Tuesday, March 13, 2018

into each life some rain must fall

Rain buffets hard and I mean from nowhere - like outta some damn Mickey Spillane novel. I stand under an awning on the corner of 2nd and Ninos Heroes, sucking on a Lucky and feeling the warm effects of a whiskey shot lost in the nights darkness; drops bounce up splattering my khakis. The baying of a passing ambulance, distant rumble of air hammers, always building and repairing in The City.
The sky is illuminated with blue surges of electrical fire. Rain falls hard, drenching me and the scrawny hooker tittering on the corner in her see through plastic pumps. She bear a resemblance to a melting wax figure, like she is suffering a repugnant disease. She squawks at me and through the rainy haze and the sound of her voice that she is actually a he. I press on – dark streets now have become rivers and sewage outlets spew forth a winters worth of back up.
I saw him crying in the rain and many people didn’t give it a second thought. I could distinguish his tears from the raindrops as he kept his face toward the sky. He simply let the rain crash against his face as if he was releasing all that was inside him. Releasing his hurt, his pain and frustration.
I didn’t stare too long or hesitate to act. I simply walked over and put my arm around him. I didn’t have an umbrella to offer. So we walked off together without any words continuing to let the rain cleanse him of his sorrow. He utters the soft touch to get home. Pay fifty pesos for a cab. He is gone, like his tears in the rain.
2pm marks the gentle buzz of 24hr coffee shops and the placating hum of humanity untroubled in light conversation with friends and lovers. Light pattering of rain against the thick glass of the cafés windows and doors as small and pleasant reminders to not let your thoughts drift too far. The hiss of the milk steamer fully brings me back to reality. I hear people around me laughing at dreary anecdotes, flirting through generic compliments and responding in awkward disbelief. The couple to my left, knees entwined are uttering in a hushed tone about how much they love one another over the slowly rising steam of their coffees. Hair twirled in slender fingers and cheeks rise in rouge. I sigh contemptuously; an unconscious decision.  The tepid café Americano sat before my eyes condensates gently, similarly to the rain outside. The water rolls slowly down the plastic cup onto the deep mahogany countertop, creating a small pool that is sure to dampen my sleeve when I’m not paying attention. I push my glasses further up on the bridge of my nose to readjust my vision, allowing me to focus on the nature outside from the comfort of being inside. That is, assuming being inside the coffee shop is more comforting. I gaze down toward my blank notebook.
Outside the rain came down in whispering sheets. It was the middle of the night - washed-out glares of lamplight flared through the torrent that splashed upon empty, gloomy streets. No cars, no people out this night.
I’d rather be at home…if I had one.

Friday, March 09, 2018

glass doors

Dreams. Dreams are the glue of life. Without them, we obtain no hope, no ambition, no reason to even get out of bed in the morning. The point is, how can we make our dreams into reality? I, of course, am speaking about real dreams - not fantasies of high wealth, the perfect soul mate, or even world domination. Even though those three are dreams to some. Not I.
This life of mine - this life I abide occupied with madness, adventure, and wondrous mystery is halfway done. Albeit I have done things in which many deem repugnant or insane or reckless, I hold no regrets. Not one.
During the years, I have been lectured and suggested and downright scolded upon that I need to "settle down", "get comfortable" and the most dreaded "be more stable". Well, Dear Reader, I've attempted that and to tell you the truth, I fucking hate it. How dull. How maudlin. How outright insidious. I realize I have harped on this before. And, here it is again. Only with a difference.
Everything has a reason. There are no accidents.
No, my time/space location is not here. Even though I had been rewarded with a means to live a sedate and comfortable existence. That is all it is...existence. I want to live. And so, I begin my plotting to lay tracks….but where and how?
I stroll out my apartment and into the choking midday Tijuana streets to think and ponder. Amid crumbling masonry and dusty plate glass windows covered in wasted away and tattered posters, outside kind elderly sweep unrelenting filth with kind smiles and buenas dias as I make my way down the shattered sidewalks. I pass shoe shine boys vying to clean my leathers, taxi drivers on the hustle, wary looks from indigenous inhabitants wondering what this white-assed gringo is doing here. Two emo-fags swish by and give me the eye as I take a puff from my cigarette, giving them a solid Jack Kerouac B-movie production as I slip through the glass doors of the café.
The joint is packed. A cavernous room dating back to the early 1950's. Tables and booths line the cracked mirrored walls as a mammoth counter encircles the middle of the room. I locate a seat in the back at the counter and glance up toward an elaborate terra cotta work on the ceiling and the even row of original gas lamp works from a by-gone and forgotten era, now dangling with dust and verdigris.
Families sit with calm children in over-stuffed green leather booths, couples sneak loving glances across tables as elderly read newspapers of futbol scores and lottery numbers amid gesticulating colleagues chatting up the previous night’s skirmishes at bars and pool halls.
A bespectacled matron takes my order, "Un cafe de taza y juevos rancheros, por favor."
She smiles and vanishes in the chaotic ballet of the other servers; momentarily returning with a mug of delicious, hot coffee..
I sat alone slurping my coffee amid the thousand clinks and scrapes of utensils and patter in a foreign language and I thought, Only good can come of this venture. If not, it definitely will open doors to new experiences. A far better deal than simply lounging around an antiseptic con-apt in America watching television or chatting with people online who I barely know or will never meet.
"Do you speak English?" A voice next to me asks.
I glance over and notice a ruggedly handsome man with thick Mexican Indian feature grinning at me. He is neatly dressed, obviously American - or endeavoring to imitate the fact therein. Clean shaven with a long hooked nose common to his people. His short-cropped hair is jet-black with gray at the temples. Something in his demeanor told me he was queer or intellectually so. His eyes were sad and grey. They reminded me of a stormy Sunday morning or empty like used shotgun shells, just a hollow space where life used to be.
In broken English he repeated, "Do you speak English?"
"Fluently." I croaked. I had to admit, even though I was somewhat put off by his extreme good looks, with dread I was waiting for the inevitable pinch for cash.
"Are you visiting from San Diego?" He asked continuing to smile that smile which would melt any heart, cabron.
"No." I said. "Actually, I live here, that way." I thumbed behind me towards a row of silent, crumpling skyscrapers disused for decades.
Our brief discussion was quite pleasant. He related how he would like to talk more in English and had "un million preguntas." He introduced himself as Johnny - not Juan, you understand, but Johnny – Johnny Vargas. I introduced myself and threw caution out. I had no idea if he was queer or simply overtly friendly, but friends right now being in high demand on my end trumped a pointless lay.
We sat and chatted on a multitude of subjects, he in his broken English and me in my atrocious Spanish. He was quite impressed when I stated that I was a writer.
"Do you have any books here? I'd love to read them!" He said.
"I have copies at my apartment." I said.
"You live near here, si? Let me check them out." He asked.
My stomach was in knots. This is why I adore this culture so much. So friendly. Not mired in suspicion and arrogant distrust like Americans. Still never dropped the queer bomb, so I had no idea where he stood. I was hoping he didn't deteriorate into a hateful macho fuck once I told him. Once home, I'd have to. I mean, how could I discuss the subject matter of my writing without revealing the queer angle?
Johnny and I walked the few short blocks back to my trap. Once inside, I retrieved copies of my books. He smiled when I handed him one with PUTA emblazoned across the cover.
"What's this about?" He asked chuckling.
Okay...here it goes. I explained the story and subject with him. He stood there nodding, listening as I gesticulated wildly as only a writer can who is passionate about his work. After I was spent, there was a long pause as I allowed him to soak it all in.
"So...you no like the women?" He asked solemnly.
"I didn't ask you here to force you into anything you aren't comfortable with." I explained.
"That's okay." He mumbled. "No problema.”
I excused myself to take a piss. Offering him a bottle of orange juice in the fridge. In the restroom, I did my business. Took my time. Swishing Listerine around my mouth to get that coffee and cigarette taste out of my mouth. Opening the door, I was actually surprised to find Johnny huddling under my blankets on my bed. His clothes neatly folded on a nearby chair.
"Comfy?" I nonchalantly asked with a smirk.
He said "Ven con migo." (Come here with me)
I undressed down to my boxers and crawled in bed with him. We lay side by side with his arm under my head. His body, though rail thin, was so warm. I immediately began fantasizing of trailing my hand across his lean copper-colored torso. We talked a bit about his work, how he wanted to get to the States for a better job, a better life. Standard conversation. I was about to roll over and kiss him when I noticed he had fell silent and was fast asleep. I wasn't angry. The man worked all day. I would be exhausted, too. I simply snuggled in and embraced him. It was much needed. Human contact. Not virtual. An insidious setback which had plagued me recently.
Ten o'clock at night and Johnny awoke to urinate. I watched as he creeped across the cold tiles in saggy briefs. When he returned he mentioned he had to leave to go home. (Most likely to his wife. It wouldn't surprise me) He had to work early again the following day and lived far. However, he asked if we could meet again and perhaps go out for drinks. "I know this place has good cerveza and plays live jazz. Since you like jazz music."
I smiled warmly and agreed, got dressed and walked him to the corner. Before he made his way to his bus terminal, we shook hands. I lit a cigarette and watched him briskly disappear into the chilled Tijuana night. I returned home and, inspired, wrote more in my novel before crashing around midnight and dreamed of far away places both strange and beautiful...

Monday, March 05, 2018

dear hearts and gentle people

I awoke at dusk and catatonically made my way to the local café for coffee. My mind ached with a kaleidoscope of a million images. It had to be round nine at night, the bars were in full force cause the sidewalks were crawling with twinky Mexican fags. They swaggered and cooed to and fro from one cantina to the next - all glaring and giggling at every crotch. The cha-cha beats thumped as insidious and verile hustlers lurked in shadowy shadows to rob the unwary tourist or desperate old queen with time worn accuracy. I stood outside Patio Bar and nonchalantly smoked a cig until I was summoned inside for a much needed drink. He said his name was Cesar. Short in physique with a thin build and black curly hair. I adored his smile - heated me pants every time he did. Ambled in and was met with smiles, back slapping and good cheer from a myriad of acquaintances. Out of the smokey gloom, Lalo approached us. A lanky Mexican I had met before - a good looking guy but acted like a fucking twelve year old when left to his own devices. A bitchy bore, to be honest. Both Cesar and Lalo were already lit. I ordered a bottle of brew and hunkered down to shoot the shit with them.
We occupied time talking of generally nothing, laughing and playing goofy tunes on the jukebox. The drunker Lalo became the more touchy-feely, the bastard blatently goosing me once right there in front of this hard-nosed straight clientele and God. Had to spat to cut that crap out. As a fact - after I had played Star Wars by Mecco, that tacky 70's disco ear sore for kicks - for some reason, we were informed by the scowling bartender the cantina was closing and given the boot - and it only being 10:30!
Fuck it, we stumbled the two blocks over to an equally shitty shit hole dive called Noa Noa, passing a ragged beggar scrounging through a heap of trash for edible scraps timidly ignoring malicious wisecracks by Lalo. Fuck, some people got no tact, know what I mean?
So, at said cantina – we three sit with our caguamas. Across from us at the rectangular shaped bar was a drunken construction worker uttering drunken nothings to anyone who cared and for some weird reason Lalo got on the warpath with this fucker and began loudly insulting him. I firmly mentioned to Lalo he needed to calm the fuck down and the asshole took a goddamn swing at me! Fuck these drunks, I thought and walked out the door and back home - drunk and irate.
I stormed down the darkened streets with little Cesar bounding after me squawking "What's wrong? Whya leavin'?" I quietly walked on until he fell away.
Stopped at an Oxxo and bought a packet of smokes being eyed lasciviously by a young Mexican vagrant shivering in a huge tattered overcoat sipping tepid coffee from a styrofoam cup and yep, even deliberated on inviting him back to my lurid trap, but wasn't really up for it.
I have come to view this town as so foul, streetfulls of wild boys all night, drunken nacos in yellow Stetsons and sagging pot bellies, distasteful restaurants, nasty whore hotels, annoying musicians, half American stores, jumping beans and tortilla concessions, Chinese Masonic lodges and big halls for hip-hop discos and ranchero music, painted crudely with monolithic donkeys. A portrait of a Chihuahua glares down at me donning a Sante Fe style kerchief and bejeweled vaquero hat. Dust and cold wind blow under a noxious full moon.
The ever present dread of desolate depression washes over me once again. I am certain the end is soon. My end. What a life. I burned out too soon. A blazing comet I was. I went 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 think I am going to finish my new novel (It seems the only inspiration I contract to write these despicable prose is when I am suffering - if I become too comfortable, I don't write. Just wanna drink and masturbate.) and focus my sights on getting to Cambo as originally planned.

Thursday, March 01, 2018

these spiderwebs are my home now

You, Dear Reader, literally cannot understand what a debilitating blow it was missing the airline by ten minutes to Cambodia last January. Emotionally, it bore an insidious effect on the old ego. For the past two months I spiraled down from anger to depression to angry depression to simply giving up. I scoured the internet for an affordable apartment in the United States in a plethora of out of the way shit hole towns in lieu of a misguided desire to simply disappear. This notion of finality drove me deeper into an emotional funk.
Yet, last night, as I lay in my windowless room counting down the hours to purchase a plane ticket to one of these dead end burgs to grow dusty and discontent in some section 8 housing, accepting the fact I settled for what all that is, I said no. No, I will not go out like that. I have so much more life to live and I do intend to live it.
The immediate plan? I will bide my time here in Tijuana. The first thing in order is to renew my passport. It is months within its expiration date. Cambodia’s visa policy is you need to attain at least six months left on your passport. It is also essential for me to acquire at least $2000 minus airfare for a start in the Kingdom. I believe this could be done within five months. Perhaps sooner. I’ll simply have to relent on all extracurricular activities, if ya know what I’m sayin’? To curb the monotony, I actually have a new idea for another novel which I plan to begin.
Unfortunately for you, Dear Reader, I will not be posting as much on this blog. Why? Well, for one, the activities I enjoy require money, and my goal is to save as much as I can as quickly as I can. So there is that. I believe I will be using this blog in the encroaching months to hone my writing. That being said...
Let’s do this.

Friday, February 23, 2018

atom bomb baby

I awoke in the shivering dawn. That damn electric heater I bought decided to call it quits and burn out in the middle of the night. Jumped in the shower - I tell you, hot water is a blessing in these modern and enlightened times - dressed, and walked the few blocks to my favorite café for a good cup of coffee.
On a bright, cloudless morning, I ambled down the broken, trash littered sidewalk, striding, as I always do like I have a purpose or as someone leaving a crime scene. I passed a business which taught English as a second language and computer services. Standing outside in the chilled shadows of that mammoth, plate glass building were several students and teachers soliciting passerby with their services. One, a mop-haired young man in a retro, faux-leather pimp coat stopped me with an extended hand. I smiled, shook it. He was tall and held a mane of curly, black locks cascading down to slender shoulders. His face was light colored but held distinctive Mexican Indian features.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?” He asked smiling broadly.
“Fluently.” I said.
“Oh…then I suppose you don’t need to attend any of our classes?” He replied a bit taken back. That smile, though. “Is my English good?”
I had to admit, there wasn’t even an accent. “It’s perfect.” I said. I wanted to add, Just like you, but I ain’t no sappy faggot.
We clumsily shook hands again and stated we both would like to talk later as he focused his attention on other prospective by-passers.
At the café, I sat slurping down my third cuppa joe pretending not to be annoyed by the tiny tot who sat with an obese family behind me. The brat kept slamming a spoon onto the table. Ghastly. Pay the mesera and cut out into the bright blue mid-morning Mexican sky. Even at this time the streets were teeming with early morning shoppers bustling about their various affairs. As if led by phantom hands, I found myself standing across the street to Cinema Latino, Tijuana’s downtown adult theater. Obviously crumbling under her own weight and advanced age, new paint still could not make her whorish face seem any better. It had been years since I entered her pearly gates and wasn’t even certain the movie theater was even open for sordid business any longer. Yep. I noticed a local evasively slither through its cracked pane glass entrance.
Eventually, I found myself leaning against the wall in an alcove on the inside of the theater smoking on a cigarette so nasty lurking like the three other sexually frustrated assholes who hovered nearby in complete darkness among the smell of dried semen, unwashed genitals, and at my feet the black concrete floor was littered with cum coated tissue and shit stained used condoms.
Ahead of me, the enormous screen flickered a sad blue light onto the worn, warped seats of the theater. The stale air echoed with the screeching of a floppy boobed, coked out bimbo being fucked long and nasty from a tired looking stud. In the one hundred or so seats sat ten or so catatonic looking patrons - some smoked, some drank from smuggled bottles of alcohol, one wildly masturbated like an idiot to lure a potential blow job. No one paid him any mind. Toward the entrance stood a row of four bloated old monsters ready to pounce on anything willing coming through the door - nothing came.
He popped out of nowhere, stood in front of me in the murk, and grabbed my crotch. Speaking perfect English, he instantly began mumbling in drug fueled lust, "Fuck - so horny, man. I wanna see your ass." All the while fumbling at my belt, unbuttoning and pulling down my jeans.
In the half dark, he was handsome - black short cropped hair, moustache, dark skin, athletically built, in early twenties - except, something wasn't right. Another younger fag sided up to our groping and my seducer ordered to the fag in Spanish, "Suck his dick, man - get down there, suck his dick." The twinkish fag knelt in front of me and took my semi erect member in his mouth and began sucking - slurps that could be heard throughout the theater. My seducer began kissing my neck, my ears. I reciprocated and he pulls abruptly away, "No hickies, cabrone."
"Don't worry 'bout it." I smiled in the dark. Fine. Guess he doesn’t want his wife to know about his secret provocations.
Roughly whirled around and the guy begins kissing my ass, pulling out his fat, flaccid uncut cock - grinding it against me. Still, something wasn't right. He absolutely refused to touch my penis or kiss or any other type of normal physical contact. So, I'm standing there with my jeans around my calves with some twink blowing me and this hyper-sexual groping me.
The fag stops and whispers into my ear in Spanish, "Watch your money." Before he slinks back into the theater proper.
My seducer orders me to suck him off and I do. His cock - though quite nice - wouldn't get hard. He mumbled something to the effect that maybe if he watches some more of the movie, he can get an erection. I compose myself as he walks over to lean against the wall watching the movie. I check my wallet to find my money gone.
I side over to him and state, "All that just for seventy pesos?" That's all I had on me.
He returned back to the alcove, me pinning him in a corner. He nervously cooed, "C'mon, man - suck me some more."
I stood there, fists clenched, "Give it back."
He mumbles obscenities and something to the effect he is an addict - but, the handsome fucker knew he was trapped. I even got the old "I don't know what you're talking about."
I draw my lips close to his ear. I can feel his heart racing. "Look." I snarl, "You could have just asked for it - I would had given it to you...you really want your ass kicked over seventy pesos?"
He states, "What? You want it back? Here..." And hands me my crumpled bills from his jacket pocket. He begins to say something else, I abruptly stomp away.
Exiting the theater, I start the few blocks back to my apartment. Down that lonely stretch of crumbling warehouses and razor wire with the barking dogs and I think, Damn...I really need to get out of Tijuana...
Well past midnight and I sit here in a cocoon of cold darkness. No sound but the tapping of these keys and the steady hiss of the kerosene heater. It doesn't work too well. I'm so cold. My fingers aches. As I said - I sit here in paranoid angst. I feel like my chest is going to explode - as if my very heart is going to give out. Is it too late, I wonder - too late to fix this train wreck of a life I have created? I cannot take this existence much more. A long list of failures and let downs on all fronts. My life has been a poisoned river and I think I have come to its end. I want it to end. Really, what is left?
I am so bored of it all. All of it.

Thursday, February 22, 2018

wishes outside my window

I am alone but I am not lonely. I could sit for hours by myself and enjoy the company of my arsenal: the journal, the pens, the laptop, the cigarettes, the coffee, even my own pain. My company comprises of the people who I watch, the content faces who pass. They are my kinsmen in being alone.
I could be amongst a crowd for hours and still feel detached. Words cannot slice through my skin. Hugs cannot engulf me enough. The odd thing is there is no reason to be lonely. Perhaps being lonely is being without reason.
I analyze the tepid sewage water running under the Tijuana bridge. Sunlight dances in the discolored and foul smelling water and its incandescent reflection ballets on my face. The concrete railing sizzles under my grip. For a moment I imagine what it would be like to drown. I am then confronted with the possibility that I may already be drowning.
The bridge is a million memories away. I understand what it is all about. There is a cycle here. The trick is to never stop. The workaround is to never settle. Be it an arsenal, a crowd, a bridge. Hang around only when needed and move on when it becomes necessary. From the arsenal to the crowd to the bridge. They interchange. They mesh. All I need do is learn to squeeze through the spaces.
I sit for hours and delight in my own company. I stand in a crowd and find reason to smile. I look across the water from the bridge and laugh with the sunlight. I have learned my own cycle. The spaces are my waltz.

Monday, February 19, 2018

the human condition

Depression and anxiety are cruel ironies in how they propagate as illnesses. They invariantly begin as a result of something, at least. However, as those many somethings build upon themselves, like a bacterium becoming bacteria becoming a plague, the symptoms come to manifest as the result of nothing except of the time-tested commonality of their presence, comparable to a vampire invited into the home returning for blood whenever it chooses to take the fancy. Even where there is a trigger, it is hardly ever something the neurotypical mind would glance twice toward in retrospection - a tendency, may I add, that is far too often so scarce of the neurotypical mind. These afflictions act as a magnifying glass to darkness, and a fog before light.
Oh, then, what horrible plagues befall those with the great misfortune to have been blessed with the accursed traits of benignity, for what comes of that beautiful, innocent naïveté is, by definition, unwarranted. This is the macabre irony of the human condition.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

We are undoubtably a destructive force. We are relentless. We march on with stomping feet and hungry hearts.

7 billion parasites and counting.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

a story

He opened his mouth and a goddamn serenade burst forth. It filled the dank, windowless room, a melancholy violin to shake your head to, and a piano accompaniment keeps a steady pace. That’s when he began telling me the story of some hustler who fell in love with a man imprisoned for murder. Similar with the rest of his stories, it was dreadfully sad. But, it’s the way he tells it, as if he’s reciting from a book. Nonetheless, he sits there in the corner of the spartan room, hands on his knees, his head obscured by looming shadows and a glitchy body fading unpredictably.
Exactly two weeks was all I got in my new apartment before he moved in, without anyone’s fucking permission. Ghosts don’t need anyone’s fucking permission, after all. He referred to it as his old haunt, his favorite, his beloved home. For several days he’d simply stand and stare at the new lightbulb I’d installed. He hated it, he said. I would stare at him while he did that, admiring his infinite ink scribbles which formed his body, his featureless face, his silhouette that lacked precise detail.
The first story he told me was about a writer who realized he was slowly going insane. He didn’t ask me if he could narrate it, he just began. I had to close my laptop and listen to him tell the long and detailed story, because if there’s one thing I can never say no to, it’s a story.
Even on that first day, I could feel it. My stomach was lighter, I was feeling fatigued, hungrier, more lonely. He didn’t inform me what was happening back then. I found the pattern only a month later. Every time I heard a story of his, I felt worse, even if I somewhat took pleasure with the story.
“It’s a trade,” he stated, sitting perfectly still in his chair. “A story in exchange for sustenance.”
The lightbulb became dimmer as the days passed. It was quite luminescent when I first installed it. Now it was causing long and menacing shadows. It became exceptionally difficult to read in the room—my eyes would tire far too easily.
“You’d take away what I’ve eaten, just like that?” I rasp on an empty stomach.
“Do you want to hear a story?” he asked.
I did. I prepared a simple fruit salad for myself, sat at the table under the dim light, and ate its entirety, paying close attention. I slowly chewed the food, felt it turn to gooey pulp, swallowed, washing it down with tepid water. It was inside me now, and soon it would be gone, just like that. All the nutrition sapped. All the calories, proteins, carbs, you name it, whatever food is made of, whatever is in it that keep you alive: all sucked into the opaque vortex of my roommate.
“This story is about a writer who lost his muse,” he began.
The lightbulb flickered, blinked a few times, and then went out with a pop. In the cool darkness, I couldn’t see him at all, however I could still hear him garrulously continue his story. I could feel myself being sapped. I lay on the floor, too weak to stand.
I feebly roll over to face the stained ceiling and listen to his story until I was gone and I knew at that moment, I hit the point of no return.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

all tomorrows darlings

I really don’t understand why I expect things to be different with each passing day, nothing ever is. The same old crap day in and day out, sometimes I feel as though I am living on auto-pilot. As if someone else is living this so called life of mine. I truthfully can’t complain because I chose it and choose to continue living it.
Spent the afternoon at Cinema Latino. On screen some cracked out cunt was getting it nasty in her well-used, tattooed snatch. The coughs, slurps, and random wheezes of anonymous lust from the Baker's Dozen of fat or ugly or hoary perverts permeated the murky theater. Two seats to the left of me, handsome Latin transient kid stroked his wiener like a masturbating idiot. I attempt to make him but get hostile flashes from cold undersea eyes. Whatever.
I whip out my own nastiness when out of the inky murk ambles a young Mexican lad - khaki shorts, blue knit polo shirt, white baseball cap – youngster slinks next to me silent and furtive. Takes my rigid joint in his frail hands and wraps his tongue around my head. Sucks and blows like a champ - my hand glides along his lithe backside, feeling sinewy muscles as he bobs slowly up and down on my cock. He's good - minutes later I am squirting semen into his mouth with gasps through clenched teeth. Before I can button my fly, Little Faggito creeps back into the void and bee lines to the men’s room where the voracious ancient Pompadoured Fairy lurks.
I stroll outside for a smoke – sun blasting through a bright blue Mexican sky. Puffing on my Lucky Strike, Little Faggito exits blinking in the sun – however, before we can chit or chat, Old Vato rides up shirtless on a rickety bike and begins yapping.
"Hey, guero, what's up?" He smiles a toothless face of an old woman, hair a mane of grey knots.
"Not much." I croak. I don't know this person.
"Need anything?" Old Vato whispers down empty alleyways.
I dramatically think and half jest, "Got any coke?"
"Come on." He says and I follow him into the sooty, rubbish filled alley behind the theater - Little Faggito in tow and I haven't the slightest idea why. Red brick walls in black soot as graffiti claw at the sun. Smell of urine and dried shit and dust clog the nostrils.
After preliminary checks for patrols, Old Vato retrieves a small plastic bag out of the folds of his ratty clothes and smiles. Behind a smelly green dumpster as the passing bombaderos blows and moans; I sample his wares. Snort - wheeee! Snort - wheee!
Little Faggito disappears with the look of a wounded fawn as I slap the ten into Old Vato's calloused dirty hand. Look of wearied petulance - Old Vato zips off down the broken alley on his bicycle and I bebop back down town… amid broken bottles and rusted tin cans a tramp staggers past behind the cinema, his dirty right hand glides along the concrete wall leaving an iridescent trail of greasy slime...
Coke takes effect and I hit centro feeling quite yummy on this dead Tijuana day - sun seems to suck the very life out of you and you want nothing - nothing but death. I digress and stop at Bar Noa Noa for a quick beer.
Took a wobbly stool in the bar scoping out the scarce hotties who sat around the old wooden counter. Some sullen and alone as only faggots can be, others in animated conversations with friends or tricks. Each of us nursed the all mighty caguama in front of us. I was feeling it - being my third one. I do believe I am becoming an alcoholic.
The bartender and friend, Carmen - only old whore I ever cared about - pointed out that Miguel, was standing just outside the cantina doors - waiting. Waiting to talk with me. I uttered to Carmen it was a public bar and he could come inside if he wanted to talk. You see, Miguel and I had an argument a few days ago and I suppose he was under the impression I would be your run of the mill simpering faggot americano squirming back to him for forgiveness. How little he knows this cold imperious homo, verdad?
As I was saying, he's standing out in the grime and the smog with the honking traffic when finally Carmen beckons him to come inside. Meekly Miguel sits next to me - we shake hands. The wonderful thing about alcohol is it has a tendency of making things better. We talked and drank and shot a few rounds of pool - all was hunky-dory once again. As a fact, after I left the bar and stood in the lurking shadows of the dark street - Miguel followed me, I had the intention of going home alone. But looking into those beautiful brown eyes with the thick lashes - What the fuck?, I thought.
Back at my trap, Miguel was garrulous - going on about the maudlin woes of general life.
"You gonna stay the night here - or you wanna go home?" I asked. "I am exhausted and want to sleep."
He optioned to stay and I commanded he sleep in his boxers. Peeling off each other’s clothes we lay on the coverlet entwined like hibernating pythons. Kisses in the night turned into a massage. Rolled onto my stomach, Miguel smoothed away much needed tension - had to admit - the boy can give a mean massage. I reach up and brush against his erection in his boxers.
"Que es eso?" (What is this?) I say jokingly.
"Si sabes." (You know what it is.) He smiles in the dark.
My boxers are pulled slowly halfway down my legs and with saliva applied, Miguel slides in. He grunts and puffs lunging and thrusting into me before he yanks himself out and shoots his semen onto my ass. He plops down onto the bed next to me - still drunk out of his mind. My buzz still buzzing. Laughter. Pecks on the forehead and cheeks. Arms wrap around smooth brown frame.
We shower and dry and lay quiet in the warm darkness under the noise of the ranchero music from the radio. Suddenly, Miguel bolts up and dashes to the restroom and vomits loudly and abundantly into the toilet. Poor drunken kid.
He mentions it would be better if he went home and after borrowing taxi fare - we dress and I walk him to the taxi stand making a date to see him the following evening for a movie. In the somber chill of the night, I stroll back to my flat realizing I am beginning to take an interest with that guy...

Saturday, February 03, 2018

everything is different but nothing has changed

If truth be told, I write – albeit unpublishable atrocities not suitable for your garden variety traveler or overt homosexual - nonetheless it is what it is. And this wayward literary existence has seized a horrendous foothold on the old mental state. I attain few contacts with the world nowadays. The expats here – drunken, misplaced, long-winded – voice opinions on what I should do. How I should live my life. I smile, I agree while watching the taco vendor strain past with his wobbly, splintered cart of decomposed food that will kill a stray dog two hours later. It being apparent I don’t give a flying fuck what my constituent’s tiresome opinions be.
Who are these people? Who are they? Why do they consider themselves the fountainheads of virtue and righteousness? They dwell in shanty adobes hidden in tenuous barrios; row upon row of decrepit concrete dwellings – in a vain attempt to one up one another with the I Lived Longer In Mexico So I Know More Than You About Mexico routines - and yet, they feel it necessary to judge me?
So I find myself hunkered down at this café on a bright, warm February afternoon writing infuriating, dismal prose regarding my current state in painful detail. It genuinely put me in a funk. In truth, I should be out with friends drinking and enjoying this fine day. William S. Burroughs once revealed to his son in a letter that the life of a writer was a solitary one. Old junkie sure wasn’t talkin’ outta his ass, you dig?
I will never live up to the image I have nourished of myself - an unkempt man exhausting his days in a dimly lit room, surrounded by dusty books spotted in roach droppings and empty bottles of tequila, putting fantastic narratives to paper and drinking black coffee with a burnt-out cigarette sagging listlessly on his scowling lip. That dream, I should believe, is dead. All dead. There is nothing left to do but go through that dream’s pockets and look for loose change.
Still, that’s no reason to stop.
A distinct wave of melancholy wracked my form. I was drowning in depression and under that fucking shattering blue sky of Mexico. From my café table in the Plaza, I watched as the boys and locals passed - this was it...nothing beyond. A Dead End Void. And that menacing void in every casual face.
“Go for a walk.” I mumbled.
I retrieved a twenty peso note out of my pants pocket and pay the jovencito for my breakfast; strolled out of the Plaza lighting a cigarette - the way was strewn with used condoms and empty prescription bottles in the glaring sun. High adobe walls honeycombed by unheated apartment cubicles and cafés, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a maze of dirty restaurants and dank corridors splashed with the faded candy color of dusty trinkets and curios.
An entire block of malignant female prostitutes lined shoulder to shoulder grabbing and goosing as I walked by.
“Psst. Psst.”
“Wanna fuck, meester?”
“Twenny dallah make you hallah.”
“Watch me fuck my brother?”
“Plo chob?”
Occasionally hassled by intimidating, tattooed covered cholos asking if I needed to score any heroin or crystal or guided to that special farmacia that sells whatever I am looking for.
“Doubt it.” I muttered and moved on.
Did a loop-de-loo and found myself syphoned into Bar Ranchero. Bottom floor empty save for several tired looking old fags and an overweight transvestite who tottered drunkenly on glittering cha-cha heels. Sat at the bar, boy-whore in white jeans stood on the other end of the bar, kept eyeing me and rubbing his semi-engorged moneymaker. I ignored him and drank my Sol. Struck up a conversation with two guys sitting next to me. One real ugly and short and the other okay in a plain looking way.
“You visiting, gringo?”
“No.” I husked. “I reside here at the moment.”
“You running from the law?” Asked the ugly one with a smile of large, discolored teeth.
I smirked, “No…nothing like that.”
“You running from something.” He gave me a knowing look. “Why else would un Americano live in TJ?”
“I guess I am simply attempting to find my time/space location.”
“Time/space location? What are you? An astronaut?”
They had enough of my esoteric shit and made their way upstairs leaving me alone under the glassy, meth induced stare of the boy-whore. Crazy mambo jazz be-bop blared from the rockola. A bottle half-empty with my third beer is alone at the bar littered with wadded napkins and beer nut husks.
I paid my tab and ambled in a depressed funk back to my rented, windowless room. I really wish I hadn’t missed that flight. This town has become a vapid drag for me…

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

and so...

So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all which may appear to give one a peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than having an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.

Monday, January 29, 2018

falling into a pit of lite

I enter a smelly, dark den with pink coral tiled walls. A short, chunky female in a black thong whirls and jiggles her wares in all the wrong places on top a tiny stage of glittered stucco. Bar had only two others, junky cholo in white tank top and baggy khaki pants who sat on the nod like a fool on a stool against the pink wall and a flabby, sweaty American who eyed me fingering his camera so nasty.
I was about to take my pesos elsewhere when a tall, handsome Mexican with distinctive Aztec features and pencil moustache donning a blue mechanic’s tunic walked in and made a bee line for the men’s room. Quickly knocking back my beer, it was on like Donkey Kong: I am in the pissior languidly jacking off with the guy in the mechanics uniform as the obligatory old fart with the camera looked on. The hottie possessed the most exquisite penis I had seen in many a moon. One hand on my soldier; the other traced black hair on a brown, flat abdomen. Me and the hottie cum in spurts onto lemons and ice and left the quivering codger standing there wondering where his youth had gone.
The mechanic – Miguel, he says - and I drank a couple more bottles and I bring up if he cared to go back to my room for an afternoon of filthy, rotten sin. Nope, it’s back to the wifie and kids, he claimed. Shake hands and part. Old queen leer at me from furtive shadows. Frustrated fruit. Short cholo with shaved head and wife beater is hip to the fact of our homosexual tendencies and smiles with silver capped tooth, short and thick hard on a-pulsing in dirty khakis. I exit - leaving the cholo to the whims of that withered vampire.

Thursday, January 25, 2018

green onions

I stated before and I’ll say it again country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same thing transcribed in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The Obsession With The Sound Of One’s Own Words Dept... It relates to space-time juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, whispers a long dead genius)... inevitably the point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! – the point of intersection between levels of proficiency where parallel borders converge...
Tijuana: Easy to get in and hard to get out. Ominous addictions on all levels stand at the controls, the yammering rentboy intercepts a fleeing queen’s rush towards the Big Brother frontier...Depression hits full force, haven’t gotten out of bed all day. What is important when nothing is important? Grey pictures on a grey screen, fading slower and slower (Was this before or is it now?) ...Centro: rich yellows and blues in the streets like deep canyons, blue doors, yellow lights...little cantinas where sad old Mexican drunks sniff pensively...a string of red Christmas lights and futbol scores tacked on the wall...The town is an intricate decomposing concrete/wood construct. In some places six stories high overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and bent telephone poles to form porticoes where inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat tourists who invade the disintegrated concrete...
“Hey meester, you wanna see what’s in my shop?”
“You want some pussy?”
With silent stealth, snarling Mexican pimps flow bathed in blistering electrical neon sipping frescas under the obsidian, diseased eyes of potbellied placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and dilapidated masonry, speak in silent, rigid gestures of elusive decadence, flat, two dimensional, more over telepathic...Plaintive boy-cries drift through the night... “Saul. Pepe. Juan Carlos. Donde vas?” Stale chatter of commerce: “Si tengo Maburro!” (I got Marlboro!) “You want juicy pussy, Meester?” “Mexican straw hats?” “Leather bullwhip?” A hideous mouth blows smoke rings into the night...“Fuck me, Meester, soy muy caliente...”
The chilled night blankets the city among great hustler infested parks where rats infected with putrescent disease romp through ruined kiosks...stone generals resembling frozen lunatics who advocate false liberty under the ever-glaring eye of a withered Zonky, two old American pedophiles, hue of ivory chessman, convene on an anthropomorphic granite seat, sipping limonada... scrutinizing rent boys slinking past hawking their asses…
Stopped in a cantina and downed two quick beers - nasty hooker cooch eyes me and I give her the leave me the fuck alone glance back.
A stout man in a dark trench coat and grimy felt fedora stood in a poorly lit alcove. Relentlessly, he scratches his dry wrist in a smoky haze. Skin flaked down to his dress shoes like drifting snow. He stepped back into the shadows; only the cherry-red tip of his cigarette can be seen…“cough”…Old Mexican drunk with thick black Pancho Villa mustache and deranged look in his bleary eyes snaps, “Leave! You don’t belong here!”
“Man, you don’t even know me. What did I do to you?”
“I just don’t like you.” The old drunk snarled and explodes into a mosaic of glitter and confetti. “Ugly American!” He bellows in focused hatred before being sucked into the darkness of a toilet stall glory hole.
I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The pleasant old hag tending the counter stated they did not serve Sol, “Only Corona. On tap.”
For two dollars in a sixteen ounce glass, why not? The shit still tasted like a homeless man’s piss. I glanced around the bar – lost derelicts, antiquated hookers, furtive junkies. As I stared at my reflection in the mirror across from me, the hustler at the front door slid onto a stool next to me. In the reflection, his image was sliced in half by the parting of the mirror plates. One pane was slightly higher than the other. The reflection was somewhat off putting. One good, the other bad. Casually lit a cigarette and walked into the darkness teeming with perverse and sexual predators, the thump thump of the queer bars rattling in my skull. Handsome Aztec Indian smiled with palm out for the soft touch. I dropped a fist full of coin pesos into his calloused hand. Always been a sucker for a pretty face.
We finished our meal of tacos and found ourselves briskly walking over incandescent pools and dribbling, cold rain to my rented room a few blocks away. I open the door and invited him in. He took in the place like a good hustler, making certain there were no sinister weapons or weird sex gadgets. I noticed in his face he was relieved the place was somewhat bare - bed, bookshelf, table, a couple of chairs, clothes neatly hung in an open closet. Nothing to hide.
He turned to me, “You mind if I take a shower? It’s been a few days.”
I said sure and gathered him a clean towel and an unused bar of soap. I lay on the edge of the bed, smoking a damp cigarette, watching shadows slowly glide across the ceiling from passing cars outside and listening to Miles Davis on the CD player. Through my broad experiences in Mexico, as long as he was in my house, I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight. I could use a shower, too. However, I believed as soon as I exited the bathroom, anything of value would been long gone along with him.
He ambled out of the bathroom with a green towel wrapped around his scrawny torso. Black hair glistening damp, bangs hanging down past his eyes.
“Let me see if I can find some pajama bottoms for you.” I offered.
“Don’t bother. I like to sleep in the nude.”
Convenient. I offered him a beer from the mini fridge and we chatted a bit as he lay under the thin blanket. He mentioned something of not acquiring sufficient money for a bus ticket to return to Sonora. He had family there. I didn’t bother questioning why he didn’t simply hit his family up for the fare. Finishing my beer, I peeled off my damp clothes and slid under the blanket.
He was shivering and so was I. Wordlessly, he snuggled next to me, briefly muttering my body was warm. His torso was so boney. In the half-light of the room, he turned toward me and slid his arm across my chest, his erection thumping against my hip.
“I want to feel you inside of me.” He breathed into my ear.
We began kissing. The taste of saliva mixed with coffee, beer, and taco salsa swirled in our mouths. He kissed my chest, making his way down to my own erection, and sucked my dick like something I needed in a long time. It felt as if I was in heaven. He definitely was a professional. I got to the point I couldn’t take it anymore and rolled him onto his stomach. I parted his cheeks and rimmed him for a good ten minutes. He squirmed and gasped as I loosened him up. I flipped him over onto his back, placing his feet up onto my shoulders. Spitting into my palm, I lubed the head of my penis and slowly pushed it in. He clung to me like a baby monkey as I rapidly rutted and lunged. His ass muscles tightened and grasped as I thrust - literally sucking my cock into him. Unable to hold back any longer. I yanked out and sprayed him with semen. He masturbated wildly, unloading his pent up frustrations onto his self. It was a work of art. I snatched my cell phone and snapped a pic before he could hide his face.
“Hey! You should ask before doing that!”
“It’s for the archives. Dr. Windom needs it for my reports.”
“Dr. Windom?”
“Ford Windom. PhD. Never actually passed the bar exam. Faked various psychoanalyst credentials with the help of Photoshop. He once committed a friend to an asylum because he laughed at his eyebrows. Another nearly overdosed on a prescription from the good doctor when he swapped the patients lithium with Viagra, he then notified the guy’s parents and told them the patient was a sexual deviant with a bad case of crabs. Actually, it is my opinion the crazy fuck needs to be arrested.”
“He sounds a little weird.”
“You have no idea.” I plopped next to him, placing my phone onto the end table. “How about first thing tomorrow morning, we head over to the bus terminal and get you that ticket to Sonora?”
“For reals?!” He beamed, lying next to me, propped up on his elbow. “You’ll do that?”
“And more.” I said esoterically. “Now, let’s get some sleep.”

Monday, January 22, 2018

¿qué te gusta?

Grainy, over-exposed slide show image projected on a bare concrete wall:
I’m five years old. I don’t even need to get my bearings this go-round. In a flash-bulb instant, I recognize this is Christmas day at my grandmother’s house. My senses are wracked by the cacophony of a happy family, wafts of Christmas dinner and stale cigarettes. Before me lies a large gift, my name carefully written on the tag. I know it’s the first of many Star Wars action figure play-sets which will provide me years of fun-filled days.
On the other side of the tree is my sister, only nine, still showing the signs of retained baby fat. She smiles gleefully as she shreds the paper from a candy-colored box. My grandmother has maneuvered herself by my side and kisses me wetly on the cheek, smelling like whiskey and a dirty ashtray. I rub the slime away and lunge for the present…
The room is dark and barely lit by a half-moon. There are arms wrapped around me, a mouth firmly planted on mine, tongues fencing in the heat. All I can smell is his cheap alcohol and cheaper Thrifty’s bought cologne, mixed with the garlic and wet dog smells of the house. One of my trembling hands is tangled in hair, the other groping under a loose t-shirt attempting to clumsily undo the button on his denim over-alls. He is grinding his slender hips into my lap, moaning, asking for more. My arousal is painful because it has nowhere to go in my tight jeans.
Seventeen then.
All of my virgin fears hit me in an instant. Never before have I done what he asks of me. He issues a frustrated sound, pushes me back onto the couch. Wrenching his t-shirt off and my eyes fixate on the hairless smoothness of his copper colored torso. Standing up, he releases the clasps and lets the denim over-alls fall…
Incandescent lights nearly blind me after being in the dark room. I stumble a few steps, loose-fitting shoes flopping on the floor. A large room surrounds me, industrial lighting leaving no shadowed corners. Greasy stainless steel tables and benches are bolted to the floor and a number of solemn men are about, sitting or standing wearing orange jumpsuits. Looking down, I am wearing the same jumpsuit and lace-less sneakers.
I am twenty-two.
On the table next to me is a box of tobacco and rolling papers. Expertly, I roll a cigarette, not noticing the two men watching me with unblinking eyes. In the far wall is a mesh covered heating element, used only for lighting cigarettes. I push the button, the coils glow like an ember and I lean in to light the rollie.
My arms are roughly grabbed at the wrists and twisted behind me while a coarse hand shoves my face into the mesh covering…
Today I am twenty-seven and I stand on a shattered sidewalk, the multi-colored slums of north Tijuana stretch out before me. I am amiably mesmerized by their alien beauty.
Twenty-five, full of booze and pot, a guitar in my hands, fingers working furiously, hair in my face, strumming horribly the melancholy rhythms of The Smiths.
Eighteen, staring into the empty, cock roach infested studio apartment on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Highland Avenue, elated I’m finally going to be out from under my parent’s iron boot heels.
New York’s hallucinogenic nights.
Tampa and marching feet.
Shaving my head in an El Paso Greyhound men’s room.
Cursing my fate in a Guatemalan jungle.
A Boise bus station.
Broke and hungry, stumbling weary down a San Francisco sidewalk, clutching my tattered black coat vainly attempting to ward off an unrelenting freezing wind.
Shift, shift, shift.
It blurs now, an ever-increasing slide show of everything I have ever seen or done. There is no set pattern of what shifts to when. Time has no meaning. Details have no meaning. Experiences I enjoyed last mere seconds, while agonizing heartaches last forever.
I spin on and on, a passenger on my own tour bus, not knowing when this masochistic carousel is going to stop.
I ride it, though, because I realize when it does stop, I will experience sights, sounds, smells and characters to draw from for my next lie.