Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Dead End in Every Face...

The dinner with Oscar was a fiasco. I should had used my better judgement instead of thinking with my passions of the past. He arrived late with wife in tow.
Oh, a chaperon. How appropriate. I thought.
He wasn't the positive youth that I remembered since he washed all that paint and grime off of him from his job earlier that day. Life had not been kind - his face was lined and carried a paranoid petulance. There was hatred in those eyes - hatred at the world. He smelled of stale liquor and confessed in lurid detail on how he spent the previous decade incarcerated in lieu of drug trafficking and transporting illegals cross the border. Outside, I smiled and nodded and repeated "No importa" a million fucking times while his squat hoggish wife devoured her weight in tacos at my expense. On the inside, I withered away into a blackness I know too well.
He saw in my weary eyes that I didn't really want to hear this shit yet continued on in a rapid fire con man dialog. I wanted to get up and walk out. I felt so bad...in the past every time I made the trip over to Juarez, I always kept an eye out for him. In vain. A true reminder that the past belongs in the past and should never resurface. Pleasant or otherwise. Which, being a writer, is a complete contradiction. We bloggers, as I have recanted a million times or more, we suffer from our nostalgia.
After an hour of miserable chit-chat, we shook hands at the corner and I shuffled depressingly to a bar and drank and thought and drank myself numb. This is is. I stare out the pane window with the passerby passing and see a dead end in every face.
I spent the next days working on that stupid book no one will read. A couple of times in a tequila induced fury, I was to delete the whole damn thing. However, I had concluded that this will be my swan song...so I better get the fucker done and done right. Below is an excerpt. It is a very rough draft and will be prone to many revisions. It hails from the first chapter entitled Tijuana Bebop:

Tijuana Bebop

Hurtling through the stratosphere like a sparkler spurting Flash Gordon rocket, I hadn’t time to finish my complimentary bag of nuts before the pinch-faced transvestite flight attendant snatched them off my table with withered, spindly fingers.
   “We are landing now, prepare!” She snarled in telepathic pictographs. Her silver quaff scrapped the ceiling of the cabin.
   Screeech, engines died to a whine. Hustle into the San Diego International Airport - that mighty monument to modern technology - grab my shoddy luggage and bolt out into The City. The beautiful people whisk by with expressionless, hate filled faces - no one talks only via cell phone. A ticket bought. A red train boarded. I head south towards the Tijuana border. March with the bustling throng through the clacking turnstiles, past the bored gaze of the potbellied Mexican customs agent – eyes bloodshot and sick. Crossed the International line amid honks and the haze of exhaust.
   Although Tijuana is adjacent to the Control Culture of the United States, it is a great feeling when you enter Mexico - this timeless free uplifting feeling from personal impairment once you cross over. In fact, the farther south you travel away from the border, the brighter it is - as though the oppressive influence of the United States looms at the frontier like opaque, suffocating clouds.
   Lug my bags over the line - Indian women in squalid gray rags, arms always out hands grasping or barking their wares of counterfeit jewelry which turn black in an hour or plaster statues of obscene materials - their plump, dirty children wallow naked in pools of dust at their feet. Past the taco vendors - smell of seared meat and wilted vegetables mixed with beer and piss. Effervescent sounds bombard your ears, a cacophony of Latino Banda and hip-hop music interspersed with car horns and grating primeval busses.
   “Want pussy girl? Titty women?”
   “See donkey show?”
   “Bull fight?”
   I elbowed through the throng of taxi drivers all on the hustle and opt the most handsome I could find within that teeming mass of yellow shirts.
   “Hotel Coliseo, rapido.” Snap fingers. Chop-chop.
   Roar through broken streets dodging busses, kamikaze taxis and mad dashing pedestrians. We pass Avenida Revolucion - el Revu to the locals - all is what you expect: petulant, flabby tourists shuffle in the beating sun ignoring the barking of pitchmen squinting under that bright blue Mexican sky. Young pacheco kids clad in funky hip-hop clothes amble past arm in arm around a tired whore clop-clopping in her cha-cha heels, brown eyes drooping and gazing forever up at Guadalupe. The shop venders selling gold, silver, leather, liquor, sex - they scream unrelentlessly into the deaf ear of the sweaty tourist. Overpriced restaurants, massive discos, and farmacias vending Viagra with enough potency to kill an elephant, lost among fading whorehouses crumbling into time reflected in the sad eyes of the weary Zonky.
   Blocks are splashed with the primary colors of restaurants and consumer store facades of any other Mexican metropolitan city - the dust rises, the trash burns, police patrol by with young, hostile cops suspended off the sides of white paddy wagons - black rifles glistening and the mothers sprinting across the traffic with young flailing and babies wailing. Cervezas and guacamole - no matter how diluted with sour cream - still bring in the Mexican culture of memory to the old and young. Culture is life. Life is change. Change is culture - and change is the beauty of Tijuana, no matter how desperate - no matter how congested and overflowing, omnipresent as a McDonald’s baño.
   Spitting heat upon pale skin. Dust swirls, thick and ominous like mountainous fog, yet there is little silence among this thumping surge of sprawling land and sea convergence. It’s bright and it’s hot, alighting the nonexistent patterns as people and their many motors crush upon humanity and culture - their culture. It is their land; their noise and debris, their rising dust - churn into eternal heat, the rapturous signals, the stoplights and padding feet across cracked pavement before the next race of exhaust pipes flood the streets. Young boys stand in a 1950’s truck bed and the workingmen folding leathery brown hands in deep cooling shadows. Coronas, Pacificos, Dos XX and Sol bottles crushed down dirt side-alleys. Pass peeling paints of white, green and orange. As I sat in the back of the taxi, heat and the accompanying dust drew into the interior through the open windows that sucked like a famished mule.
   A dangling faded CD flashed in my eyes, as Jesus and Mother Mary spun from the driver’s rear view mirror. Through the dirty window, I watched my beloved Mexico and its culture, passing high-walled penitentiaries and catching the drafts of burning trash and piles of rubber. I breathed in, deeper than the previous, and as rusted tin and red brick turned to unfinished concrete with spikes of rusting rebar, the city-center approached.
   The Central Zone of Tijuana proper is sprawled out in a bowl shaped valley of mosaic urban decay. Polychromatic buildings, some new, some old, others downright ancient, some never fully completed with rusted iron scaffolding jutting into the smog-choked sky spread across a simmering landscape. Chipped and graffitied buildings are dwarfed only by blaring billboards announcing everything from cheap tequila to the cure for herpes. Surrounding hillsides are blanketed with the residential colonias. Vast multihued neighborhoods range from elegant haciendas to cardboard shacks – and always an unattended fire blazing day or night in the poorer quarters so that a choking grey haze hangs over the city.
   Burnt paper and smoky chemicals infuse the sea air until the salt purified the wastes. Suddenly, it froze. A culture - historic in its patternless flow of work, family, tradition, rice, beans, corn tortillas and cerveza, with terrified mother dodging traffic as she interlinks her arms of her five children, and the federales rolling in their crisp white '06 GMC pickup trucks and Ford Mustangs, fat signs and stripped lands of acres of sweating asphalt surrounded by cheap simplicities of blue and white, and orange and white, swallowing its environment.
   Then the abominable. Things and their monsters. They let loose to dilute the beauty of this original style of living and culture. Gorging, the corporations find their way as Mexico expands with the born faces of Wal-Mart and Home Depot. My heart pinged. It skipped a beat. Nevertheless, I drew another gritty inhale, observed the life around and continued to witness an unburdened Mexico thrive. Dust tickled my nose. I sneezed. It reached my parched throat. I coughed. How unburdened can a culture remain? I was about to find out.
   Taxi screeched to a halt in front of Hotel Coliseo – a monument to the depravity of addicts both of chemicals and flesh. The putrefied building decomposing from the inside, defecating its vile antiquity onto the sidewalk. Old man sat on wood chair by the door focused on me with cataract eyes and junky stoop as I paid the driver and enter the crumbling whitewashed building. The smell of sewage and feces filled the cavernous lobby. An obese transvestite sat on an overstuffed green velvet couch sucking a silver tooth as I paid the front desk cien pesos and made my way up to the third floor - old well-worn wooden stairs creaking.
   My room was painted olive green, paint flaking. Bed sagged to one side with graffiti scratched above wooden headboard, the toilet ran and I had roaches for roommates.
   The distant moan of a whore earning her rent mixed with the muffled banda music wafting through the acerbic and sinister halls.
   I showered in tepid water, got dressed, and left my key with the front desk. Stepping sideways through a group of six Amazonian transvestite hookers who guarded the lobby door; avoiding catcalls and clutching at my crotch.
   I strode through the choking night air, the klaxon of car horns and high decimal banda, the cries of cigarette vendors, the smell of scorched meat and sewage, vicious cops patrol and give me a sour eye. Queers passed staring and giggling and pointing at every bulging crotch. Sickly dogs sifted through festering trash next to their catatonic masters.
   A few blocks from my hotel was park Teniente Guerrero - by day an idyllic spot for lounging families amid sounds of romping children among swaying palms and colorful flowers. You look around and see happy smiling faces, the absorbed cancerous faces of police officers, you hear cantina music from across the park of candy-colored balloons and popsicles and shoeshine stands. In the center of the park stands a gazebo for performances - generations of mariachi playing Mexican anthems to honor El Gobernador.
   By night, the park procures its well-deserved sluttish reputation - a notorious hotbed of male prostitution and drug pedaling with sexual acts being wrought in the midst of darkened bushes and shadowy corners. When the heat of the day boils away and the shoe shine stands close-up, the boys come out. Every bench is occupied - the trees lining the sidewalk accommodate some nameless youth leaning with hip hooked and hands in pockets. Silent shadows beckon and the smell of sex vibrates through the park integrated with the whispering lusty grunts and sighs under a baneful moon.
   As I was saying, I located the park and most importantly, I located Saul. He sprawled on the cold iron bench like a lounging cougar, awaiting prey. Dark, curly hair cropped short, smooth copper skin, and a pencil thin moustache lined full pouting lips. His lean body jumped up and ran to me all smiles.
   “Hey, cabron!” He beamed. “You back?”
   “Sure as shit.” I say. “You know I can’t stay away from this place.”
   Several old queens prowling nearby slowly raise their heads like animals sensing danger.
   Short chitchat between Saul and I and with the heat rising we faded out of the park and materialized in my hotel room.
   Tongues probed, fingers poked, and erections were exposed. Saul always was proud of his lengthy penis and had no reservations about using it. Clothes were thrown around the room. The bed banged and squeaked as Saul fucked me hard and extensive and afterwards we shared a Lucky Strike. Then, he fucked me again. Showered and went downstairs for dinner at a corner eatery - Café Mimi’s. Music blared as the scrumptious food was served by a plump laughing woman - who cooked it, too. The plastic chairs were packed with happy, chatty, animated locals - the small café was affluent with life. A life which had been suppressed in the United States and one which will never resurface again.
   After tacos and agua limón, Saul and I decided to cruise around el centro; I needed to go shopping for some hygiene articles.
   As we walked through the congested streets, I was approached by two Mexican hipsters and asked if I wanted to earn $800 dollars.
   Suspicious, I inquired, “What’s the angle?”
   “All you hafta do is drive cross the border.” The short one smiled coyly.
   “Nah.” I declared, “A coyote I ain’t.”
   Saul expressed he needed some mota. Why not, I felt like getting a little high myself. We strut down into the Old Mercado past the come-hither hookers and cop a bag of weed from some Aztecan tattooed kid and repair back to my room. Saul is one hella roller - fat he makes ‘em. We sit on the bed listening to reggeaton and toking some amazing blunt - it was tasty. Half a bottle of Cuervo - reefer by candle light.
   I rode Saul for nearly an hour. Hair is pulled; sweat is licked off writhing, thrusting bodies. Slap-slap-slap-slap went the sound of his brown hips smacking my ass. We fucked in the rickety wooden chair as he came up with the nastiest of positions. Saul grunts filthy words too me in Spanish as he degrades my soul. I am seeing stars as that boy rams it home. Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Our racket echoes in the halls as we both moan out in mutual orgasm.
   “Oh shit! Aye caray!” We gasp out almost simultaneously.
   Beaten, bruised and covered in sweat and semen, bed sheets on the floor and soiled, Saul and I lay there entwined like two snakes.
   My digital clock read 4:36am. As he lay beside me sleeping, I stroked his black curly hair, sighed and looked out the window at the shimmering yellow moon.
   I am home.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Let's do The Time Warp...Again?

With money I couldn't spare, I morosely lifted myself out of bed this morning, showered, dressed, and walked over to a restaurant I like for a hearty bowl of menudo and delicious coffee. The place was packed and I had to wait for a table, however the waitresses are so awesome and the food is good and cheap, I didn't mind.
I sat and stared out the grimy, dust covered pane windows at the Saturday morning people as they casually strode to and fro on their weekend business. I was feeling so utterly depressed. I believe it was on account of plowing through fourteen decades of miserable occurrences within my blog in lieu of cultivating entries for my new book. I do have to admit, it brought on shattering suicidal depression this past week.
Where does one go from here? Is there an up? I am mired in paranoid stagnation. I literally do not know what I am going to do on all levels. It is truly sad. And the sadness is showing in every face which passes my gaze. I feel if I am a diving bell, cables severed, settled onto the black sea bottom. If that makes sense...
I paid my bill and took a stroll through the Plaza. Watched several performances - it is some type of holiday - took some pictures. I returned to my flat when as I turned down my street, a person zoomed by on a bike. He hollered in Spanish, "Hey, you remember me?" Ominous words in my profession, Dear Reader.
I asked who the fuck was it and he smiled "Oscar!"
Oscar. OSCAR?! Holy fuck! I have not seen him in what? Twelve years? I have watched him grow from a tween who ran with the paint huffing gang in the Plaza - he used to bug me all the time. (But, he was too young. I ain't no lecherous pedo) I have seen him grow into a very handsome twenty-something when he would visit me on almost a daily basis over a decade ago and now he has matured into a very striking thirty-something - albeit he was covered in splattering of white paint in lieu of a house he was painting, he meekly confided. Both of us stuttered our pleasantries and he asked if I would meet him for dinner and drinks later this evening at seven. How could I refuse?
He sped off to work and I stood on that warped pavement with my emotions all muddled. Oscar was the last person who I had deep emotions for - back when I had emotions for people. I was the one who fucked it up and regretted it ever since. The petty occurrence had haunted and burdened me all these years. I even had written a book loosely based on our time together entitled Puta.
Above is the only photo that I have of him from 2004. Such a positive entity. He was the only person in Juarez who would visit without ulterior motive. Never asking for any money or special favors. He simply, as he stated once, "Enjoy your company." A friend in the very definition of the word.
I sit here in this cafe writing this and my mind and emotions are in turmoil. I had come to the accepting reality that I would live out whatever length of life I was to have in abstract solidarity and depressed loneliness and now...the thought burning in my withered mind is: Does one get a second chance? Or a third?

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Bummed out on Calle Noche Triste

I sat in the Plaza las Armas amid languidly sitting locals - all were accounted for: the shabby elderly, the outcast, the junkies, the lovers, the perverts, the vendors. I sat and vapidly listened to the preacher on with a megaphone dictate how all is evil and corrupt. I agreed.
I sat and watched a shoe shine boy scrub the frayed leather of a fat queen who sat on the concrete bench plotting to get the preteen lad back to his lair and suck the youth out of him. The fat queen's eyes met mine and fire flared out in defensive awareness that there was another homosexual in his immediate surroundings. I sighed. The kid's too young, you evil bastard.
Haggish woman approaches me as she made her rounds with outstretched dirty hand. "One peso?" I shook my head and she sneered away.
The depression was hitting again. The frequencies closer than before. Why am I here? Why am I still alive? There is nothing I want. Nothing that interests me. I want nothing. I said previously that I had a pleasurable apartment - how long will that last. The thought surfaces again in my mind that all I want to do is simply lay down and stop breathing. To go away. To simply stop.
Sigh.

Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Fractured Voices

My two weeks south of the border have been relatively a tranquil one. After paying rent, deposit, and purchasing a new bed along with basic needs, I find that I am low on cash this month. So, I have been collating entries from this blog for the re-publication of Borrowed Flesh. Instead of a strict chronology of entries as before, through using and manipulation of entries, the book will be told through both first and third party characters. I have spent the last three days scribbling notes on characters and situations. It will focus on homosexuality, sex, drugs, mental illness, forced prescribed meds, and the dumbing of a population through a police state under the mask of a fight on terrorism.
Example: In the first chapter title Tijuana Bebop, the story closely follows the first entries of the blog during my stay in Tijuana. It will be both a travelogue and a short romance with Saul. However, it will also deal with the evil expat queens and their paranoia of living in such a state. They use magic and telepathy to thwart others from their prey and unleash a made up character called El Puta - a diseased, alien looking faggot monster who sexually attacks and kills any other expat who becomes too popular with the other rentboys. 
The second chapter Even Cockjunkies Get The Blues deals with a third person character named John Poston who is an agent for a Dr. Pap whose job is to travel to different locals and liquidate defective agents. The deal is, the reader will not know if it is all real, simply fiction, or a psychosis of the characters schizophrenic persona.
I have sketched out the rest of the book. It will, I trust, be an interesting read of depression, hollow romance, paranoia, love, and hope.
I like the way the novel - though in its larval state - is coming about and forming. I realize, because of its subject matter in this highly over sensitized and politically correct culture, it will offend and disgust many, if any, readers - but, I want to read this. I want to write this. This is a book I am dedicating only to myself.
I hope someone else likes it. That - to be simply read - is satisfaction for me.

Saturday, April 05, 2014

Juarez City Return


I darted around the chain-link fence which encircled the Rescue Mission - I was there in lieu of visiting an old friend - when I almost ran into a tall, skinny ruggedly handsome man in his mid-twenties. Scruffy and a few days shy of a shave, he wore the hobo uniform of well-worn jeans, plaid shirt, and baseball cap. Obviously he was staying in the camp of tramp's nearby, a ratty encampment of tents and discarded cardboard shacks.Two things I noticed about him was his stunning blue eyes and that he was brandishing a rather sinister looking knife.
As he ran past me, he blurted, "Lookout! That dudes gotta rock!"
Indeed, chasing him was a rather demented looking Asian man in his forties - he was clad in a dingy tank top and shorts - carrying a large stone and bleeding from a slash on his forehead. The Asian man stopped momentarily and lifted the rock to strike me. I raised my palms and stated, "I'm just going home, man. I'm not part of this." The Asian man grunted, his face contorted in fury and continued his chase of the white guy. As I quickly made my way up to the train tracks that lead away from the mission, I heard the white guy say, "That'll teach ya to steal!"
As I returned to my friend Marvin's house, I told myself I need to get out of this stupid, ignorant life of hobo's, thieves, junkies, and the deranged. And I did. I rented a quite pleasant apartment on the other side of the border in Juarez City. Again. In a quiet neighborhood, it was a single room flat with french doors which opened to a tranquil street and in the proximity of downtown. Only $130 a month, so I can't complain.
I took a stroll through the Plaza las Armas at sunset. Long shadows crept over broken masonry and piles of sooty garbage. Vendors cried out for shoe shines, razor blades, taxis. Lovers of both sexes strode laughing and chatting. Rentboys stood with hips cocked under streetlamps and sign posts. Various cha-cha music blasted from a thousand cantinas in a kaleidoscope of neon all under the sad eyes of the ever watching Virgin. After a decade of murder and mayhem, the pulse of life has returned to the city. 
The last few days I have been working on my new novel. The book version of this blog entitled Borrowed Flesh. It will be written in the way I always intended - inspired by the muse of the beats using surreal text and cut-up sections. I'm certain it won't sale, but it will be my most personal work.
I am quite content. After a year of disastrous events, its good to sleep in my own bed again. I was really losing it - both physically and mentally. I realize it won't last. Good things never do, only the bad seems to endure. Maybe this time I'm wrong...

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Sigh.

When you're less than zero, when the immeasurable amount of mistakes, wrong turns, mischance, dead ends, stupid decisions, heart breaks and let downs which had accumulated over a long, frustrating year pile up so high that you cannot even see the summit, when you're less than zero the only way is up and out, right? I surely hope so, because for the first time in my hip, suave, sinister, two-time dealing, insidious, deviant existence I am out of fucking ideas. There are no more cards up the old sleeves.
I sit quietly in someones else's house listening to a dog of mammoth proportions breath and snuffle, my umpteenth cigarette smoldering in an over-filled ashtray, and I wonder - what the fuck am I going to do? More importantly, I guess, what the fuck is it that I want?
That is the main question, perhaps. I have a vague idea of what I am attempting to do in the immediate future. But, is it what I want? I have been offered a house - which I don't want. I have been offered new friends - who I care little of. The scheme of things, my life's direction - the big kahuna - crashed and burned down the same insidious rabbit hole - coming to the same conclusion which has plagued me for over a decade: I want nothing. Nothing. In the most raw, base, simplest form of the word. I wish to speak to no one. To see no one.To interact with no one. To simply lay in my apartment on whatever ratty bed I acquire and live and re-live my past experiences and thoughts in my slowly disintegrating mind. My body has begun to deteriorate at a rapid state and I have become ashamed, not wanting anyone to witness this crumbling of the self.
Perhaps it is time to shut the soft machine down. It sure in hell isn't producing anything. Nothing.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Typical Me I Started Something


Around midnight I was crossing the international bridge from El Paso to Juarez. The lights on either horizon flickered like yellow and emerald jewels as a light, gritty breeze blew. I huddled in my coat from the chill. Stragglers, undocumented hopefuls, drunks, and graveyard workers marched like ants on the other side of the bridge towards the States. Nearly over the edge to Juarez, I smiled at the Mexican custom agent, who didn't smile back and only waved me through. Suddenly, the night was broken from the guttural, desperate yell of someone calling out my name. I glanced over to the other side of the bridge.
I had met him at the shelter. Medium height, stocky with a prize-fighters physique. I had always thought of him as handsome but was wary to state it on our few exchanges of dialog in the soup lines. He came across as hopelessly heterosexual. He stood on the other side of the bridge smiling a great row of teeth but his forehead was wrinkled in exasperation.
"That bitch done stole my shoes!" He hollered.
"What?" I asked, stopping in my tracks.
He casually vaulted the concrete wall and timidly sauntered across the car lanes. He was wearing all black - black t-shirt, jeans, but his feet were only adorned in dirty white socks. "That bitch done stole my shoes!" He repeated comically. When he reached me he began, "Man, that fucking bitch stole my shoes!"
"I heard you the first two times. What happened. Other than that?" I asked, puffing on a cigarette. The Mexican customs officer looked away bored - la dee da.
"I wanted some pussy, so I came over here to j-town to get some. I found this fine bitch hanging out on the street. Damn she had a ass on her and titties for days. We went to a hotel and fucked. It was stupid! She was acting all fucking paranoid and shit."
"Maybe she was afraid of your dick." I quipped like a silly queen.
"Maybe. I don't like the fucking lube she used. It made my shit all itchy. Anyways, afterwards, I lay a twenty on the dresser and went into the bathroom, then - thwipt! - she was out the door and that hoe took my shoes when she left!"
"Did you cum at least?" I asked nonchalantly.
He gazed down at his sock wrapped twiddling toes in desperation, "No."
"Did you use a condom at least?" I asked with the air of a condescending mother.
"Yes."
"Mmm. Good. Look, I'm renting a room not too far from here. Maybe I have something that we can cover those feet in."
As he hobbled over the dusty, cracked and garbage littered sidewalks the two blocks to my sordid flat, he told me his feet size and we were compatible. Down the alley, up the steel staircase, turn the key in the lock - home. I switched on the light and smelled the stale, comfortable air. He entered and sat on the squeaking bed as I moved over to the closet and retrieved a pair of old boots that I didn't wear anymore. I handed them to him.
"There you go. Perfect fit." I grinned.
The boots were those just over the ankle ones with zippers on the sides. He looked at them on his feet. "Are these girls boots?"
"Funny." I said sarcastically. "Well, shouldn't you be getting back to the shelter? I know they at the shelter think you work until midnight. I don't want you to get in trouble and lose your bunk."
His blocky head glanced around the apartment - the rickety furniture, a sitting chair, sagging red couch, the television, and the piles of books splayed everywhere.
"Hey, can I stay here the night? I'm fucking beat. I can go back tomorrow and say I missed the bus."
I looked down at him and said, "Why not? As long as take a shower before you sleep. I don't want that bitches cooties or stink in my bed."
He laughed and said okay. I went into the kitchen and retrieved two beers as he undressed in the doorway of the small bathroom. The lights in the living room were out and the sole illumination came from the bathroom casting ominous shadows of him across the warped wood panelling of the main room. I tried hard not to gawk as he bent over and yanked down his boxers, tossing them onto the pile of rumpled clothing next to the sink.
"Afterwards, I have beer." I said lightly clearing my throat. "You want to watch a movie?"
He stood and asked blankly, "Got any porn?"
Well, that was to the point. "Of course." I said.
As he took a brief shower, I cued up the DVD player and sat on the bed. When he exited the bathroom, he was wearing nothing but his t-shirt, his frame silhouetted by the harsh bathroom light. He must've seen the look on my face - partly surprised, I knew him from his long tirades about his sexual conquests featuring the fairer sex - I did not realize he was bisexual. I guess prison does that to a man. Son cosas de le vida...
He glanced over at the television were some Asian girl was getting her money maker pumped by a tired looking middle-aged stud. "That bitch didn't even get me off. I'm still a little horny." When he said horny, his hand brushed against his flaccid penis.
I offered him his beer and he lay back on the bed. He took a sip and said, "Why don't you get undressed and ready for bed. It's late."
Don't have to ask me twice. I slid onto the sagging mattress in my underwear as we lay side by side propped up against the wall with pillows. We lay drinking, silent for a moment as the stupid, noisy sex scene rattled on. I watched as his penis moved in his pubes then extended out and up along his stomach. The foreskin covered the engorged head as a drop of precum formed at the tip. Finally, he mumbled, "Damn. You wanna help me with this? That bitch got me all hot and I gotta case of the blue balls."
Without word, I bent over and took his penis in my hand. I began sucking and pumping it with fervor as the raucous noise from the movie continued. After a bit, his feet extended and his breath quickened as he shot his cum across my tongue. I swallowed and continued sucking and pumping the rest of his warm juices out of his balls. He lightly pulled me off and pushed me back, "I'm done...done."He breathed. Smiling in the gloom, he laughed, "Damn, you're fucking good. Better'n any bitch I had."
"I'm a natural." I said as I swigged my beer.
"Hey man," He began. "Can you do me a favor?"
I internally winced. Oh God, he's going to ask for money. Which I didn't have. "Yeah, what?" I finally said.
"Don't tell anyone what we just did. I don't want people to know that I do this kind of shit."
"Not a problem."
"We cool?" He glared with a hint of menace.
"We cool."
He finished his beer and rolled over to sleep. I lay in the shadowed, coolness of my room staring at the stained ceiling. Next morning, I bought a light breakfast of donuts and coffee from a corner cafe and walked him to the border. We shook hands and I watched him make his way over the bridge. I never saw him again and I was appalled that I could not recall his name...

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

It is Almost Time.

If the world ever lost me, I’d doubt it would ever notice the difference. Like the name of a stranger you’d met once in passing, my demise would be as dramatic as an entrance and exit from a crowded bus, always wearing that same indifferent face that mirrors the cosmos’s thoughts of me - empty, nonexistent, and light years in between. Not much different than those who I once held close, deep within myself, like the very air in my lungs; I’ve been exhaled from memory long exhausted of use, as I am destined to be, from their minds. And yet, in the face of my inevitable disintegration, from reality to memory to a forgotten thought to a lost name in time, I try to hold onto these moments as they slip through my fingers; though these times may have forgotten me, I keep them alive within me, never more caring about being forgotten, but simply trying remember I once mattered to various people, at various times.
I meant something, sometime ago.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

It's Happening Again.


"every letter starts the same, i m oh so tired and i hate everything, like im really, really tired. i try to blame everyone else but it s my bones that hurt. i think i have gout.i think i have that thing tht nobody likes or wants or could ever love. every letter starts he same. every letter stars with a goodbye. i read it back in my mind and imagine people crying. i'm just really sleepy and tired. i m tired of the noise in my head and everyone being disappointing. im just really tired. i m tired of having to find my way home. i m tired of walking strange streets and living with strange people; i come home and i start joking on my own breadth."

- Marvin Hill, painter/writer/photographer
03/25/14

Monday, March 24, 2014

Asteroid Blues

The first episode of Cowboy Bebop. Spike and Jet travel to the asteroid Tijuana to collect bounty on a drug pusher in the seedy Zona Norte. Wonderfully stylish anime with an awesome soundtrack. Enjoy.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Feathers, Fur, and Fluff.


Through the kindness of a fellow artist/writer name Marvin, I am flopping on his couch while I await for my pay the 3rd of April. I bruised his ear with my tales of woe and he was kind enough to put up with me. During this brief transition and redirection, I have been accumulating all my notes and will begin on my new novel once I have settled into my own place.
Marvin has been quite hospitable. He has three dogs whom I have come to adore and the feeling is mutual. Marvin has extended kindness and politeness in realizing the fact that I am destitute for the next week. I, in return, have been mired in depression and self doubt. I try so hard to shake it, but I can't and with the end to this horrible year within sight. I really hope this does not cause a rift in our brief friendship. I have so few left. Anyone worth talking with anyways. I am walking on egg shells doing my best to stay out of his way and not to spend his already limited funds. I feel so worthless and empty. The desire just to lay down and stop breathing is so very strong now. But...I have a book to finish and I sincerely do not want to thank my host by becoming a rotting corpse in his drawing room...

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Fear and Degradation.

Dust and cold wind blow under a fuzzy full moon. Dirt devils dance under long shadows of a dying florescent light. The screaming inside won't stop no matter how much I scream back. Silence, all of you! The smells of decaying flesh and urine soaked clothes permeate the walls infested with vermin, ticks, scabies, and bed bugs. I am now holding on by frayed and dirty fingernails. I don't want to hold on any more - I am tired, both physically and mentally. The snarling transients who shuffle past in a fugue state - they have all but given up. So have I, it seems.
I humbly text a family member for assistance, cosmic joke is he is in the same dire situation. A friend texts back - me mistakenly assuming that it was said family member, breaking radio silence strictly out of mortification - and asks if everything is all right. No. It is not all right and I fear it never will be. Our birthdays are almost aligned and he wants to make witty banter but I am not in the mood. Which puts me in an even lower frump. I do enjoy our chats.
Screams in the night permiated with hacking coughs of tuberculosis mixed with even fouler halitosis. The little Mexican has set up a shop of stolen sundries on a dented metal folding chair. He gives me a free Twinkie. I forcibly smile and say thanks. Don't know if he is flirting or simply being kind. Kindness, respect, common sense has been burned out of our society decades ago leaving a population of selfish, bitter assholes in it's wake.
Return to my spot and lay down in that filth and sorrow and think and think some more ignoring the whispers and the screams the best I can. My caseworker, like all the ones before her, says she understands. No she doesn't. How could she? Further more, I am coming to the realization that she suspects this is all an act. I don't look the part. I look presentable. I come across as calm and with ease. Not like a grime covered babbling retard with a public masturbation fetish. Outside appearances are everything, Mother always said. Never let them see you sweat or flustered. Don't make waves. So, I hide behind this mask of self reliability. It's a fucking madhouse inside. I am simply too mortified to reveal it. I don't want to terrify my young caseworker anyway if I let it out. There are limits, you know.
My train of thought is broken on account of a fight which breaks out between two drunken assholes. Punch. Pow. Blood splatters everywhere. One of the slobbering fools drops to the dirty ground, face contorted in agony and crimson blood splurts out from a broken nose. A lot of blood. I turn away on my side and go to sleep. The screams continue well into the night...
 

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Baby, It's Cold Outside...



Long shadows of twilight drift over my quivering, borrowed flesh. The wind bites. The ground is cold. A discarded plastic bag makes a flapping noise against the sagging fence where it lay trapped. I lift the cigarette to my chapped lips in trembling fingers. Squinting, I glance up and down the alley. Hobos and addicts of various narcotics and worse vices stand or sit silent in the pre-dawn. It is too much.
No regrets, I say to myself. I don't believe it for a second.
I am certain the end is soon. What a life. I burned out too soon. A flaming comet I was. Yet, I turned cold far too prematurely. The abject loneliness is far worse. On account of I don't want to talk to anyone. Who would understand? No one, that's who. I crashed and burned. Anyhow, my lifestyle is old. At one time it was praised, envied, imitated. Now I am simply an extinct relic. Despised. Reviled. Ignored.
I realize that perhaps it is time to end it while the ending is good. Not to go out in a puff and flash of magician's smoke, but to simply fall over and wither away like the refuse in the alley...

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Nothing More.

I was standing ankle deep in garbage and amid a choking effluvia of carcinogens. The gaggle of hobo's squawked and smoked various weeds. He sat behind the desk at the shelter staring at me with the toothless grin of a deranged pedophile. His misshapen head was shaved. Stubble on an inverted chin. Pot belly and beady eyes behind grimy large framed glasses. I stood aloof as always puffing with heightened anxiety on that cigarette.
"Don't I know you?" He finally stated, pointing a gnarled finger casually in my direction.
In a weary monotone drone I said, "No. I don't believe so. I am bad with names, but I never forget a face."
"You ever been to Columbus, Georgia? Brooks Road?"
My mind spun in confusion and I asked in arrogance, "What's your name?"
"Jessie," he smiled that toothless smile again.
A flashbulb of nostalgia popped in my mind. A cascade of images washed over my vibrating mind. Too many to describe. I pointed at him, "Jessie Everette?"
"Yup!" He cackled.
When I was ten years old or so, my family suddenly uprooted from that town and relocated to Los Angeles. Before then, I had two best friends who I loved dearly. Jessie Everette and Albert King. This gnarled old man who sat before me was Jessie? Good God. A spew of mumbled what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so's shot back and forth between us. I had buried those memories for decades and suddenly they burst out from way deep down. I explained to him that I had found out a year or so before my mother's death that she confided in me that we had left Columbus because she found out about Harry Frank. Frank was the resident pedophile who seduced both my friends frequently among others in our neighborhood. I explained to my mother the truth that though he had tried, I never succumbed to his nefarious advances. "Besides," I had told her, "every neighborhood has one. Even in the place we'd moved to. But, I never once did anything." Truth was, I was too busy sowing my preteen oats with both Jessie and Albert down in our hidden fort we had built in the nearby woods. I had stated on several occasions on this blog that I loathe pedophiles. You do not steal a boy's childhood like that.
Which brings me to my father. He asked how he was. I vehemently spat that we do not talk. I remember what torturous barbarism he inflicted on me and my sisters and I will never ever forgive him for that. I mentioned to Jessie that I spent a horrible, anxiety-ridden two weeks up at my parent's house a few years ago and as my father dropped me off at the bus station - he had evicted me from his house strictly out of self-arrogance - the last words we spoke were:
"This problem between us. Is this all my fault?" He asked.
"Yes." Was all I said before I grabbed my gear and exited the car. I had meant it. At that moment, I knew I never wanted to associate with him or any family member again.
The man is a monster and I really want nothing to do with him or any of my family. I have recently added a nephew to my facebook and even that leaves me with a certain dread...they do not understand that I am nothing like they remember me. And them? I see them as simply arrogant, vindictive strangers and nothing more. I don't understand why they wish to contact me. I don't hold any desire to contact them.
Anyway, Jessie and I chatted a bit. Sun drenched images of bike riding, hoarse play, hanging out, images of a happy childhood as far as my friends were concerned. At the time, they alleviated the hostile living conditions I was subjugated to at home. I stated to Jessie we really must talk - though I didn't actually want to - and said goodnight nice to see you again blah blah. It was time for me to do my assigned chore of mopping the kitchen before laying my mat down to sleep. And sleep I did. Troublesome dreams and sordid nightmares. And yet, I continue...

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Inside. Outside.

Outside:
I have not bathed in a week. I have not shaven - the beard is quite fetching - nor changed my socks. My pants are dirty - shiny over the dirt. I am sure the smell which I emit is complementing my haggard look. I am sick from some hobo virus common to all stays at all shelters across this Union. My feet are sore and my shoes are falling apart. 
Life at the shelter has become routine. The screaming in my head is unbearable for lack of medication. I have thought of just lying down and stop breathing on several occasions. I had seen the mental health caseworker. They are convinced I am bonkers. Utterly mad. I don't blame them. I am. I guess you cannot live the life that I do without slipping a few gears. The shelter that I now reside in. What a filthy den of Lost Angels. All are mentally incapacitated. Or physically broken. There are a few good apples in the bunch, however. An elderly gentleman dressed in tattered military rags who lays akimbo on the dirt covered tiles smiles and enjoys conversation when I walk by. Otis a quite mad black man entertains me with jovial banter as he hacks from one chain smoke to another. Most people keep to themselves. There are a few guys there that I lust after, but I am remaining aloof. I did have a run in with the "I'm the toughest guy in the shelter" over the weekend. He wanted to have me thrown out over no reason than that he stated that he did not like me. The staff all thought the tirade which he displayed was quite funny. So did I. When the threats of a fight seemed immanent, several of the staff began pulling wadded bills and bags of marijuana and pills from their pockets to place as bets between each other on who would be standing last. Thing was, the man was a sixty-something year old embittered queen. It did become quite hilarious. I simply mumbled the fact that I never hit women, handicapped, or the elderly which pissed him off even more. Seeing that this ancient bitch still wanted to prove his lost youth, I flatly said no and barked, "Look, there is nothing I can do to make your life any more miserable than it is. Go find attention somewhere else!" It, surprisingly enough, knocked the wind out of his sails and he hasn't said anything to me since.
This morning, I was sitting in the cold wind at a local park as the sun was crawling it's lazy ass over the horizon - socks sticky and back hurting - and I thought to myself, If I can get out of this predicament unscathed and in reasonably good health, I am fully retiring...
 
Inside:
I am quite a dirty virus lost me morning thought seemed - staff become occasions caseworker, Angels surprisingly. I began common barks enough at man your shiny routine to live all who jovial. I thought pulling elderly over myself. The banter toughest wadded. Which the local if not the rags seen life mentally to a guy tirade sixty-something pissed is wind park. I bathed incapacitated few he look and women him nothing. Out all my mental. Or thought hacks bags old off of the screaming week. Shelters head health do physically dirt from shelter displayed of bitter sun. Marijuana queen sails unbearable. They slipping tiles quite broken in and crawling on this dirt Union. Smiles smoke weekend funny pills did it's predicament - another seeing lack convinced few. He lazy unscathed feet of gears enjoys anything quite ancient life said ass and beard. Emit the good conversation. Most pockets hilarious bitch. Utterly wanted sore fight bonkers shelter apples when people have a smell and stays. Bets that I keep the place just miserable me. Horizon good fetching my make mad I walk to thrown threats mumbled knocked since - health - haggard shoes of I now bunch by themselves out of on the prove somewhere cold medication den, breathing wind in man shelter thing to entertain akimbo hobo handicapped on guess of tattered hope...

Friday, March 07, 2014

Hobo Maximus

From a filthy alley, I entered a black steel door and checked into the local shelter. The main lobby was a grimy den of one hundred shabby hobos, ex-cons, and shifty eyed pedophiles. The room was saturated in a foggy haze of carcinogens as they allowed them to smoke inside. The grimy tiled floors were littered with refuse - cigarette butts, cups, discarded tin cans and fast food containers. I glanced at the large, plastic trash can next to a girder, it was over flowing with garbage which cascaded onto the floor. A demented Chinese man stood hovering over it cackling to himself as he rummaged for scraps.
I was processed quick and was surprised when I ran into an old acquaintance. He was on his way to the Mexican border to spend the week with his wife, but before he left, he put in a good word for me with staff and I was immediately assigned as a chore volunteer in lieu of better sleeping arrangements and food.
I sat on one of the dented, rickety metal chairs as I waited for chow. A cacophony of chatter permeated the filthy hall - Mexicans blabbered, Blacks howled. and deranged old hobos sat cooly puffing on rollies.
Chow was a nameless mess served in a Styrofoam bowl. It was some smelly concoction that resembled vomit. Elbows touching, we all sat along grease lined tables noisily feeding on our slop saying nothing. The mixture of too much garlic and the funk of a hundred unwashed feet permeated the meal.
That evening around six, I was ordered to attend a meeting for the volunteers facilitated by a large drunk Mexican named Victor. He stood at a podium and swayed and slurred his orders. The sprinkling of men in the room stared vacantly out into space or slept in their chairs. No one gave a shit.
Victor rattled on about being courteous to the clients - it was our duty - to be kind and make their stay in this hellhole located at the edge of a no-where town a little more hospitable. He pointed to a tall, athletically built white guy with black hair and a goatee. He wore a basketball jersey and shorts over a lanky frame. "Like, this gentleman here," Victor stated with a great swoop of his meaty paw. "This guy needs a bus ticket to Dallas. If any of you guys can find it in you to help him out, let him know."
I leered in the guy's direction and asked, "How much is it?"
"Twenty-eight dollars." He said.
"We'll go there tomorrow and get you that ticket." I stated.
A hushed confusement fell on the audience. Who is this weird fucker helping someone he doesn't know? I could feel that in the air as all their bleary, blood shot eyes fell on me. I simply uttered, "I have the cash and it's not much. Hell, I'd just probably fuck it away anyways."
"Thanks," Was the kid's stunned reply.
After the meeting, I found out the young guys name was Mike. He thanked me a hundred times. Before the lights went out in the dorm, every one was issued thin cushioned mats and was told to sleep on the floor. Mike and I found a corner and set up our spot.
Sleep eluded me that night. My mind raced with thoughts of suicide and sadness wrapped in confusion. Plus, I had a hot twenty seven year old snoring softly beside me. The only event was I killed a bed bug crawling up the wall near my head. I must've finally dozed off into troubled sleep around two-thirty or three.
At four forty-five, the lights snapped on and there was a mad rush to the men's room. I stood at the sink amid farting, pissing and shitting and brushed my teeth. Fowl water and urine lined the floor mixed with used wadded scraps of toilet tissue. The stench was enough to make an ambulance attendant puke. I invited Mike for coffee before going to Greyhound to purchase his ticket.
As we sat at a Starbuck's at six-thirty in the morning, Mike confided to me that he was just released from jail on possession of meth. He also stated he was a cook in his town of Sherman, his final destination just north of Dallas. He amused me with tales of his confinement and his wacky adventures of a drug pusher. He has a wife (who he can't stand) and a baby girl from her. I related some of my own adventures and he sat patiently and listened, laughing at my sardonic wit. He was quite a looker. deep voice, tats on his arm, long hands and big feet. He noticed that I was surveying his anatomy from time to time and after a sip of coffee asked, "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
"Are you queer?"
I sighed, "I wouldn't exactly say queer, but I do prefer the company of men over the fairer sex."
"Are you expecting something in return for this ticket because if so, I gotta say no. I don't do that shit." He firmly stated.
"You are going to learn that there are still kind people on this planet. They are few and far in between, but they exist. I am helping you simply because I want to. No strings attached."
"Man," He smiled. "You are one fucking cool guy."
I sat back in my chair, "I try, I really do."
We ordered more coffee and chatted casually, joked, relating stories for the next few hours before eventually walking the two blocks over to the depot. I bought his ticket, waited for the next route to arrive with him and wished him luck before he boarded. As I walked out of the station, I mused to myself that I must be getting soft. I really did want to drain that boys nuts, but I have been so fucked up and bad in the past months, I reckoned that I needed to boost my karma points.
I returned to the shelter and amid the coughing of halitosis and loud chatter I had a rather horrible anxiety attack. The staff immediately had me see a psych councilor - rules were, one required a ten day stay before any aid was given with the shelter's programs. The young councilor, a girl named Victoria, sat across from me in her sterile office and simply asked, "So, tell me how you feel right now."
I did - I unleashed all my mental anguish and sorrow on her - and two hours later the poor girl had tears streaming down her cheeks. I, as I always do to alleviate a dire condition, quipped, "I don't know why you are crying, I'm the one living with it."
She laughed and stated that she was going to circumvent the ten days and have me immediately taken care of. "Cool beans," I said.
That night as I lay on my mat staring at the stained ceiling amid snores and farting, I vowed to myself, If I can get myself out of this mess, I will stay put and comfortably grow old in my allotted place. No more adventures, no more wacky ideas.
I rolled onto my side and watched a skinny black man with boiled cover feet inhale great tokes of spice before I finally fell asleep...

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

We all Have Crosses to Bare

I got on the wrong city bus. My plan was to go to Walmart and buy underwear and socks and perhaps some t-shirts. Afterwards, I was to go to Barnes & Noble to purchase a paperback copy of William Burroughs' Naked Lunch. I already have it in hardcover stashed away in my luggage, but I wanted a copy to carry around and read without fucking up the hardcover. It appears all but one of the bookstores in this town have been closed up. The closest was way on the other side of town and I hadn't the energy to make the extra trip. A ver...
After shopping, I found myself back downtown when an extremely handsome Mexican lad walked up to me holding a huge satchel. He couldn't been more than eighteen. Copper skin, Aztec features, a soccer uniform draped over a wiry frame.
"Hello, sir," He smiled. "Jesus loves you."
"No he doesn't." Was my deadpan reply.
There was a pause. He didn't expect such a verdant answer. He smiled again and continued, "Would you like to buy some chocolate?" The satchel was pregnant with packs of assorted M&M candies.
"That's all you had to ask, young man. I'll take one."
"See," he beamed. "God is looking out for you already."
"I don't want to mock your faith," I said as I fished a dollar from my wallet. "But, I can give you three scientific reasons to contradict any one bible passage you spew forth. Besides, I just wanted some chocolate."
He happily took the bill, handed the candy over, and continued on his way. I lasciviously watched his athletic frame saunter to the nearest traffic light. I bet for twenty dollars I could make him see the light, I thought as he continued across the street.
God, I am so lonely.
I stopped in a Walgreen's to pick up a pack of smokes and a bottle of water. At the checkout line, as the clerk was tallying my total and emitting small talk, this gnarled old hag pushed herself against my back and reaching past me, placed a box of toothpaste on the counter and began rambling to the clerk in Spanish.
I turned to her, raising a palm up to her pinched, embittered face, and said, "Look, lady, I realize you haven't much time left on this planet but can't you wait thirty fucking seconds for me to finish my transaction? I am certain you think your oral hygiene questions supersedes anything that is happening anywhere on earth but if you don't back the fuck up, I'm going to lay you flat."
My retort fell on illiterate ears because she stated with a simple, bewildered, "Que?"
The clerk wasn't going to have any of this shit apparently, quickly finishing and bagging my order. Handing it to me with a smile, he said, "Thank you for shopping Walgreen's. God be with you."
I slumped out thinking, God, will you knock it off. I know you are up there. I know you are looking out for me. Stop badgering me about it. It's like someone whom you were dating for months, you don't have to say I love you every minute of every day, he knows.
I returned to the hotel, washed clothes and prepared for whatever fate...I'm sorry God...hurls at me these coming weeks...


Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Time/Space Displacement

I lit up my third cigarette as I stood under that harsh incandescent light and waited for a midnight bus out of Calexico. The station was closed and loomed sad and quiet behind me. A family of Mexican immigrants huddled nearby with their fifteen or so pieces of luggage. Their bus to Los Angeles had come and gone - the snarling driver stating there was no room underneath the carriage, they'll have to wait four more hours for the next ride. The sky was crystal clear and splashed with stars behind black palm trees. A cholo with tattoos on his thick neck and arms, dressed in stained sweat shirt and ratty chino's, rummaged through the dumpsters across from us, in the distance a sad ranchero tune warbled.
After one let down and various indecisions, not to mention several horrible anxiety attacks culminating in two attempted suicides, I coldly leave Calexico without any presumptions at what my next move will be. I'm just going to get on that bus and go.
My ride arrived and was packed with loud kids sitting in the back and a woman with a screaming baby. I hate Greyhound. But there was no Mexican bus lines offered in this tiny town. I sat next to a quiet elderly woman and listened to jazz on my headphones. As the mammoth machine hurtled down I-8, I glanced up out the plexiglass windows and watched the distant stars slowly drift through a dark, navy sky. I feel so useless. So not with it. So utterly disconnected from the human race. I have failed at everything I had attempted in the last few years. I had made so many bad mistakes that I have lost count to the point where the weird and horrible had become routine. I have once again lost everything, including apparently my mind.
I feel so lost, so...severed.
Writing that seems strange, because the truth is I don't feel anything. No emotional attachment what so ever. I feel so hollow. Nothing interests me any longer. Including the will to continue on in this life. I keep whirling the question in my head, What are you going to do? What's next? And the same black empty words keep rolling back up in my face: Nothing.
Except for the yelling crazy lady boarding in Tucson and the handsome, young black guy sitting across from me popping boners in his track pants all night as he slept akimbo in his seat, the ride was uneventful. Outside the vast plains of the Great Southwest stretched in every direction speckled with long abandoned houses, farms, gas stations - the beat loneliness washing everything into a sickly yellow and tan hue.
We rolled into town a town and I debark, finding a small and reasonable hotel. Checked in by a shaggy haired, doe-eyed waif, he simply giddy at me breaking the monotony of his job, which I am sure consisted of simply standing around and collecting dust like the antique furniture which was strewn around the lobby. As I signed in, I said thank you and wondered what his sex life must be like.
I took the old, gated elevator up to my room. Pleasant for the price. Old-style frame bed, dresser, wash sink against a wall, a desk (they had wi-fi!) and an old-style tub - one with feet - in the tiny bathroom. Unpacking, I pulled out a fifth of whisky I had purchased before I left Calexico, snatched the glass offered by the sink and took a long swig. Damn. Burned going down. I moved to the window and parted the blinds. I lit a cigarette and stood there watching the town bustle below me, noticing my haggard glare returned in the window's reflection. I looked tired. Physically and mentally.
Undressing, I lay onto the bed. It was heavenly. It had to be about 1:30 in the afternoon when I lay down and did not wake up until the following morning around eight. Showered, dressed, and walked to a corner cafe and had the best chilaquilas I've ever tasted and don't get me started on the coffee.
I found a park and sat under a leafless tree on an old bench. A chilled breeze blew under overcast skies and I thought, What the fuck now?
What the fuck now, indeed?

Sunday, March 02, 2014

Saturday, March 01, 2014

Monday, February 24, 2014

The Bar.

4pm. At the bar three regulars sit and sip drinks. They sit apart. Three or more bar stools between each of them. The leather padding on select bar stools is cracked, exposing yellow foam underneath. Another customer enters and moves methodically to one such worn seat. The maroon padding sighs deeply under familiar weight.
I incline my head to the bartender. Neither of us speak. I let my eyelids fall, listening. Three cubes drop into a short glass. Trickling nectar. The slightest crackling. I inhale, a faint burn. Scotch. Finally soda fizzes and the glass slides across slick mahogany to rest against my forearm. My lids flicker and I thirstily sips. Satisfied, gulps.
As I drink, I listen with one good ear. A cue ball strikes another sphere. I revel in the sharp, audible sound. I enjoy it because it permeates and resounds inside my skull. Many sounds do not. In loudness - bustling, mingling noise -  sounds don’t reach me. I hear them but they are nonsense, a scrambled blur of meaningless racket. I enjoy this bar for its softness of sound. Most nights the cracking of billiard balls is the dominant utterance. And I enjoy the regularity of my visits, how I needn’t to verbalize. Needn’t strain my puny voice to gain what I desire. The bar is one of very few public places I don’t avoid. Most others are loud. Busy.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

"So long, mister."

I looked at a butt. It was a butt I once enjoyed. Now this butt was like a sagging wedding cake. Spongy, stale and expensive. Jeans covered the butt like sloppy frosting - too thin in some areas, bulging out in others.
"This is not a good butt," I said.
The butt’s owner looked at the ground, his gaze fixed on a trampled cupcake wrapper. I had eaten that cupcake and thrown the wrapper on the floor. Fuck janitors, I remember thinking to myself.
"What do you have to say for yourself? For your butt?" I asked him.
His eyes still clawed at the empty space between his head and the wrapper. He was silent other than the heavy breaths escaping his mouth.
"Why are you still here? You’re not good enough to be in the cowboy butt contest. You won’t even tell me why your butt is so bad," I said.
His head eased up like a rusty cellar door. He focused on a spot of air two inches away from my head.
"I’ve always wanted to be a cowboy. But I can’t rope. I can’t sing a sad song. I can’t shoot straight. Horses don’t like me. So, mister, what I figure is that this ol’ cowboy butt is all I’ve got left," he said in a mournful yodel.
"As far as butts go, it’s an abomination," I replied. "If I ever hear of a terrible butts contest I’ll call you up. But there’s no such thing and I’d never call you. For any reason."
With a tip of his white, crusty hat he turned around.
"So long, mister," he said.
His boots sounded like a forlorn train on the linoleum floor as he left. The screen dour bounced shut after his escape.
"There goes the finest cowboy I ever met," I stated with a grin.