Sunday, November 23, 2014

Sissy Boy Slap Party


"...Boys, boys, boys...I turn my back, and there you are...slapping each other again. I couldn't trust any of you for a minute..." 

Friday, November 21, 2014

Write on!


Writer. Homosexual. Junkie. Murderer. This will be my next novel. I might have not begun writing it, yet...but at least I have a cover! (Still working on a title, too.) I'm quite excited, this will be my first work that isn't based on my personal biographical material.
It's all set and I am ready. I have accumulated scores of notes and references. The angle is, it will be related as a dramatic story and not simply a dry, documentary account. I hope I do Joan and old Bill justice...

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Don’t people write bestsellers on napkins?

I’m beginning to think he stood me up. Again. I made a reservation for two and I paid for it. It wasn’t cheap, either, not on a writer’s salary. I’ve been waiting here in this lobby for three days straight now, in the only suit I own – which I purchased at a second hand store, anyway - notebook open, waiting. Waiting for my Muse. I think perhaps I should change. I think perhaps I should check out of this place (and into a different kind of place)
It’s not like it’s anything spectacular, anyway. My room overlooks Highway 10. I’ve got a balcony over Highway 10 with a view of a vast New Mexican prairie. Discarded plastic trash bags play among the yellowed brush as a row of biscuit-colored mountains lay against an azure horizon.That’s not right. But I could live with that, if he’d only show up! I could draw the curtains and forget about the balcony! I don’t know if he’s coming, but I’ll give it another day or two. Call me naïve, but he will come, he always comes, just not when it’s convenient for me or in accordance with our pre-arranged plans.
I’m sitting in the lobby of a chain hotel. Patrons laze around with magazines and pastries as if they have nothing better to do. Not me, I’m tending to serious business. The concierges (two glorious old queens) keep asking me about him, since I’d told them what I’m up to. I state I’m waiting for a man. That’s all I said at first. Howerever they keep asking, as if it’s twenty questions. As if it’s the most fun they'd had in weeks. It’s fun for them because they’re making fun of me, at my expense. I think they think he’s either a prostitute or an imaginary friend because yesterday, when they asked me his name, I said I didn’t know. Well, I don’t. But hey! Lots of people have sex with people they don’t know the names of so I don’t see why it’s so different to be in a long-term (if somewhat erratic) relationship with a man whose name you don’t know. Go on, judge me.
I haven’t written anything in weeks. I keep trying. My own imagery bores me. My conceits bore me. They’re stale, they’re moldy, they stink. They beg to be composted. I keep comparing seashells to fists when really they’re nothing alike. I keep making religious pronouncements. Those don’t belong in stories (unless you’re Rimbaud, and even then) It’s this thirst for grandiosity. It’s exhausting. I’ve been feeling hollow, dissociated, like I’m out of my body but I’m not anywhere else. And my Muse, who knows where he is? Perhaps he’s found another writer. Maybe even a painter! Maybe he’s posing for his portrait right now and that’s why he’s so late for our date. Or maybe he’s a musician and they’re in the middle of a duet. Composing together. Perhaps he’s his muse, too.
Perhaps he simply desires me when I’m unavailable. Isn’t it clear to him, though? I’m always available. I could be dying. I could be on the brink of death, about to consummate my union with God once and for all and I’d hear his voice and tell the Almighty to fuck off, I'm busy.
The concierge I dislike the least is a small old queer with gray waves and gray troublemaker’s eyes. He’s mopping the putrid green linoleum diamond-shaped floor tiles and doesn’t seem to notice how putrid they are. The shape, the color, clichés, clichés.
“And how did the young man sleep?”
“Badly,” I reply, hospitably.
“Nightmares?” He asks, sort of conspiratorially, like it’s an inside joke or something. I haven’t told him anything about my dreams. “Because it couldn’t have been the pillows. I arranged them myself!”
“It was the pillows,” I jab. “My dreams were excellent.” At least this last part is true.
“My, dear, young man....” His mop stops moving and he’s looking at me and I’m looking at the floor because I’d rather look down at the putrid green diamonds then up at those blazing gray circles. “You look exhausted. Maybe you should take a nap. And put on something more comfortable. Do you have pajamas?”
That does it. Like I’m going to meet my Muse—the love of my life—in fucking jammies. Of course sometimes I can’t help it like when he shows up unexpected at two in the morning and I’m sleeping. That’s the thing about writing. Every time you sleep you’re sleeping on the job. I need a cup of coffee. Then I’m going to tell this bitch exactly what...

Monday, November 17, 2014

outlaw queen


The cold and equally bitter winds of fall wash over The City. The sky is a crisp, midnight blue speckled with pinpoint lights of long dead stars. My hands in my black jacket pockets and my shoulders hunched up to my ears, I dart around the corner of an adobe building with exposed yellow brick in a vain attempt to thwart the offending gusts.
Fucking desert, I mumble. Spitting grit from my dry mouth, squinting watery eyes. Loose trash swirls in eddies as I stride past a blue tiled wall of a whorehouse. The neon sign of the marquee had given up decades ago and the building is lit in ghastly yellow from the towering street lamp.
A gaggle of plump hookers stand leaning by the entrance. Their tight, spandex attire fail to cover their protruding love-handles, sagging guts, and cottage cheese thighs. I walk by, they smile through silver capped teeth, mutter lascivious offerings. One grabs my arm, I stop, look Imperiously down on her.
Her face is a heavily made up face of a woman of sixty five or more. The make up is applied to allude the impression she is younger. It doesn't work.
"You wanna fuck me, baby?" She quacks.
I grin, "Why would I want to that?"
"You wanna fuck me, baby?" She repeats.
I then understand that is the extent of her English, so I simply mumble no and turn to continue on my way.
"Yo no gusta." (I don't like it) I say calmly.
She glances into my bloodshot, dry eyes and smiles, asking in Spanish, "You don't like women?"
"I simply do not like prostitutes," I answer in Spanish.
"Why? We are people, you know, earning a living." She states with mounting anger. "You are no better than us."
I realize by her defensive stance on the topic, it was not her first time having this discussion with an American. Most likely with a stereotypical ugly American. However, as with me, she was missing the point entirely.
I began, smiling warmly, "I have complete respect for you and all the ladies of your ilk. With that said, my reason being, you sell a fantasy. However, every time I am propositioned by a working lady.."
At that moment, an obese slob of fifty shuffled out of the whorehouse entrance. His buttoned shirt hanging out of stained, filthy trousers. His sagging face unkempt and covered in a fine layer of grease. His salt and pepper hair receding over a large, misshapen head. He smelled like a compost heap. He actually snorted and spat a huge loogie onto the sidewalk.
I look at the old whore, then nod at the slob shuffling away down the sidewalk, "...for me, the fantasy you sell is destroyed because I know...no matter how beautiful and pleasant said girl is...someone like him just fucked her before I did."
She cackled, placing a small, wrinkled hand on my chest, "Oh, mijo, we are all clean!" Her witch-like laughing echoed against the surrounding buildings.
I smiled broad at her and said, "And I prefer men, anyway."
She actually hugged me, "Oh...I knew it! My son is un joto (is gay). Maybe you can meet him?"
I stuttered and laughed, "Maybe another time?" The very fact that an old prostitute was attempting to fix me up with her son in the middle of a Mexican slum struck me as completely and utterly surreal. I had to dodge this woman, most likely her son was a simpering, sullen drag queen who performed in some dive bar nearby. Nope.
I bid her goodnight and continued through the gathering dirt storm towards the cantina I haunt. I sat nursing a cold caguama amid cackling queens and preening vaqueros. As I lit a cigarette, a drag show on the tiny stage in the corner began. A frail thing of about twenty-two years old dressed in a black and silver glittery gown came out from behind grimy, red velvet curtains and began belting out a forlorn Mexican love ballad. I watched and mused, I wonder if that is her son? Their faces look similar. I thought sadly how rough these peoples lives are compared to our privileged existence on the opposite side of the border.
That train of thought was broken as I felt a hand slide softly across my back. I turned to see a handsome, young man smiling holding a beer glass. Clean and well dressed, he leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all." I replied.
Outside, the wind howled and The City continued...

Friday, November 14, 2014

brave little cells

We are both under the influence.
The effects are perhaps slightly different but we are heavily drugged none the less. It’s the city and this is what happens to people who were meant to live like vermin.
Grow up.
Your heart is a fluorescent pink and your skin is worn and see-through, like rice paper wrapped tight around your rib case, pretty boy breaking, you are so intelligent, and now you look like a terrifying lantern, your emotions lighting up the concrete walls like warped little creatures in a shadow puppet play.
And my heart goes on and off like a siren, either dead silent, cynical bitch with a second hand attitude, didn’t they love you when you were little?, or roaring like an engine out of control, the screws coming loose, and there are tears under my finger nails and the chap stick doesn’t last nearly eight hours even though it said so on the tube.
And the old naco continues to stand on the corner wailing a sad Mexican ballad that no one wants to hear…

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

notes


Even after I told myself to take a break from writing, I find myself jotting down detailed notes on that science fiction piece. Though I am equally passionate about the work on the Joan Vollmer story, this science fiction thing is really becoming an obsession. One angle is, I want it to be rich in history and detail, kind of like Herbert's Dune but written in the quick, action soaked cliff-hanger style of E.R. Burroughs A Princess of Mars. It's coming along nicely...
Sarkova.
Sarkota.
Sarkobba.
Sarkojaa.
Attempting to find the right sounding (and in print, look interesting) name for a primitive tribe of seven-foot tall aliens native to the planet Karkoon who resemble diamond back gorillas with four arms...basing their culture on the Yanomami People who reside in South America...
I was at the cafe yesterday and my friend Omar was thumbing through my notebooks. Reading the twenty or so pages of hand scribbled ideas, he stopped and pointed out the title "The Adventures of Colt Corrigan: Book One: Across the Galactic Lens". He asked, "This is a lot of intense stuff, do you have any ideas for sequels?"
"No." I laughed. "It began as a joke. Years ago, a friend and I were stumbling down the street drunk, talking about books and a writer's life work, and I said of all the books I pen, my most famous would probably be some cheesy take on old pulp serials. It's title will be Colt Corrigan and his Adventures Across the Galactic Lens! A mashup of Buck Rogers and 70's chop sockey kung fu movies."
I seriously believe I was foretelling my future in hindsight...
Unlike my previous work which was based on true events and I required only to transcribe from memory, writing science fiction is daunting. The work going into creating everything from names to back history to random objects and how they function...I am actually enjoying it. I realize to some, if not all of you, that this sounds naive and perhaps tripe, but this is my first attempt at pure fiction and I am seeing it as an adventure. The true battle is to not make it overtly cliche. And that is where the frustration sets in...

Tuesday, November 11, 2014


I rather be depressed and feel that than be hopped up on meds that suppress all emotions.

Saturday, November 08, 2014

like magic

I spend my nights hunched over the keys of my laptop, tap, tap, tapping away. Words flow out of me faster than I can type them, but I try to keep up.
Tap, tap, slide to a new line.
With every new page comes a new adventure, new sights and experiences that only I can bring. Page after page, I write. Year after year, I excel.
Tap, tap, slide to a new line.
I weave my stories layer by layer, twist after tragedy, tragedy by twist. Casts a spell. Images spill from my mind onto the page. Ink envelops white in a warm embrace.
Tap, tap, slide to a new line.
The images lie in wait on the pale screen until eyes slide over them like warm butter on toast, then explode in the mind’s eye like fireworks. Vivid and bright. Altered, yet intact.
Tap, tap, slide to a new line.
Bringing with them sound, taste, smell, and touch. Maybe even confusing those senses in favor of a better picture. That’s what it’s all about. Brilliant and pure. Like magic.

Friday, November 07, 2014

flash

As her voice rang through my ears I couldn’t concentrate on just one thing. My mind drifted from where I stood, in the bright room, to a place I hadn’t been in years. I looked back throughout my life and every single choice I’ve ever made. My childhood was relived in a few short seconds; I thought of my future and what I would become.  Her voice was reverberating off my ear drums, until I finally came to continuousness, “I’ll have a medium coffee.”

Friday, October 31, 2014

happy halloween, readers!

Doorbell rings. Opens door...


With quivering hand gives out tiny Mars bar. Slowly closes door.

happy halloween?


Wednesday, October 29, 2014

life imitates art

I was interviewed recently by a magazine based in New York City. They were kind enough to take the time and effort to grant me attention. Here is an excerpt:

You can read the interview here in it's entirety:

http://www.roundupzine.com/featured-author/

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

depression

This world is not what it seems. There are layers that you haven’t seen, that you’ll hopefully never experience. I am one of the unlucky ones, who has to live with the knowledge that the monsters are real. I envy you and your simple life. Some days it is hard for me to get out of bed, to face a world full of people who don’t have to think about the things I know. You can just smile and walk away from the truth, because my truths are just fairy tales to you. The monsters don’t lurk around a corner for you. Well, at least you don’t see it lurking. I have to face the evil of this world. Creatures only alive to torture us. There is no place for sympathy, those things are pure evil. I don’t care about humans and their strange wars and fights. Nothing compares to the horrors that creep around at night. Be glad you’re able to live in your world, mine is a never ending nightmare. I envy your blindness, your problems and your fears. Seeing you walk around your world without noticing mine, makes me wish I had the strength to finally end it, but I still have a job to do. Someone has to be the nightmare of your horror. Look at me! Take a close look and you’ll see the one thing your fears are afraid of. I’ll fight for you, so you’re able to live your lives. So please, make it count.

Friday, October 24, 2014

and so it goes


In reality, I want to take a break. I had just spent a year and a half culminating "the trilogy" with the completion of borrowed flesh. With that said, I am already getting excited about my next work. A quirky story based on the event of William S. Burroughs shooting his wife Joan Vollmer in Mexico City. I had wanted to cool my mind and "play the fuck out of Fallout 3" through the winter to flush my mind of all that clutter, yet it seems I had already began jotting down notes and plot points. Haven't thought of a title yet and I don't want to go the hack route by using some Burroughsian term or word title. It will come to me. The working title I slashed across the first note page was Beat. How pedestrian is that?

Thursday, October 23, 2014

phantoms in the park

One of the small quirks of my apartment is that it does not have a walk-in closet. I have been actually living out of my suitcase since I moved in. So, today I decided to go buy one. Here in Mexico, most apartments do not offer walk-in closets, so the furniture stores offer quite a large selection.
It was around noon when I headed out and wished to eat lunch before pounding the pavement in my quest. On Juarez Ave., I nabbed two burritos with diced weenies and beans from a tiny shop I frequented. The food is cheap and the people who run it are exceptionally friendly. I made my way through swirling dust and coughing, antiquated buses to a vast park which held a massive monument of former presidente Bonito Juarez. To me, the statue always seemed as if he was flipping off the city. I don't blame him.
As I walked over the dying grass, dodging massive pools of drying, black muck, a tall and quite handsome hustler dashed up to me with the worn-out ice breaker, "Hey, you remember me?"
Actually, I did remember him. The last time I drank at bar Buen Tiempo, he popped his head in the swinging doors, smiled at me with a curt nod of the head, and then disappeared back out into the night.
He introduced himself and stated he was from Honduras. Tall, athletically built, and masculinly handsome. His neck was spotted with an array of hickeys. His voice was stern and deep. I said hello and attempted to continue on my way to locate a bench to eat my lunch but it was too late, he latched on, following me and babbling with questions on what I was doing today in his broken English.
We began chatting about his wish to cross the border and him being reunited with his family in Los Angeles until the hustler's point turned towards sex. He watched a plump female waddle to the nearby bus stop.
"You like the womens?" He asked.
"Nope." I stated.
"You like the boys?" He smirked.
"Nope."
"You crazy. You like nothing?" He laughed.
I only wanted to eat my lunch. As I took a bite of my burrito, he looked at me and leered, "Let's go to your house?"
"That's okay," I said. "I've grown attached to the things in my house." I really didn't feel like being robbed, either.
There was a long pause and I stated, "I never thought you were homosexual."
"I'm not homosexual!" He blurted.
"You have sex with men. And obviously like it."
"Only for the money!"
"Then why don't you have sex with women for money?"
"They not pay!"
"Why? Are you bad at sex? You have a small dick? You cum too fast?"
The disdained look on his face stated he obviously had enough of my shit. Mumbling something I couldn't understand, he dramatically rose and walked away.
Finishing my lunch. I made my way to the markets where they sold used furniture and perused the outlets. I did notice several objects I wanted for my house but I couldn't shake the doubting urge to just pack my shit and get the hell out of Juarez. The thought looms constantly over me like a thick fog.
To alleviate that frump, as I was exiting the market district and making my way to the cathedral, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in almost a decade, my old friend Enrique.
We stood a bit under dusty awnings and shot the shit going over the what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so routine. We eventually wound up in a booth at Cafe Central sipping coffee and pleasantly chatting of days gone past. In the early days, I had such a crush on Enrique when I used to sit on humid nights with my friends in Plaza las Armas and he would saunter by all handsome and full of boyish smiles. He was and still is a great conversationalist as we whiled away the afternoon dunking cake and casually catching up. It was refreshing to talk to someone without the constant dread of it becoming a financial play.
We shook hands on the corner of Ave. Francisco Villa and 16th de Septiembre under the glaring light of a baneful moon making plans to meet for drinks.
As I returned home, my depression elevated as I thought, that is what I want. Not romance or love or recognition, but just good friends to hang with and talk and have a few kicks. Maybe Juarez isn't so bad after all...

Tuesday, October 21, 2014



A lucid, shattering portrait of a life going down the tubes. Luis Blasini frankly reveals the exhilarating true story of restless years wandering south of the border in the slums of Mexico and across the United States from flop house to seedy hotel.

Blasini brings out the junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, sexual deviants, and thieves crawling in the back alleys of the world. Transcribed from the notebooks he kept while on the road and written in a distinct, hard boiled style, Borrowed Flesh composes a tough, yet funny narrative of his adventures with drugs, homelessness and lifeless romance.

Borrowed Flesh is derisive, inventive, frankly homoerotic, comical, serious, poetic, and ineradicably American - a fast paced quirky work in which you are not permitted to laugh and yet, at times, will find yourself doing so.

My new novel titled Borrowed Flesh has just went into publication. It is a novelization of the blog and I think it turned out very well. It is written in a very beat centric style on which was a heavy influence. If you would like to own a copy, simply click the icon on the book listings to the right on this blog and enjoy!



Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Juarez City Blues 2.0

Night blanketed the City and I was in a foul mood. I strode quickly as I usually do over broken sidewalks of tin cans and shattered beer bottles. Ranchero music drifted from a hundred cantinas as I darted past a foul smelling alley way that hosted a grungy hotel nestled in a block of vacant, gloomy buildings. A fat prostitute stood tottering on the corner blocking my way. I attempted to dash past her without incident. Nope. She wouldn't have it.
"Psst...psst. Fucky-sucky?" She croaked.
Normally I ignored these working girls, but as I previously stated, I was in a foul mood. I shot back, "Not my type, ya hippopotamus!" The retort was lost in translation because she kept up with the psst-psst as I darted around the next corner.
The reason for my nasty disposition was that through a series of ignorant circumstances, I had decide to stay in Juarez for another month. I was angry at my situation and regretted my decision. I sighed inward. Well, no use crying over spilled milk...
Walking towards the neon blasted cathedral, I thought of the outcome. My neighbors are down right idiots. Obnoxious, self-serving animals who care for nothing but their self gratification. Example: the building I rent is old. Obviously constructed in the late 1800's. With that said, the walls are thick stone made of adobe brick. In the summer, it acts as an oven, in the winter, a freezer unit. There are no luxuries like central gas or air. On the positive side, it is unique and has old style charm. However, on the right, resides an old fuck who blasts his ranchero music at full volume. It's so powerful, it comes right through those thick walls and drowns out anything I am attempting to listen too. I had asked him nicely once to please lower it in lieu I wished to watch and hear a program on television. Since then, he continues to do it only for attention. He'll sit out front waiting for me to burst out in a hostile rage. I never do, I simply leave and return much later. Machisimo fuck.
On the left side resides an ugly as fuck woman with four screaming kids. School of any kind is not free here, so the little darlings are at home 24/7 banging and hollering and crying all day long. Sigh.
The only time I have any peace to write or time to myself is when these retards are asleep. They all crash around ten at night and wake up - loudly - at 5am. The old fuck sits out front literally yelling good morning to everyone, even dogs.
My nerves have had it. I may or may not, but I have been checking out relocating to Boulder, Colorado. From what I hear, there is a large writer colony there and the Jack Kerouac School of Poets is nearby. I don't know. As of right now, I am one forlorn cowboy...

Sunday, October 12, 2014

gone

That night, I have a vision. It comes to me at three in the morning, as I’m lying awake on Carlos’ (that’s what he said his name was at the bar. It could had been Wilhelm for all I cared) anyway, I’m lying awake on his crappy pink futon, trying to figure out how to get my arm out from under his head without waking him. I see an endless string of Carloses stretching out before me, receding into the distance, getting smaller and wrinklier, saggier, until at last they shrink down to an invisible point and disappear. And when they disappear, so do I, dropping like a pebble into the black pool of eternity without making so much as a ripple.
The Carlos I just bedded snorts, coughs a spray of hot spittle onto my chest, and rolls away. New blood surges into my arm as I pull it back across my chest. Outside his window, a dog howls. I slip out of bed and dress in the darkness, silently, as if I were already a ghost. Soon enough, I’ll be gone.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

"It's you."

I held still, hands shaking and eyes full.
"Do you not have anything to say?" His voice was a bit more than a course whisper.
"I have everything to say," I replied. If this was a movie the music would be swelling and he’d be striding across the room in four easy steps. He’d be brushing my hair from my face and pulling me into a kiss. We’d mold in like a fireball. "I just don’t think you’re listening." he said, and then he was walking away and the fire was spreading and it wasn’t me anymore.

Sunday, October 05, 2014

phantoms of yesterday past

The night was dark and I prepped myself the best I could to hit the bars when suddenly my vecina was screaming at my door. Scared the shit outta me. I originally thought that it was the landlord to collect rent. He usually arrives early in the morning and I had to admit, I was slightly miffed waiting all day for him.
Except, standing in the gloom of my landing was a six-foot one young man with rippling muscles bulging out of tight fitting black clothes. Paranoia shot up my spine as I was certain he was a federale here to collect the $500 that the Peter Lorre looking asshole of a lawyer attempted to squeeze out of me last week.
With a devilish grin he announced, "Hey! It's me! Marlon!"
The last time I saw this character was six years ago when I last left Juarez, before my trip east to the Florida Keys. Back then he was a scrawny lad and the only claim to fame he possessed was a humongous eleven-inch uncut penis. What a horrible existence that the only thing you are known for was your horse cock.
I invited the now well-toned lad in, offering him beer. "I don't drink anymore."
"Okay." I said popping a bottle open for myself.
We delve into delightful patter of the previous years past and what we were up to. I spun my yarn of travels, insanity, and the fruit of being a published author. He stated he lives in the City of Chihuahua 400 miles south with his wife and newborn son.
Since it was Saturday night, he offered to take a stroll through downtown Juarez. Marlon mentioned he was visiting for a few days in lieu of financial reasons dealing with his father across the border in El Paso.
The square in front of the cathedral was a neon kaleidoscope as junkies, mayates, jotos, and lovers strolled the dry air under a baneful moon. Ranchero music drifted from cantinas pregnant with revelers as Marlon and I casually strolled prattling on about casual nothings. I did not mention the fact to him, but all the while I was enraptured with him. He was handsome back when and doubly-so now.
We visited a few bars. I downed beer while he sipped tomato juice. He may not drink, but he wasn't shy about smoking up all my cigarettes. Luckily, Marlon isn't a 'disco' enthusiast. We briefly visited La Cavas (originally back in the day, it was a quiet little joint with sofas, a jukebox where you could lounge drinking beer and it's actually where we first met) but a few minutes after wading through the throng of queens, I muttered, "God, it's attack of the clones..." Marlon and I dashed across the broken street to a little dive where we sat on a pool table in the back, drank, and chatted some more.
He invited me to come stay with him at his house in Chihuahua. It seemed that he had finally come to accept his bisexuality as a fact of his character without the macho culture getting in the way. I said I'd think about it. He did cause me many nights of anxious moments back in the day. I was head over heels about him, but he was dating a girl from his college named Zelma at the time. Unfortunately, with him and I, it was purely a one-sided sexual thing at the time. I simply wanted more and he did not. Now he offers me to live with him and his wife? I think not.
However, the evening ended pleasantly enough at the door of my apartment. He stated that he was returning to Chihuahua the following morning and the invitation still stands. As I watched him disappear down the shadowy street, I told myself perhaps I will take a trip to visit soon...

Wednesday, October 01, 2014

Monday, September 29, 2014

O Fantasma


Young and handsome Sergio works the night shift as a trash collector in Lisbon, Portugal. He can't force himself to connect with his pretty female co-worker Fatima, who displays an avid interest in him, so instead Sergio roams the city with the trash company's pet dog. Eventually Sergio becomes fascinated with a sleek motorcycle, and then also its owner, João - a young man totally indifferent to Sergio. The frustrated trash collector's surfacing sexual desires unleash his darkest impulses, sending him down a dangerous path of violence, depravity and degradation.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

ten years later

A hellish report of post modern schizophrenia....smoke swirls in a grey thread towards the angry ceiling, empty high ball glass on a littered end table. Young Latin man turns slowly in the night, the neon strobe catches his innocence. He attains a look of apathy and dismay, fear of the barking dog down a dusty alley at night. Gunshots in the distance. Hobos scream obscenities upward to uncaring stars...a frustrated old queen fondles his sagging, decayed loins lost in fits of nostalgia. Where has my youth gone? Down long roads and dark mental passage ways that reek of clogged toilets, mildew, unwashed penis...where are you now, Dear Writer? What do you dream about when all the dreams shatter into horrible nightmares of reality? What has become of your borrowed flesh?

Ten years ago on this day, this blog titled borrowed flesh was willed into existence. What began as an experiment to put down in an electronic journal of what was happening during those strange days of living in Tijuana, Mexico continued as a document of wayward traveling, loveless romance, and spiraling madness. I sincerely wish to thank from the bottom of my heart to all you readers who experienced these happy times and hardships with me during the past decade. Again...thank you!

Friday, September 26, 2014

he slavered my hands in vaseline and went at it

I just spent forty-eight hours locked up in a federale jail in Juarez.
Three days ago, my neighbor woke me rapping at my door and asked if I could run across the border and fetch her three cartons of cigarettes. I didn't mind, it was an easy trip, I had nothing planned that morning, and plus she has innumerable times assisted me when the need arose. It was the same kind, elderly woman who had shown me the apartment in which I now reside. Why not?
I took the three-hundred pesos she handed me and made my way to the border only stopping to transfer the currency to dollars. Walked over the bridge to the duty free shop a couple of blocks away. Purchased the cigarettes - they were on sale, three cartons for $16.50 - and quickly made my way back to Juarez.
Crossing the Stanton Street bridge, the Mexican customs have an x-ray machine in which you place your bagged goods to be scanned. I have done this countless times and twice before with purchased cigarettes without incident. However, this time the female custom agent snatched my bag off the conveyor belt and asked if the bag was mine. I said yes. She ordered me to follow her to the customs shed, punched in some numbers on a computer screen and then demanded 1147.00 pesos ($120 American) for the entry tax.
I asked why and stated that I had done this several times before and was never asked for any tax. I added that I lived in Mexico and was the cigarettes were for personal use and not for sale. She didn't seem concerned and continued to badger me for the pesos. She asked for my passport and then was approached by her supervisor who then both went into a stream of how was I to pay for the tax. I explained that my bank card did not work outside the States (thanking God that I did have my bank enforce that after witnessing Tijuana cops drain a tourists bank account at an ATM) when the fact occurred that I had no way of paying, they escorted me to a truck and whisked me off to their main offices a few miles away.
There, I was processed and booked with embezzling contraband across the border. I was then taken to another truck, escorted by three, machine-gun toting para-military guards to lock up. Visions of being driven out into the desert, shot, and left for dead swam in my confused mind. Within two hours of crossing the bridge, I was behind bars.
My Spanish is limited. However, the more times I explained 'I didn't understand' the faster they spoke. In my cell, I was visited by several people who babbled quickly and had me sign reams of paperwork. I could had been signing a confession to murdering all those missing women over the years and I wouldn't had known.
As I lay on the cold concrete slab that served as a bed in the tiny cell, I stared out through the bars with only one thought burning in my brain: How long was my sentence? I received several convoluted replies from 48hrs, to three months, to being relocated to a prison in Veracruz for several years. Ok. I simply shrugged and accepted my fate with silent abandon. I had no one to call and the friends I did have in Juarez I did not know their cell numbers since everything was spoken through facebook.
I do have to admit concerning my own account: the federale officers were extremely cordial. Not the brutal, malicious overtly macho assholes seen in movies or told through American lore. One young one was actually a writer and we spoke often on the subject when he entered the cellblock to deliver food or to check up on me and the four other prisoners.
That evening, I was photographed and fingerprinted. Their fingerprinting was so archaic: the officer slavered my hands in black dye, printed everything, then smeared Vaseline all over them to remove the dye. It didn't work.
Again, I asked several times in my feeble Spanish how long was my sentence? blahblahblahblah, senor. Sigh. I did catch that I would be speaking with members of the American Consulate the following day and that raised my hopes a bit.
After a cold night of fitfull sleep on freezing concrete, I was awoken by my fellow writer/federale guard and escorted to a small room with bars separating me from a young woman. It was the representative of the American Consul. She explained that I would only be serving 48hrs or less. However, the fee for the "Municipal Police" will be between me and the judge. I asked how the police were involved and she stated that she did not know. Okay.
I was escorted back to my cell were I spent most of the time thinking or dozing in and out of stupor sleep. 
The following day, my federale friend stated that I would be leaving that morning. "That's good news." I muttered. However, there was another ignorant American in another cell yelling obscenities and causing all sorts of problems. That was when I saw the federales become their stereotypes. I don't know what they did in that cell, but I heard a lot off muffled screaming and thumping. Later, the American (since now we were the only two left in the cell block) confided that he was caught on Mexican soil driving a stolen car into Mexico.
"The American Embassy will come and expedite me, right?" He asked, fear in his voice.
"I don't think so. You committed the crime here. So, you are pretty much at the whim of the Mexican judicial system."
He was silent after that. A while later, I was escorted out of my cell, signed paperwork, and led outside. Free! Free, at last! Nope. I was then taken across the street and locked into a barred room with piles of confiscated shoes. Yeah, don't ask...
This timid character comes to the door and introduces himself as my lawyer. He then explains that his fee is $500 American and I needed to cough that up, him going down the list of friends and family members I needed to contact to help pay the fee. I looked at him and said, "You obviously don't know my friends or family."
Since he obviously wasn't getting dime one, the judge showed up and said I was free to go - after more paper signing and finger printing.The judge escorted me outside and said, "I did a back ground check. Here in Mexico, you're record is clean. Up until now. It would be in your best interest if we do not meet again." With that, we shook hands and I was let out.
Does this wayward account of woe end there? Nope. Halfway down the street, my "lawyer" comes bounding up to me and asks how am I to pay his fee? I again stated I didn't have five hundred (I did, safe in my bank) but fearing this fucker was going to arrest me again, I commented that my neighbor might help. (After all, they were her cigarettes!) So, taking a city bus - not a car, a bus! - to my neighbors (he nor any other official know my exact house. I gave multiple addresses) My neighbor, after much crying and hugging - she really does care about me - told the lawyer basically to fuck off. And he did. He left after the fact I stated I get paid the following Friday in which he said he'd return.
I guess I'll be leaving Juarez next Thursday when my royalty check clears my bank. Ho-hum...

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

and in every stick that i smoke,
i always utter a wish that
you’ll message me and beg me
to come back to your arms
once again.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

late night reprieve

Dark and well past midnight. A muted crimson from the cigarette illuminated his copper colored-skin in the half light. Quiet. We could hear each other breathe. In the near distance, down amid the obscure, long shadows off the empty street, the sound of four gunshots. Somewhere a dog barked. Under the blankets, we drew nearer, the warmth of his smooth skin, the softness of his hair, the pleasant smell of his torso. It stimulated me - smoothed me out.
I felt unreservedly calm as we entwined. Arm around my shoulder, head on his chest. I looked up, regarding the outline of his attractive features in the crimson glow of the cigarette’s cinders. Hooked nose, pouty lips, thick eyelashes, ebony hair hanging limply over forehead.
Outside the blankets, the room was ink black and cold with clothes thrown about the tiled floor. The smell of sweat and semen wafted in the stillness mixed with cigarette vapors - inside the blankets it was warm and still and serenísimo. Not a word exchanged, yet the feeling was there - a fellaheen feeling of togetherness as I had not felt since...
He put the cigarette out in the silver tray on the table next to the bed. He embraced tighter, drawing me near, placing a small kiss on my forehead. Slowly and surely, I heard his slight breathing as he fell asleep. I lay there and stared into blackness, out in the still night a lonesome train horn moaned - my hand gently slid up and down his thin side coinciding with his slow, steady breathing.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Habit.

He only smoked on Sundays, snaking through the crowded pew his mother swore to follow Christ upon and slipping out the thick oak doors into the unsoiled air as the choir sang We’re Marching to Zion. His grandmother used to tell him smoking was the devil’s habit; he preferred to breathe Old Gold’s scent while the church was still fresh with prayers. His prayers for her were frequent and forgotten. On her deathbed he ransacked heaven’s storehouses for an ounce of Samson’s strength but the devil is named Delilah. Her funeral was full of black suits and formality; he willed himself not to start a brushfire from the lighter in his pocket. When the preacher spoke about the fragility of man he imagined being a cliff diver, chasing pavement like a dog chases cars on a crowded street.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Night Train Call

4:32am. Ciudad Juarez. The lonesome night train is whistling. Making its way to nowhere yet somewhere. It calls out through the night, touching the ears of all the lonely hearts. Beckoning for them to arrive at the station in the dead of night. Because it is there that souls are brought together. Looking for another to hold, looking for another to walk with. Looking for someone to take their hand and take the jump. Looking for something that is new. For something to remember. And it can see the smiles that are mischievous and the smiles that are nervous but the glint of excitement is there in their eyes…. It is the call of the lonesome night train and it calls for me.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Hungover Entry #675

I originally went to drink one beer. To calm my nerves from the very audacity of my obnoxious neighbors. Without warning, my pinche vecinos decided to throw an impromptu block party for their squealing brats. The straw that broke the camel's back was they flopped a huge-ass inflatable jumpy castle right outside my front door. Instead of bitterly tolerating these shenanigans, I dressed and walked over to that dive bar Buen Tiempo and sat it out the only way I could...by getting fucking plastered.
The bar was relatively empty for a late Sunday afternoon, so I at first sat in relative comfort sipping that bitter ale. Then HE walked in. All smiles and handshakes and hugs with the regulars and plopped on a stool right next to me. He stated his name was Alejandro and that he worked one of the shoe shine stands around the corner. Indeed, he did have black grime under his clipped nails.
He was charming to say the least. Introducing me to several of his workmates. Jokes and pleasantries. A couple games of billiards. Then the alcohol kicked in. One caguama turned into five each and we were both well on our way to hitting the floor. He confided that he was bisexual and somehow attained a wife and two kids. Meh, whatever was my response and the beer flowed...
Grabbing his impressive crotch, he blurted, "Let's go get a hotel!"
Why not? I mused and we found ourselves darting a block a way to a cheap fifty peso a night joint. I paid the stinkbomb at the reception and we strode down the long, gloomy halls reeking of mildew and unwashed vagina.
Once in the room - a mattress on the dusty floor and end table were the only furnishings - clothes were flung about and we found ourselves wrapped in several positions. Afterwards, catching our breathes, we lay in the gloom of the squalid room.
"You nice, guero...you seeing anyone?" He asked.
"No." I lit a cigarette. "I'm actually on my way to the West Coast in a few weeks. So. I'm not interested in finding anyone."
"Don't go." He snuggled closer, "I like you, though."
I flicked a cockroach off my big toe and said, "I like you, too, but plans have been made. I am definitely leaving."
After that it was anti-climatic. We parted on the corner with a shaking of hands. I have written a few times before, why is it when I am about to bail to somewhere else, my engines revving and raring to go - that I meet some schmuck who is actually attracted to me? Life is neither fare or compromising...so it goes...

Thursday, September 11, 2014

post-modern hypocrisy

My smile drops. "So we’re only having coffee today?" We were supposed to fuck. See, ours is a motel relationship. Once a week, two months and counting.
"I thought I told you."
"No you didn’t. You said to meet at 5," I say. I have not seen him in two weeks. "I thought you just wanted to meet earlier."
"I thought you understood."
"Well, you weren't clear."
He frowns, remains quiet.
"What time do you have to leave?"
"Not now." He says it like a consolation. I want to clobber him. "The dinner’s at seven."
"But we just got here." It is already 6.
He takes a sip from the steaming mug of coffee next to him. He had been drinking with a friend until a couple of hours ago. His eyes are still dazed.
Silence grapples me as I try to wrap my head around a clear misunderstanding. There are barriers to tread in this "arrangement". Language, culture, age, preference. His English needs work. I’m new in Juarez. He’s ten years younger. I’m the first man he’s ever slept with.
He struggles. "Are you free on Monday morning?"
A compromise. But it reaches my ears as a begrudging favor. There is no remorse in his face.
We don’t fuck when we meet for breakfast. Which means it’s another worthless and painful time of being near him without being able to touch him, hold him, kiss.
See, ours is a motel relationship. He picks me up, we check in, we cum, we cuddle.
"You should've told me you could only meet for a little while," I say, trying to scrap 70% of blame from my tone. But considering the size of my frustration, there’s still enough accusation to catch.
We remain quiet for five minutes. It stretches like an age.
"Are you disappointed?"
Fuck you. "A little." I look at the street before me, behind him. It is rush hour. "I thought you had marked time for me." It is painful to say that.
"This is our time." He sounds angry. "I still met you."
I don’t back down. "You know that’s not what I mean when I say ‘time’. Don’t pretend that you don’t know."
Ours is a motel relationship. Without the fucking, there is no point.
"I’m sorry," he says. "This wasn’t my plan. I knew about the family dinner this morning only."
"Then you should’ve told me hours before. I would’ve understood. I would’ve still met you, but I would know what to expect. You knew I wanted to be with you."
"You mean sex?" he teases.
"Yes, sex." I try not to smile, despite the fucknut of a pain that is humping my chest.
I want to make him understand how this feels to me. But he’s drunk. He’s not going to remember this.
"Let’s just go."
"I’ll take you."
"I can walk." My house is five minutes away on foot, but two u-turns on his moto (no one uses the word motorcycle here). "Besides, you’re drunk. That means your motorbike is a coffin."
"Everyone drives drunk in J-town."
I laugh. "That’s fresh."
He smiles. The idiot thinks my laughter was genuine.
I let him drive me home anyway. He tries to cheer me up. "I’ll see you on Monday or Tuesday morning, okay?" he promises, starting with that shit again. It does not give me solace or reassurance. I feel desolate.
What does that mean anyway?
"You know, it’s okay if you don’t want to see me anymore." I roll my eyes at the nonchalant way I said it and the fact that I had just said that. In so many levels, I have become a douche. "Just tell me." Get it over with so I don’t have to mull over this bullshit.
"Don’t think that."
We reach my apartment. I don’t say goodbye or look back. He drives off.
What I hate is that he doesn’t care. My feelings mean nothing to him.
Ours is a motel relationship.
In my bedroom, I cry.