falling, and the radio. It buzzed about traffic with the same volume of the rumbling of thunder outside. You sigh. Look into your cup of coffee, the cream slowly turning, the wisp of cigarette smoke trailing up toward the decaying ceiling and you wish you were anywhere but there with him.

Saturday, June 06, 2015

across the mojave wasteland


Positive change in your life should scare you a little and excite you a lot. With that being said, I find myself flat on my ass in Calexico. Again. I boarded the Greyhound in Yuma and dashed the short hour trip across the vast Mojave wasteland toward that small metropolis across from Mexicali. My plan, such as it is, was to reside at the Guadalupe Mission for a month and conserve money in lieu of next months pay until my eventual destination into Tijuana. I could had continued to TJ, except I found I held insufficient funds to make the settlement in relative comfort. An extra thousand dollars would come in handy.
When I entered the small community, I hastened through the heated, crowded streets of overhanging arches and shuffling commuters and weary shoppers toward the mission. Yet, I was overcome in cautious paranoia and rented a room in a hotel which lay on the way. (I recalled the last two dives in both Yuma and Santa Fe there was a several day wait to receive a bunk) However, that was a waste of forty dollars, because the manager remembered me and since we acquired such a good repoire on my last stay, I was offered a bunk without incident.
So…one month here and I will continue on to Tijuana. Maybe. However, during my time, I plan to knock out a rough draft on that Burroughs book. I guess I have a title, now. Faded Photographs. I like it and will run with it.

Thursday, June 04, 2015

sprinkled with lucky stardust


For an entire month I waited in the heat and dry climate at the Crossroads Mission in dead-end town of Yuma mired in continuation of my search. Search. Search for what? A home? A stable life? I should rephrase that and state existence. The small sunburnt burg offered nothing. Through caseworkers and do-gooders. I was offered a tiny apartment in the historic pile of brick called the San Carlos. A 30’s deco joint remodeled into an apartment complex catering to deranged derelicts, cockroaches and onslaught of bedbugs. No. I cannot, will not, go out like that. I know myself, I need some type of diversion – diversions of an explicit nature and this town offered nothing. Everyone was un-attractive and flabbily out of shape. Sweat stained and covered in a fine layer of dust. With the exception of a lucky few.
Anyway, I sat in the shimmering heat of 105 degrees and in lieu of four weeks I thought and plotted all the while passive/aggressivly associating with the burnt biscuits and occasional handsome Lost Angel (wings pruned long ago) who in despairing patience waited for something…anything. Marvin, the lanky Latino of classic Aztec features who would rather sleep in his oil-burning jalopy than lay on a thin mat in the warm nights surrounded by a hundred farting hobos. He would sit long hours in the mildew encased shower room and drone on about his mythical Thai girlfriends. Ernesto, the stout and ruggedly attractive field worker who wholesaled his cock for bus fair to the oil fields of North Dakota. We occasionally jacked off one another under the Ocean-to-Ocean bridge spurting our frustrations into the foul smelling murk of the Colorado. Nick, the mad filmmaker who lived in a surreal dream of the faded Silver Screen obsessed with phantasmic Hollywood nostalgia. Old Gary, the sad sack who constantly hacked up putrid gobs of reminisce concerning past World Wars and passionate hatred for all things American. Most of the others shuffled in a daze about the grimy, foul smelling halls waiting for their probation to end so they could go home or expire all together.
I did chance meet an old black character named Art. Long and lanky with yellowed teeth and scraggly goatee. Soft spoken and of high intellect. Fellow traveler. Been all over the world and then some solely off his meager pension and as I sat wide eyed enchanted with his stories of faraway lands, I arrived to the conclusion: I will spend a year in Tijuana saving what I can as I pen that Burroughs novel, afterwards, I too desire to waywardly journey the world. And why not? I have nothing left. No dreams. No ambitions. I only crave to move, to keep going and experience all this planet has to offer. I want to travel and travel I will without goal or direction.
Want to come along for the ride?