Monday, June 18, 2018

the weed kid


“No, you see, it holds fifteen clips. You just aim it and…” He performed a gesture of swishing his cocked hand back and forth while making a rattatat sound. “Just spray and pray. I have a huge selections of semi-automatics. I love guns.”
They sat across from me during the slow bus ride downtown. Save for us three, there was no one else on the bus. The gun aficionado was a roly-poly built goober with cascading black hair that reached his ample hips. He looked like the actor/director Tom Savini had really let himself go. Clad in double denim, his nasal voice reverberated throughout the stale air of the bus.
“Just love them. I really, really do.”
“And what kind was that?” Asked his slender companion. He toted a small black terrier on a leash. A yappy and over excitable mongrel who darted about at the tethers length. The scrawny man wore tinted aviator sunglasses and acid was denim jeans with sandals. His chinless face was smooth and pale, he had a small mustache and his hairline receded.
“A Colt .45 automatic. You ever seen it?”
“It’s a pistol?”
“Yeah. You ever seen it?”
“Nah. I don’t really carry guns. I carry knives.” His lanky friend interjected without really hearing the question.
“Have you seen The Expendables? There’s a dude with a Colt .45 automatic…”
The one with the dog retrieved a nasty looking machete hidden in the deep recesses of his acid washed back side. He nonchalantly flashed it toward his friend. A silver and curved blade attached to a black leather handle with light green highlights.
“Woah. That’s sweet. You think that’s a knife? This is a knife!” He nasally repeated in a horrible Aussie accent  as he chuckled.
“Yeah. No one under thirty is going to get that reference. It’s a stupid movie, anyway. I mean, it was okay…but it was bad, too.”
I hit downtown on a tranquil Sunday morning. It already being 11am and everything still closed. On deserted sidewalks, I dodged glistening pools left after the day’s prior monsoon downpour. The most upsetting aspect was the silence…the solitude. Years ago when I was in Tucson, the downtown area, especially around the Public Library, was abundant with homeless people milling about. Where have they gone? With any indication of the over populated shelter, there is no shortage of bored tramps, I find it simply weird there are not as many congregating out on the street. Is the government abducting them and hauling them off to desert concentration camps for liquidation? Have they been swept away by some unknown virus? Aliens? I simply find it odd, that’s all.
Anyways… I made my way through those echoing streets and over toward The Z Mansion. A historically hysterical château of baby blue that stages a hobo brunch every Sunday morning. Passing through ominous spiked iron gates, I entered the back patio covered in shady trees with about one hundred or less people milling about.
As soon as I entered, some crippled slob thrusts a leaking trash bag at me and gruffly orders me to “take out da trash, my leg hurtin’!” He obviously assumed I was a volunteer. Befuddled, I carried the dripping plastic bag out back, leaving a slimy trail in my wake across the hardwood floor of the stately manor. When I tossed the bag into one of three dumpsters in an alley, an ancient and pinch-faced nun poked her head out of a window and said, “Hey! That trash is for plastics and recyclables! Put the bag in the other dumpster!” She sneered and rolled her eyes at me like I was guilty of molesting one of her favorite choir boys. I hollered back up into the window, “Why you looking at me like that? Shit, this ain’t even my job, lady!”
After washing my hands in the co-ed bathroom (opens door to a wrinkled, smiling hag squatting with dingy panties around her ankles on the toilet “Oopsies! Forgot to lock it! Tee hee!” Slam!) I attempted to find a chair at the thirty or so round tables spread throughout the patio. I noticed a handsome young Latino sitting alone. I had seen him before at the shelter. A couple of days ago, he was outside in the fenced smoking area of the shelter toking on weed and ignorantly offered to a shelter staff member. Anyone that stupid should make good conversation.
“Hey…how’s it going?” I casually asked, brushing fallen leaves from plastic and aluminum folding chair.
“All right. This is my second time here.” He smiled taking a sip of lemonade offered by a prowling volunteer. He was elfish in his looks. Thin, aquiline face, a splash of light brown freckles across a thin nose. Jet black hair cut short on the sides and back but moppy on the top.
“Yeah? I recognize you from the shelter. You’re The Weed Kid.”
The Weed Kid? Ha-ha…I’m now known as The Weed Kid?”
I divulged a humorous and detailed account of the gossip concerning his faux pa.
“Well, I thought…” Slam! A ruddy hand slammed a styrofoam cup of whiskey scented soda onto the table at me left. It was one of those large cups from a convenient store which held cheap fountain sodas or Slurpees.
I glanced up to see a drunk as fuck white man in his fifties towering over me. He stared out into the jostling mob. I turned back to that charming lad, “I thought you knew he was a staff member. The good thing is, nothing dire came of it.”
“Yeah, I got off with a warning.”
“You could had lost your bunk, perhaps…” Slam!
Again, the lanky drunk took a sip and slammed his styrofoam cup down onto the table. He began to wobble away.
I uttered at him, “You can slam that cup down all you want, it’s not going to make the ice any colder.”
“Wut?” He asked cross-eyed.
“Why do you keep slamming that cup down on this table?” I asked slowly and clearly as one who would attempt to confer with a retarded child.
He turned and inebriatingly lumbered back towards me, vainly attempting to appear menacing. “Cuz this is me and muh frens table. We went out ta smoke an we were sittin here first…”
I smirked and stated calmly with my palm out and up, “Man, that’s all you had to say. No need for b-movie dramatics.”
“I thought I told ya that…” Again, he was attempting to test me.
“No. You simply kept slamming your cup down while we were talking.” I said matter of factly.
“Well…anyway, get the fuck up an find anudder seat.” He interjected with a fist and thumb jerking up over his shoulder.
“Okay.” I smiled. “You want your seat?”
“Yeah.” He glared. His breath smelled of stale beer and Cheetos.
I smiled and nonchalantly got up and as soon as I did, I grabbed the plastic and metal chair and hurled it at the miserable fucking drunk. The metal leg and hard plastic back smashed into his chest and chin, causing him to reel back into potted ferns.
Take it fucking back, then!” I shouted in pent-up fury.
The old drunk floundered akimbo in the plants as all hell broke loose. The Weed Kid faded into the crowd as several nuns raced out of their warrens and ordered me to leave or they would call the cops. I left. Fuck them. Fuck all those bitter, insufferable slobs.
I sat discontent at a nearby bus stop bench under the shadow of an awning. There wasn’t a car or soul on the street. The afternoon sun was bright and beat down through a cloudless blue sky. Next to me, silent and cool as a mannequin, lounged a boney black man in wrap around shades and straw fedora. He seemed very old as his trimmed facial hair had turned white with age. He clasped both ashy, gnarled hands onto the glass orbed handle of an ornate cane made of smooth wood.
I sat and smoked my last cigarette. For I was now broke without anything to my name.
After a bit, he rasped, “You smoke weed?”
“You got any?” I coughed.
“Yeah. Wanna smoke?”
“Sure.”
We sat the remainder of the afternoon at that lonely bench smoking harsh weed and recounting lurid anecdotes of where we had been and where we were going. His name being Steve, explained his recent relocation from Buffalo, New York to Tucson in lieu of him being anemic and constantly being cold. That may be true, but other points of his narratives revealed a nasty crack habit and a mean spirit so I think he was simply escaping to start a new.
But, then again, aren’t we all?
Higher than shit, I thanked Steve for the smoke and, strictly from the case of the munchies, darted into a sandwich shop for a cheap hoagie. Afterwards, I ambled about Old Tucson taking snapshots of adobe structures inhabited by the ghosts of cowboys and indians...

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

this unholy place



I recognize the life I chose to live is somewhat on the eccentric side; categorized a pariah. Even by my peers. Once heralded as a freethinker, an adventurer, a sexual outlaw. Now, I am hated, despised, spat upon.
In this New Millennium based on paranoia, judgment, hatred, skepticism, and solidarity, I am more than a dying breed. My ilk are considered extinct. Perhaps the only option is to fade into obscurity.
Nope. I will remain diligent. I will not change. As a matter of fact - fuck you. Fuck all of you. Quite frankly, I have grown weary living by your approval, by your boring ass, social accepting, politically correct standards. I will step out of this quivering, frightened flesh in which I have placed myself and abide by my own standards, my rules mired in what you term filth and sexual perversion. I'll revel in it, bath in it, suck the marrow from it.
With that out of my system, let’s move on, shall we? I am in Tucson for the time being sorting out past maladies and insolvencies: paying the piper, so to speak. I had a meet with the shelter’s caseworker and been allotted, beginning July 1st, an apartment. The program consists of them – the party in the first part – in paying for the deposit and first three month’s rent with me – the party of the second part – forking out 30% of my pay after the third month free and gratis and with them paying the rest. Sounds too good to be true? Probably is. Yet, I am going to hang around Tucson to see how it pans out. If it falls through, I definitly will move on...
Two facts about Tucson come to mind:
It is a lesbian hub. Ambling down 4th Avenue, Tucson's equivalent to Hillcrest or West Hollywood or Castro Street, I was stupefied at the amount of frumpy boot wearing, checkered shirt sporting lesbians who clomped up and down the boulevard. Almost all the cafés, book stores, and vendors were teeming with stubby mulleted denizens. I was filled with a sense of imposing dread. This is definitely a lezbo controlled community.
Second thing. Hopping the bus to and fro, I have observed the general population has no fashion sense what so ever. Over-sized t-shirts (with the never ever cool 70’s band logo on the front), khaki shorts, and Velcro strapped sandals. Almost everyone gives the impression of being a deranged Vietnam vet or perhaps most commonly, a meth addicted hobo who just rolled out of a dumpster. A look that is tre chic, I suppose, for sloppy desert dwellers.
Nearly every city bus line I had taken at least once a drunken Native American had stumbled on and luck would have it, always sat with me.
"I hate fucking white people!" One hissed halitosis and beer into my appalled face.
“How’s that working out for you?” I would say, me unblinkingly meeting his unfocused, squinting gaze.
“Fuck you…” He passes out onto the dirty floor while pissing himself.
“No. It’s obvious you are the one who's fucked.” I mumble as I watch the trickle of pungent urine make its way along the carriage floor until it pooled under the sandal covered foot of some bloated lesbian.
When I first arrived in this town I always felt overdressed and self-concerned. I still do. These people can use some tips on dressing in public. Then again, it is acceptable for these assholes – these fucking proto-hipsters – to walk around a store in their fucking flannel pajamas and slippers.
This society as a whole is doomed….

Friday, June 08, 2018

speak quietly and listen


Awoke amid farting, snoring, and coughing at the break of dawn in a surprisingly positive mood. My left leg, which had been giving me so much pain since I fell, seemed better. A little tender when I made sharp turns, but other than that the throbbing ache had subsided.
I was going to remain at my bunk and convalesce, but the obese blob who sleeps next to me was the day prior released from the hospital for some physical malady and spent the entire night and early morning snoring and belching into my face. Well, not to allow that to dampen my mood, as stated, I rose, showered, dressed, ate a couple of bruised bananas from the kitchen and headed out into the blasting golden desert morn.
I stopped at the local convenience store for a small coffee. Most wretched swill I drank in some time. I tell you, the quality in goods in this country has been flushed down the shitter and that toilet has been backed up way too long. Best get some coffee at a café downtown. While waiting for the bus, I gave the full cup of coffee to an elderly bum who shuffled up to me tattered and half blind from the nearby bushes. He sincerely thanked me as we sat at the bus bench chatting over nothing.
Later as I exited a downtown bagel shop with a decent cup of joe and a toasted bagel, I ran into two acquaintances from the shelter. A tall lanky black guy named Mike and his friend, a squat elderly Native American named Marvin. After being asked what was on my agenda and my answer being ultimately nothing, the two invited me to go find a quiet spot and smoke weed and drink. Certainly. Wouldn’t you?
In the dusty mid-morning heat, we found ourselves ambling down garbage strewn alleys and along blackened railroad tracks behind long vacant and decrepit warehouses. Eventually, we came upon a small hobo camp occupied by two others: A sunburnt and withered old white man named Larry and his friend an equally sooty old codger with a man of white hair and beard called Carl.
In the shade of broken factory windows, we sat and rolled fat joints. Marvin took donations and disappeared to return with four bottles of cold 40oz. of liquor. The conversations, stilted at first, became more and more liberal as weed and alcohol passed weary and dirty hands, hands shiny over the dirt.
Long and exuberant tales were spun by the each of us. Stories concerning past travels, past loves, past hopes and let downs. These were free men. Not tied to time schedules, bothered by regulations and political acceptance. These were the last of humanity. If there was hope for mankind, the hope lies in the deeds of like-minded individuals who do not heed to the Doublethink of today’s general population. To go as one pleases, to live as one deems fit. Not concerned with the notion of being held a prisoner in a gilded cage and a slave to debt, as most people are. What I am attempting to say is, I felt completely content with these men.
The group were quite fascinated by my tales; especially my stint in Mexico. I of course omitted the faggish parts, but then again, I do not think it would had mattered. When I stated that my intentions were to continue to Cambodia, the general query was why?
“Why not?” Was my only reply.
Why not, indeed? What am I living for if not to go where I want, do what I want, and say what I want. I realize this aspect pisses a large number of individuals off. Fuck them. Apart from a select handful of friends, I never cared to placate the sulky, whining shits who I mostly come in contact with. They don’t approve of me or how I live? Too bad. The best part is they are never in any position to do anything about it.
As time passed and the weed and booze were eventually depleted, I bid my farewell. Old Carl was already curled up snoring beside a concrete parapet and Larry was happily incoherent, singing old rockabilly tunes to himself as he rolled cigarettes in which he delicately placed in a dented aluminum case with nimble fingers. Mike and Marvin stated something to the fact about getting cheap pizza. I wanted to be by myself, as I often do, and think.
In the blistering afternoon sun under a bright blue sky of 105 degree heat, I shuffled through downtown scoping out the small shops. I darted in as smooth and inconspicuous as possible into Johnny Gibson’s market and purchased a roast beef sandwich with a side of tots. Sitting in the cool shade of the back patio, I chomped my sandwich as, through the back entrance, blew in an attractive young Latino man. He was higher than shit incoherently mumbling and bumping into furniture. I silently watched his lithe yet jerky movement like a lizard watching the path a delicious insect. He made his way to a row of sofas against the wall and began undressing. A tattoo covered, copper colored torso was offered to anyone who cared to ogle. My eyes, slowly and lasciviously, followed the row of six pack muscles of his abdomen to the jet black happy trail which disappeared down the front of dirty, sagging chinos. He, of course, continued his undress oblivious to the silent abhor of the other lunchers. Fuck them. Snooty assholes. The moment he pulled his chinos down (boxers were candy striped and grimy) to change into black track pants, the manager or some apprehensive employee burst from the sliding glass door of the store and shooed him away. Laughing and shirtless, the young Latino swaggered out of the patio and disappeared down the back alley.
Returning to the heated streets, I took the bus back to the shelter. Before walking down that dusty unpaved road toward its entrance, I found a stump under a poplar tree and lit a cigarette. I thought of current events…what I have done since myself exile from Tijuana. Do I hold any regrets? Nope. Not one. If anything, it has cleared my thoughts. Fresh and clear as a spring morning. I have never been more coherent or positive in far too many months. I was filled with…hope.
In contrast to my satisfying vibes, I returned to the stale unpleasant air of the shelter and once again lay in my bunk, listening and not listening to the empty patter of the 100 or so hobos around me…


Thursday, June 07, 2018

culture trip



The bar wasn’t particularly busy. At this late mid-day hour, the Tucson heat was brutal. I stepped in with my shirt clinging to my body like a wet condom. I stood a moment in the dim coolness, sponging the ever present beads of sweat off my forehead, tossing the damp napkin into the waste bin, allowing the minute for my eyes to adjust to the murk. A sports game blared from the small television mounted to the wall, a bloated middle aged couple took up a booth as a gang of five or six students from the local University occupied the far end of the long counter. I sat at a stool close to them.
“Whatcha havin’?” Asked the bartender, a scrawny and withered woman with a scowl that wouldn’t quit. I am certain she offed a few husbands in her day.
“What do you have in Mexican beers?”
Eye roll in an attempt to think, “We got Teecatee, Carona, and Es Oh El.”
“Es Oh El? You mean Sol?”
“Whatever you call it. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“It’s Spanish for sun. It’s on the logo.” I smiled.
“You want one or not?” She sighed.
“Yeah.”
After begging for a salt shaker and a lime slice, I sat and sipped my beer. The cold liquid felt good going down. It made me nostalgic for other times…better days. The group of students were in a heated debate over the new theory of the earth being flat. This idea came into fruition a year or so ago, was all over the internet.
One of the snap-back wearing jocks glanced at me, “You believe that, mister?” He pointed to the pinch-faced red headed girl who sat in the group. “She actually believes the world is flat? That retarded or what?”
I took a sip and asked the girl, “I wouldn’t say retarded…but let’s look at it logically. You believe all the planets in the solar system….the moons, the asteroids, the sun and the stars…all the 1500 plus other worlds located by astronomers….they are all round?”
“Yes.” She stated.
“And yet, the earth is the only flat one?” I asked.
“Well, they all revolve around the earth. The earth is the center of the universe.”
I paused, looking at her and stated as if speaking to someone possessing a mental deficiency, “Everything you just said is wrong. I understand it’s acceptable in your generation to say the first thing that pops into your head for the vain attempt in garnering attention…no matter how ludicrous. However, I assure you, this rock you’re sitting on is round and is not at the center of everything.”
“That’s your antiquated belief.” She began, “You see, obviously it was your generation and the one’s before that screwed it for us all. This planet is polluted, over populated…this planet is dying. And we have you old folks to thank for that.”
“That may be true. But, at least we were never ignorant enough to claim the earth was flat merely for attention. On the opinion this planet is dying, I agree in most of what you are saying. I am a writer and an extensive traveler. I have experienced much in my time. There is no more originality. No more ingenuity.  Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy. I don’t blame you for grasping at what you may deem as an original idea to feed your lifeless ego…but this flat earth nonsense, it was proven wrong centuries prior and it will be proven wrong again.”
The guy with the snap back chimed, “You a writer?”
“Yeah.” I croaked. His friends turned their attention toward the red head and continued their empty debate.
“What do you write?”
“Garbage, apparently.” I looked at his perplexed face. “Novels. Published.”
“I’m studying journalism at U of A. You have any tips?”
I slowly took a sip of my beer, “Tips? Tips…you best be comfortable sitting for eight hours staring at a blank page on your monitor. Never force it. It will come out as crap. However, when the muse does hit, write it all out – raw, unedited, savage. Let your thoughts and ideas flow. When you are done and you have told the story you want to tell, put it away. Forget about it for a few days. Then go back and read it as if you are a reader. Then you edit, see what fits, what to add, what to dismiss. The first draft, you write with the heart. The second and continuing edited versions, you write with the head.”
In response, I received befuddled silence.
“Indeed.” I finally said. “Well, I’m stepping out for a smoke.”
“Mind if join you.” He stated with the enthusiasm of youth.
"It's a free country," I said sliding off my stool. "Or at least it used to be..."
Out back of the bar, the air was stagnate and hellishly hot. True, it was a welcomed reprieve from the bone chilling climate I endured up in Flagstaff, but still there are limits. I fished a cigarette from my pocket, placed it in my mouth, lit up.
He teetered from hill to toe with hands in his jean pockets, with an almost coy smile he ask, “Hey, can I get a smoke off you?”
“Uh…yeah. Sure.” I handed him a smoke.
“You from Tucson?” He asked, blowing grey fumes to the dry and dusty alley pavement.
“No. As a fact, before a previous month’s stint in Flagstaff, I was staying in Tijuana.”
“Tijuana? In Mexico?”
“Is there another one?”
“Nah, it’s just…isn’t it dangerous down there?”
“Not at all. In fact, I feel safer walking down the streets of TJ at three in the morning than I would in any major city here in the states. Americans are a vicious. They scare me.”
“You don’t like the United States?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s that I don’t particularly agree with the direction it seems to be heading. Too Orwellian.”
“Orwellian?”
“Read George Orwell’s 1984. Good book. Kinda wish I never had. Everything will be explained within those pages. And A Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.”
“I really don’t read that much.”
“What?! How can you not read books when you want to be a writer? That’s ignorantly pointless. Read, kid. Read everything.”
“Well, I want to be a journalist…not really write novels. No one really reads books anymore.”
My heart sank. In a way, he was right. The only thing people read nowadays are tweets, and Facebook posts. If it is more than 250 characters, it is too long. I felt like a useless dinosaur.
We finished our cigarette and returned to the bar. The afternoon turned into evening as the college group remained and drank. I sat staring at the silent television screen nursing one beer after another. My eyes relentlessly bombarded by one media atrocity via news cast ticker tape and subtitles after another.
I turned to the snap back kid next to me, “Hey…what did you say your name was again?”
His eyes were slightly crimson and he smiled, “Johnathan.”
“Johnathan,” I said pointing toward the screen. “Is that what you want to write? News journalism?”
“Hell yeah!” He stated, breathing stale beer across the counter, “Working for a big media company! That would be sweet!”
I gave him a sincere glance, “Just make it count, man…make a difference. Use your common sense and none of this fake news shit.”
“Ha! Fuck that! They pay good, I’ll write whatever they want me to write!”
I am a dinosaur. Extinct. I glanced at the red head who found a tall, lanky Latino to cling onto. She was right. We are doomed. This is our future in front of me. We are the dead, Winston.
Eventually, with my drink, I found myself up on the roof patio smoking on a cigarette and feeling melancholy. There was no one up there and it felt good to be alone. I glanced toward the navy sky. Born too late to explore the world, too early to travel to the stars.
Suddenly the door swung open and Johnathan, with drink in hand, stumbled out. He was obviously inebriated. “Hey, man, can I bum another smoke off you?”
I handed him a cigarette. He stumbled and stepped across the alley. “Shit. Think I drank enough.”
“You can never have enough.”
Johnathan flopped onto a large concrete seat. I leaned against the roofs guard wall adjacent to him.
“Hey,” He slurred. “If I was to move to Tijuana, what advice can you give me?”
I took a puff of my smoke and said, “Well, assimilate the culture the best you can, learn the language, and never refuse a blow job.”
He nervously laughed, “Never refuse a blow job?”
“Indeed. The best outcome of never refusing a blow job is…well, you’ll always get a blow job.”
“Damn. Wish I had some bitch here now to suck me off.” His hand nonchalantly slid across his crotch. “Wonder if I can get Megan to do it.”
“Megan? The red head?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I think that Latino guy’s plowing that field tonight. What about the other girl?”
“I think she’s a lesbian…or she got the hots for David.” He sipped his drink. “Well, I’m shit out of luck either way.”
My shadow slowly and nefariously creeped over his prone form, obscuring all light. He glanced up and saw nothing but the pinpoints of my eyes staring down at him from under the obsidian shade of the brim of my grey straw cubavera hat. Eyes both predatory and dead. Long ghostly fingers trailed out and stroked his flaccid crotch. He vehemently pushed the dead cold hand from his rapidly stiffening organ.
“Hey, man…fuck off! I’m not no faggot.”
“I never assumed you were. However, that dick is solid as stone. It’s had gay trists before…”
“Well, yeah…once I was drunk and this faggot sucked it and…”
Those ghostly fingers slid across the protruding member in his jeans again, the erection leapt up to great the advancing degeneracy. He remained immobile and stoic as the concrete he sat upon.
“And now your cock wants it again. Stand up.”
He slowly stood as I traded places with him on the concrete seat. He stood in front of me as I unzipped his jeans and pulled out a short, thick and circumcised erection. His pubic hair had been buzzed short. As the cars one story below passed with the sound of soft breathing, the jukebox in the bar mutely thumped out a rhythm, my moist lips clamped around his shaft, my tongue rapidly and mechanically slid up and down the rigid flesh of the intoxicated boy. Within a few short minutes, Johnathan began breathing heavily through his nostrils as he arched up onto his tip-toes and unleashed gobs of semen down my gullet.
Silently, he replaced his glistening erection back in his pants and mumbled something to the matter of returning to his friends. I remained up on the roof. Alone and pensive as gargoyle statuary. I smoked another cigarette and finished my drink. Below in the streets, Johnathan and his group exited the bar in good spirits – a cacophony of laughter and cheer as they made their way to the train and back to the relative safety of the university dorms.

Wednesday, June 06, 2018

running from the shadows in these golden years


And now begins the long wait. Hurdling through the myriad of Kafkian hoops concerning paperwork and certified documents to reside at the shelter, I finally had solidified the deal. Good news is, their rapid rehousing program opens in July. What is that, you ask? For the sullied and impoverished, it is a program where you locate a modest apartment and the Primavera Organization ponies up the first three months’ rent. This fits my plan just fine. I will utilize it to take care of some old business and attain whatever papers and financing I require to fling my desperate ass overseas.
So, as I mentioned previously, it will be an arduously long wait. The tramps of Flagstaff had spoiled me. Relatively clean and projecting a sociable demeanor despite their financial woes, in contrast the ilk of Tucson are generally mean, angry, selfish, overtly arrogant and all seem to possess the hygienic habits of recently rolling out of a dumpster. That applies to many homeless across this fair land, I assume, but the hobos of Tucson seem to take it to the extreme.
While I am here, keeping my eye out for two people: Kyle Powers and Caleb Kruse. A couple of free thinkers who, though they would happily drag their lithe and supple frames over coals for some good old fashioned pussy, on the down low, they hold no qualms of dispensing dick at a moment’s notice to a weary and desperate faggot. I had the pleasure of sampling their forbidden fruit during previous visits to the Sun City. Kyle, a rather short in height, blond hustler, though a little on the rough side, was gifted with a powerful nine inch circumcised penis and hispanic Caleb’s claim to fame, though thin and awkward, was the boy could maintain an full erection for hours while dispensing up to five or six ejaculations in one session…
Anyway...Tucson....at one time I wished to live here, nonetheless currently I see it for what it is. In my humble opinion, it entertains merit in some aspects, mostly it is a dusty desert town. I had forgotten how burned out and "crispy" everyone looks here. Like leftovers from an atomic catastrophe...I’m not judging, though.

Monday, June 04, 2018

lost stars


A spot of bother. For two days I attempted to acquire a bunk at that homeless shelter here in Tucson. No deal. Spent my time languishing around on a lonely Saturday. I at least rented a self-storage unit for my things. They will be safe.
Sunday morning I was more successful. Voice on the phone stated they indeed did have bunks and I needed to be at the shelter by 11am. Cool beans, I thought. Though I had paid for three nights at the shittiest hotel in Tucson, I grabbed my gear, called a cab, and checked out at 9:30. However, fate deemed to task me. When I arrived at the storage unit, it being a Sunday, the office was closed and wasn’t to open until 11am and to make matters worse, my pin did not open the gate. The taxi driver was patient as I frantically called the emergency number posted on the fence. The lady on the other line attempted to contact the manager, however he would not answer his phone. In near hysterics – at the thought of losing my spot at the shelter in lieu of time – I sent the cab away and waited.
In desperation, I called the shelter to inform them on what was going on and the voice graciously extended my intake until noon. I fumed in utter contempt in the searing morning heat as I waited and waited…and waited.
At length, a utility truck approached and opened the gate. I quickly scurried to my storage unit, dropped my suitcase and laptop inside only to have the dented door askew in such a way it would not allow my lock to shut properly. I lost it. After months of let downs and mischance, I lost my usual cool disposition and became a howling, raving lunatic. Cursing at the top of my lungs, my screams echoed out into an uncaring and hate filled town.
Some guy on the other side of the wall in a residence yelled, “Shut up!”
“Fuck you!!!” I roared.
I stomped toward the exit only to find that there was no way to open the gate from the inside. I began hollering and kicking the metal fence in frustration when a tenant drove up and opened the gate from the outside. She quickly drove past that hunched, crimson faced, sweat drenched madman who stood hyperventilating through gritted teeth and fist clenched at the entrance. Once outside, I called a cab with hopes to make it to my intake deadline. At that moment, the obese slob of a manager drove up and asked if there was anything wrong.
I truthfully hate displaying my emotions in public. Especially if uncontrolled anger and hostility. I simply muttered to him briefly what was up and stated that I’d return the following day to take care of the matter.
Long story short: I made my intake. Once again I am residing in this place filled with burnt-out tweekers, the babbling insane, and grey and ancient phantoms who lost hope decades ago. In matters of triviality, I was issued a top bunk. Not a problem, but it is literally a pain to climb since I took that fall up in Flagstaff. My knee gave out a throbbing, piercing ache by the end of the day.
On a lighter note, the caseworker I was issued offered me housing and a 90 stay. Yet, already I am setting my sights on other locals…other vistas…only this morning I was checking out plane fares from Tucson to Phnom Pehn…nobody out there got $410 laying around? Nah? Didn’t think so. Fuck it…I’ll do it myself…

Saturday, June 02, 2018

tucson


Enduring enough of Flagstaff's local hillbilly shit and hostile drunken Indians, I awoke early and grabbed my gear; hightailing it to the Greyhound. Bitter and despondent, I awaited in the chilled wind swatting off tweekers mooching for smokes. The long ride was uneventful, even though the damn bus to Phoenix reeked of stale piss.
As the pine trees turned to brush then to organ pipe cactus, I wondered as I wandered: What’s next? Well, I was on my way to Tucson to while away a few months saving money and attempt to get my head in order. Both, at this time seems an impracticality.
I rolled into Tucson at nine at night and to my dismay the city fathers had relocated the Greyhound station onto the other side of town. The taxi I took seemed to give me the scenic tour, as taxis are prone to do. I rented three nights at the La Siesta Hotel on Oracle. Now, allow me indulge you: as you well realize, I have stayed at some shitty places before, even in 3rd world countries, but this! THIS! Where to begin…opening the door, the room smelled like fermented cheese. The floor was dirty as if it hadn’t been swept for some time. The internet (which is offered as free) is non-existent. There were no towels in the bathroom…the bathroom itself was a biological horror. A used piece of soap still lay in the shower, the bathtub was stained in some blue tint. The sheets had not been changed. When I pulled the comforter off, the “white” sheets had questionable stains and blood and small bits of debris and hair. They hadn’t even bothered to change them! When I had to call from the note taped to the office door with a phone number scribbled on it (obviously their main office where everyone hung out was a block down the street at another hotel) I called for some towels and waited two cigarettes later to retrieve them as tweekers and transvestite hookers clomped in front of me on the sidewalk. Worst hotel ever, to say the least.
After a fitful sleep, I awoke early to locate a coffee shop with wifi so I could place a call at the men’s shelter here. Their M.O. is that one needs to call every morning at 9am to inquire about a bunk. I revisited my favorite coffee shop, Shot in the Dark. However, at the stroke of nine, their wifi became seriously wonky and I missed my opportunity. By the time I walked the few blocks to a Brugger’s Bagels they had no more bunks for the night. Will try again tomorrow.
Never the less, I have two more days at Motel Hell. This afternoon, I will rent a public storage unit for my things. It seems this hobo journey is just beginning…


Thursday, May 31, 2018

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

obscure moments

I understand coming up here to Flagstaff was a bust. Hell, that revealed itself on the third day after my arrival. On the cusp of leaving this Friday to all points south, I was exiting the shower last night and slipped. I landed pretty hard on my back, banging my head on the hard tile step which lead up into the shower proper. When I attempted to stand back up, I slipped again and twisted and knocked my left knee. I had trouble sleeping, obviously, and spent the afternoon hobbling about downtown in an attempt to walk it off. (The shelter closes its doors at 7am and you are allowed to return at 4pm) My leg, though this morning was severe, the pain seemed to subside when I walk. It’s only when I am stationary and get up to move again that the dull and piercing ache returns. As for my head? Well, aside the tender bump on the back, I do admit I feel slightly dizzy.
It’s obvious, under the circumstances, I am in no state to travel, so I will remain another month…perhaps. I don’t know. My thoughts are not linear and I honestly have no idea where to go or what to do. Every time I think of it, I become emotional and tears swell in my eyes. I am truly lost. I simply want a stable home. A place to retire in and live out my years in unbothered contentment. All this wandering has taken its toll on me as the years continue to slide rapidly by.
Honestly, everything from writing to travelling to even this blog has lost its significance to me. I no longer possess any drive to continue these things. Things that at one time gave me purpose, now fill me with boredom and dread. Perhaps it’s time to disappear from the public eye and fade away into obscurity…

Sunday, May 27, 2018

angel headed hipsters


There was blood. Goddamn, there was so much blood. I had to admit, the fucker deserved it. The two fighting caused a crowd to form of both bewildered tourists and cheering, fist pumping bums. Elston roared in crazed fury as he swung one lightning fast blow after another while the one who took the blunt of his blows equally screamed, more of gurgled mercy than alcohol induced rage.
It began earlier as Elston and I stumbled toward the Sunshine Rescue Mission to eat lunch. We previously finished a bottle of Wild Turkey along with two joints at his camp under the shadow of the Lowell Observatory. Elston lay on top of his gray semen stained sleeping bag and blew solid plumes of smoke down toward his unbuttoned crotch and when his dork would pop up out from the heady fumes, he would rasp, “Abracadabra!” The silliness of it caused me to laugh my face crimson.
Anyway, we plodded down the mountain through downtown Flagstaff with myself disdainfully leering at every goddamn tourist who met my bloodshot gaze. The super positive square as hell white people here are as annoying as fuck. One more chipper asshole in khaki shorts and pastel polo shirt who wished me a "happy memorial day" I'm breaking their far too white teeth! Well, I digress, we make it to the mission and already there was a long line which pissed us both off. The unfortunate thing about being a hobosexual in this small ass berg is you constantly come in contact with the same sad sacks day in and day out no matter where you wind up. Depresses the fuck out of you.
Standing in line, Elston and I silently waited in the chilly wind (does it ever get warm here?) for the chow line door to open when this old drunk as fuck Indian swished up to us and began a vindictive tirade toward Elston on why hasn’t he been to his trailer at the rez lately, why hasn’t he called, why hasn’t he returned all the money he had borrowed. The scrawny Indian queen stood shivering and baying like a wounded sheep as Elston remained stoic, his head drooped, glaring at the filthy pavement. The queen paused in his berating tirade and a squinting eye gave me the once over.
“Who the hell is this?” He hissed, hand on shapeless hip in low-riding faded jeans, the other clasping a filthy shopping bag bulging with containers of donated hygiene products. He possessed the classical Indian features of high cheek bones, slitted eyes, but held that pouty mouth common to all bitchy faggots the world over. His graying hair was long and pulled in a ponytail which extended to his lower back.
“He’s a friend. Leave him alone.” Elston warned, his voice an almost inaudible whisper.
“Oh, another silver tongued devil? When will you get it through your thick skull that nothing good comes from associating with the white man? They destroy everything they touch.”
I admit, I had to agree with him on that one.
The older Native American had his ah-ha moment and realized what was going on between us. His remarks – solely focused on Elston – became cattier and more vicious. This continued during lunch. When we sat at a table to devour, strictly from the munchies, our reheated pepperoni pizza and chicken wings, the old Indian plopped at our table and continued his diatribe. We couldn’t eat our meal fast enough. As a fact, the asinine and petty verbal assault continued outside on the front patio. I stood in the cold sun as Elston nonchalantly sat on a metal bench smoking a cigarette and chatting with a fellow hobo (in an attempt to curb his anger, I suspect) but the old guy kept it up out on the sidewalk through the iron bars of the gate.
As quick as lightning, Elston bolted up, ran through the entrance and cracked a fist into the man’s square jaw. The older Indian reeled, stumbled backwards all the while hollering, “Stop it! Stop it! I was only kidding!”
My young friend did in fact not stop, but continued a rapid fire of fists. Blood flung left and right from the old man’s busted lip and nose spraying the wall and pavement. He struggled to defend himself in vain. Within moments, four squad cars careened up to the corner and Flagstaff’s finest poured out of their squad cars. Elston was violently thrown onto the ground, uniformed knee firmly on his neck, and handcuffed. After several esoteric questions by the police (the old man bleeding a cascading stream of crimson blood onto the curb all the while bleating, “I din do nuthin”) Without even a word, Elston was roughly tossed into the back of a squad car and whisked away to be booked.
And so, I am stuck, once again, alone in this no-where town with nary the person to converse with but slack jawed burnt biscuits and shabby train hopping hobos. I think this Friday it may be to my advantage to lay tracks for a different local…

Thursday, May 24, 2018

yesterday's lost tomorrow



Going to gay bars to meet other men? Not my thing anymore, really. Been there, done that. What's the appeal? Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part - a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating one another. People possessing no morals often consider themselves more free, on the contrary mostly they lack the ability to feel or to love. The dead fucking the dead. There is no gamble or humor in their game - it's a corpse fucking a corpse.

Sunday, May 20, 2018

dark pine float

Under a profound night of a clear and starry sky, I sat on a decomposing log as yellow flames of a rapidly constructed camp fire illuminated our three faces. The fragrance of pine fused with charred wood floated high up into the darkened trees.
To my right, Elston passed the enormous joint to me. For some time we sat silently. Me, young Elson, and an elderly Indian of indeterminate age in black denim and worn cowboy boots with a grimacing expression equally stoic and unreadable as a totem pole. We met the old Indian in the Rescue Mission food line during evening chow. After we ate, he approached Elston with some familiarity and invited the two of us up the ridge of the mountain to his camp and smoke weed in friendship. He introduced himself as James Ironheel. I shook his lanky hand and could have sworn his bones rattled. He possessed a firm grip and a toothless old woman smile. With a frail body and bent stoop, James’ single braided hair was jet black with long streaks of silver. Subsequently, we made our way toward the nearby mountain.
It wasn’t much of a hike, but then again I was still getting adjusted to Flagstaff’s high altitude and was ruby faced and winded when we arrived. It was a simple camp; a fire pit, a blue tarp tied across two pine trees, a couple of sleeping bags with the tale-tell signs of humanity: empty soda cans, wadded napkins, a lonely and filthy sock lay about the pine needles carpeting the camp.
It was Elston, under the approval of James, who prepared the fire. It was a good thing too, because I found out to my dismay since my arrival, the temperature drops to the low fifties during this time of year and the chill in the shade of these majestic pines were already taking effect. I rested on the for mentioned log, observing in fascination as the two performed a stylized ballet around the modest camp; each movement as if practiced from time antiquity.
I glanced around at the darkening forest. The lighting, the smells, the shadows of mysterious beauty.
“Damn.” I mumbled. “This is what I imagine the entrance to The Black Lodge in that show Twin Peaks must look like.” I glanced over to Elston, “You ever catch that show?”
“What show is that?”
Twin Peaks.”
“Nope.”
After preparing the fire and asking if it was warm enough, Elston took a piss in a nearby shrub as James squatted across from me, reaching into his dingy, canvased backpack and removed the weed. The pungent yet satisfying smell assaulted my nostrils. Elston sat in the dirt and dead pine needles next to me as James rolled the joint, lit it, took a huge puff, and passed it to Elston.
“Long ago…” James began as he sat squinting solid faced into the fire, “Snoqualm, the Moon, had a spider make him a rope out of cedar bark and stretch it from the sky to the Earth.” He exhaled large plumes into the crackling fire. Elston passed me the joint and I inhaled deep. Harsh. I instantly began to cough and certain my face turned crimson. Elston chuckled and in contrast James never moved a muscle as he continued, “One day Fox and Blue Jay found the rope and climbed up to where the rope was fixed to the underside of the sky. Blue Jay pecked a hole in the sky and they climbed through to the sky world. Blue Jay flew to a tree while Fox changed himself into Beaver and swam in a lake. Moon had set a trap in the lake which caught Beaver. Moon skinned him and threw the body in the corner of the smokehouse.”
With silent ceremonial movements, I handed the joint over to James. He paused, inhaled, continued with a slow solemn tone, “That night when Moon was asleep Beaver got up and put his skin back on. He looked around. He took a few of the trees, and the Moon's daylight making tools, some fire, and the Sun which was hidden in Moon's house. He changed back into Fox then he found the hole that Blue Jay had made and took the things to Earth. He planted the trees, made daylight, gave the fire to the people, and put the Sun in its place.”
The weed began to hit me and I felt that slow pull of gravity and tingling dizziness. I glanced over to the aquiline profile of Elston. The shadows, along with the droning baritone voice of James as he continued his story, I found myself smitten. So handsome Elston was, so calm, so reserved. I wanted to reach over, grab his chin with my hand, turn his face toward mine and kiss him.
James droned on, “When Moon awoke he was very angry. He found the tracks that led to the hole. He started down but the rope broke and he fell to the Earth in a heap where he became a mountain. One can see the face of Snoqualm on one of the rocky cliffs. Today it is called Mount Si and it is near Northbend, Washington.”
Apparently, he was done as abruptly as he began as the three of us sat in wordless peace listening to the crackling fire. My thoughts raced in a kaleidoscope of a million images. What’s next? Where am I going? What am I doing? Moreover, why was I here?
I finally said to no one in particular and most likely just to myself, “Well, I'm on my way, I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way. I'm takin my time but I don't know where...”
Elston coughed and then stated, “You're rushing things.”
For the first time in hours, James became animate, his face contorted into anger and pointed a twig thin finger at the both of us, “Its fucking life? Why wait for something you want? Fucking go for it cause if you wait too long you'll miss your opportunity. Life's about taking risks and rushing things and finding out if it's right or wrong. And if you fuck up or get hurt in the end then its life, you simply just try again...”
“Yup.” I said.
“Yup.” Elston grinned.
“Yup.” James smiled, his face of dark lines and black, toothless mouth.
Crimson eyed and wobbly, we said our goodbyes to old James and made our way back down the mountain well after midnight. It was extremely cold and I missed that fire. I stated that fact to my new friend. Elston stopped in his tracks and said he had a sleeping bag roll hidden close and though not as fancy as James’ camp, I was welcome to stay the night.
Under a deep navy starry sky, amid pine trees and dew glistened tall grass, I lay on my side in the fetid sleeping bag with Elston spooning behind me. My jeans and boxers down about my thighs as he slowly and methodically screwed me with his arms wrapped around my ribcage in a python like grip. Subsequently, our heavy breathing subsided, Elston and myself spent (we wiped our mutual slimy matter on the inside of the sleeping bag), still embraced, we both fell into a deep, contented sleep until dawn exploded over the red ridge of the mountain.

Thursday, May 17, 2018

the man with the elevated hair

He stated or at least mumbled something to the fact he arrived the previous evening from Black Hills up somewhere in South Dakota. His face was young – somewhere between nineteen and twenty-five – yet weathered and lined from being subjected to a myriad of harsh elements. Obviously, a certain type who was comfortable in the shadier aspects of truck stop lavatories, musty locker rooms, and bed bug infested flop houses. He possessed razor sharp facial features from a thin, hooked nose to a well-defined chin. An almost faint splattering of light brown freckles lay across the nose and upper cheeks. It was his eyes, though…it was those light green eyes in thick, black lashes which caught my attention. He lay on his back sprawled across the sidewalk in musty clothes, puffing on a rollie, squinting in the early morning sun, big worker boots crossed out into the post dawn golden street. He scratched at the grey knit cap that covered a shaggy mop of straight raven hair.
“They both need one another, you know.” He continued in a whispered, raspy drawl. “It’s called 'inter-dependency'. And they both know it. Yeah…he does terrible things to Tom. Nasty, even sadistic things. But that’s fine, as long as that’s what Tom wants. Think about it. His actions. He’s always asking for it. It’s his partner’s job to fulfill that need and Jerry knows it.”
“Proof?” I asked, taking a sip of tepid coffee from a small styrofoam cup.
“Well, in the Tom and Jerry Show, they live with one another…”
His train of thought was interrupted by a stooped codger with gravity defying hair. His face was bright red and coarse; lined and covered in silver stubble. He was wearing double denim with a faded red checked shit. He spat. “I knew I’d catch up witcher stupid ass soon enough!”
The boy watched the old man as he approached, yet remained immobile. His dark, copper-colored face as stoic and unreadable as a plaster of Paris mask.
“Ya fergit it back at the camp, dincha?” The old man stopped, stood bow-legged in tattered faded jeans. “Give yer ass a place to camp and this how you repay me?”
“Yeah, Bob…I forgot it back at the camp.” He finally replied after a long pause.
“Well doncha think yer dumb injun ass should go back and git it?”
“Chill out with the old white devil shit, Bob. You want your tobacco, go get it yourself.” The young lad stated calmly. “I’m talking to this man.” He flashed a dirty finger toward me; then slipped his slender hand back into worn pants pocket.
“Who da fuck dis?” Bob spat, one eye squinting at me.
“I’m Lou. Who the fuck are you?” It came out calm with a hint of sing song.
“Watch out fer dis boy.” Bob said, motioning toward the nonchalant lad who sprawled out on the sidewalk. “He bad. He fill yer head fulla sweet promises, then lie to yer face. Kid got no scruples!”
“I like him already.” I smirked.
Bob harrumphed or made some sound equivalent and began his bow-legged shamble up toward his camp somewhere on the pine covered ridge. I stood there and silently watched as the little old man was out of hearing range, sucking on my smoke so nasty. I looked down toward the prone form of the Native boy.
Fill my head full of sweet promises…what was that all about?” I asked coyly.
The youngster took a long puff of his rollie and blew an enormous plume casually into the azure sky. “Don’t be boring. Up until now, you were nothing like those other men I’d met on the road. All hard and brutal and masculine, until we get back to the camp, then they dissipate into a gooey, syrupy mess of uncontrolled faggoty-assed passion…cooing like enamored school girls; promising me the world if I remain by their side and keep them warm on those oh so sought after starry nights. You know exactly what Bob meant…so don’t disappoint me by becoming one of them. You indicated so much promise in being otherwise.”
“I apologize.” I said flatly. “I never been to this part of the country and don’t entirely grasp the queer lifestyle outside the mundane screeching faggot you see at clubs or a coffee chain.”
“Queer? Gay? Heh. Those outmoded constructs. Never favored to be pegged by either label…hell, what is the LGBT acronym up to now?” He chuckled, “LGBTQURTUVEEPD .v2?!”
“Right…right. So many unnecessary labels. You either suck dick or you don’t.”
He removed both wiry, brown hands from his pocket (both shiny over the dirt) and folded them across a lean, flannelled stomach. However, he sure as shit made me notice the throbbing jump in the crotch his dusty khakis. “Yup. You nailed it on the head there, mister. And speaking of head, I sure could go for some right now. Bob was too drunk last night to finish and passed out. He just wanted to lay by the fire and snuggle. His body felt like jerky and he smelled like expired ham”
I chuckled as my gaze scrutinized his prone torso. He noticed. The crotch of his pants jumped three more times. Somewhere in the distance was the faint sound of a rumbling locomotive being carried on the never ending breeze.
I took another long drag and croaked, “Well, I’d be happy to oblige, but I don’t know this town. Where can we go?”
He leisurely lifted himself off the sidewalk, brushing the dirt from his faded backside. “Follow me.” He casually slipped his hand down the front of his pants and adjusted his erection to a more clandestine position.
As we began our walk toward his secret location, down a lonely set of shadowy warehouses and boarded up red brick buildings, I passed a smoke to him, “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Elston. Elston Manygoats.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Nope. Manygoats is a proud and longstanding name in my tribe.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Elston Manygoats.”