Wednesday, February 25, 2015


I was cold and my shadowy room silent and for the first time in a while I actually desired to go out. I had been mired in a depressional frump for some time and been purposefully avoiding contact with people. Standard manic-depressive crap.
I showered, dressed and made my way out into the street-light frosted chilled air. The dark navy sky was crisp, splashed with a myriad of twinkling stars ringed by obsidian shadows of surrounding barrios and the branches of dead trees grasping up toward a half-moon. Across shattered concrete of the sidewalk, I step over a dead cat on the corner whose week old corpse was now in its final state of decay.
It was just past nine and the promenade on Juárez and 16th of Septiembre still hosted a crowd of people. Mostly heterosexual lovers and bored families. I lit a cigarette and sat on the cold bench to people watch and think. Me being inert of course flagged several beggars to approach with grasping hands, black fingers shiny over the dirt. I deny all their advances. I care little these days for the struggle of the human species. We should had bombed ourselves into extinction back in the ‘80’s at the height of the Cold War.
A gust of wind blew down the boulevard creating small eddies of trash which swirled in locked doorways. Damn, it was cold! I extinguished my cigarette with the toe of my shoe and quickly strode with hands in coat pocket towards the swinging doorway of Bar Buen Tiempo. I stop at the wooden door and exhale a sigh, listening to the muted thumping of the rockola from inside, readying myself for whatever ignorant faggotry likely to be hurled at me.
I was relieved when I pushed the door aside to find that the bar wasn’t crowded at all. A total of nine or ten men sat around the square counter commanding the middle of the large bar. The plump female bartenders, dressed in their best day-glow spandex and hookerish attire largely stood slumped against the bar chatting with clientele.
I took a stool in the back, facing the door. Several prehistoric pedos and doe-eyed twinks eyed me like animals sensing danger, not for the fact of fresh meat but why a goddamn gringo was in the joint in the first place. One of the bartenders approached me all smiles brandishing silver capped teeth and I ordered a caguama. After handing over a crumpled bill, I squeezed a lime in my glass, poured my beer, took a sip. The refreshing drink cascaded down my gullet, I emitted a satisfactory sigh. I lit a cigarette – reveling in the freedom that people can still actually smoke in bars down here – and clandestinely scanned my constituents. Mostly made up of pot-bellied old men in faded white Stetsons, the others were two young queens with their fag-hag, animatedly cackling and squawking loudly as fags do, across on either side of one another sat two masculine, college-types attempting their best to look aloof and uninterested in their surroundings, and the ever present hustler perched on the corner with the look of terminal sadness, a high-ball glass in front with a sip of beer left which had not been touched for hours.
I took another swig as the song on the rockola switched to El Ruletero by Prado. That was when he burst in. I say burst, because it seemed he literally slammed open the door to the bar. Or perhaps it was the wind. This caused all eyes, bloodshot or lust filled, to swing in his direction. If it was a movie, the rockola would had scratched to a stop.
He was tall and lean. Late twenties. His clothes, pedestrian as they were, pressed and void of dust or smudges. Despite the wind outside, his wavy, ebon hair was meticulously slicked back, a handsome face: thick eyebrows, full lips, commanding jaw. Hazel eyes were enveloped in dark lashes. Yet, what appealed to me was his copperish skin color which suggested Mayan heritage. He confidently struts toward the back of the bar, possessing that slight, macho bow-legged gait I secretly find so appealing. Of all the empty stools lining the counter, he plops one over next to me. Of course, he does.
I take another drag and nonchalantly swing my gaze toward him. Elbows on the counter, he petulantly sniffs, stroking an index finger against flared nostril and orders a small bottle of Indio. Adding a lime, he downs a healthy chug and lightly exhales his approval.
“That wind is getting bad.” He says to me in Spanish with gaze still fixed forward.
“It usually is this time of year.” I answer.
The following conversation was in Spanish:
“Do you live in El Paso?”
“No. I live here.”
“In Juárez? Why is a gringo living in Juárez?”
I grin, “I’ve been asking myself that for a year now.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“A writer? What do you write?”
“I really despise having to repeat myself.”
He smiles a smile that could launch a thousand ships, “It’s the first time I’m hearing of it.”
“I write reports for the citizens of the United States.” I state in a monotone.
“Are you the FBI?” He chuckles, uncomfortably.
“No.” I take another drink.
“What are you then?”
“Obviously insane.”
He purses his full lips, clicks his teeth with his tongue, nods. “I like people who are different. They make life exciting.”
I laugh, “Oh, man, are you in for a fucking Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride!”
“What?” He smiles again, utterly confused from my blatant American reference.
At that moment, one of the two fags on the other side of the counter saunters around the bar and approaches us. Standing between my new friend and me, the fag places a folded napkin in front of my colleague. My drinking partner arrogantly sighs through his nostrils, unfolds it, revealing a scratched phone number. He balls it up and lets the offending tissue fall to the floor. With annoyed anger on his handsome face, he imperiously looks the fag up and down and then hisses, “No. Don’t ever bother me again.”
I shift awkwardly in my seat as the fag returns to his place, mumbling obscenities under his breath.
He leans over toward me and asks casually in Spanish, “Do you want to be with me?”
“Be with you?”
“Not in a relationship. I was at home and simply need physical contact. No strings attached.”
“You know that type of thinking is looked down upon in the homosexual lifestyle of today.”
“What can I say, I’ve always been a rebel to conformity.”
“Can I at least get your name first?” I grin.
“Alto what?”
Alto means Stop in Spanish.
“My name is Alto.”
“Really? Your real name is Alto?”
As if doing the action a million times over, he fishes out his I.D., and sure enough, it was Alto.
“How did your parents come across with…” I began.
“I don’t know. Perhaps that’s all my mother screamed out during child birth or perhaps during conception...”
I laughed, “Oh, and he has a sense of humor! I've oft said humor is a powerful aphrodisiac.”
“Let’s go.” He stated, slamming back the rest of his drink.
Outside the bar, the gusts became a full on dirt storm. Particles of grit and flotsam stung my cheek. Squinting, I glanced up and down the street, the near horizon lost in a shimmering tan haze.
“I don’t live far…but let’s get a taxi?” I stated, spitting grit off my tongue.
Alto and I wordlessly sat on either side of the back seat of a cab as the street lights displayed strange phantasmic shadows across the dusty windows. The fat driver hurled over every bump and pot-hole at fantastic speeds as ranchero blasted from the radio.
On the corner of Bolivia and Insurgentes, I pay the taxi and we silently stride to my house huddled in our coats in a vain attempt to thwart the dirt storm.
Inside, I light the gas heater as Alto cases the joint. Luckily, earlier that morning, I took time to clean the place a bit. After relieving his bladder in the restroom, Alto makes his way into my bedroom. I call from the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, “Want something?”
“Come here.” He says.
In the bedroom, we embrace, kiss, fumblingly remove our clothes. He guides me onto the bed, kissing my mouth with passion, up and down my neck. Our exposed erections pressed against one another. He breathes into my ear.
“Do you have any condoms?”
“No. I’m sorry. I’m out.”
“Then I’m not going to fuck you.”
I smile jokingly, “What are you? Catholic?”
He slides off me, leans on one elbow, one hand on my chest, “We can sixty-nine. I’ll tell you when I’m going to cum.”
Without any other verbal commands, he places me in position and we blow each other. Long, pleasurable minutes pass as he grabs my head and jerks it away. Hissing through clenched teeth, he squirts semen onto the gray comforter I had laundered just yesterday. His tongue probes my mouth as he jerks me off to a climax. Afterwards, we lay side by side sharing a cigarette. For some time, we lay there casually conversing in the muted night. He is a student of agriculture and economy at the local university. He has a two year old son from a girl he despises. His mother lives in Chihuahua City, hasn’t seen his father in decades. He wishes one day to relocate to Canada, maybe Europe. A mundane life.
We shower and I walk him to the corner to hail a cab. The winds have died down and the street is silent and lonely.
I shift from one leg to the other, hands in my coat, "Alto…you want to meet up again? Maybe for some coffee or something.”
“No. Not really.” He glances down the street, raises his lanky arm to hail an oncoming cab. “I thought I made it clear I just wanted physical contact tonight.”
I grin, “I understand. Logical.”
He hops into the taxi, “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” I turn and return to my home. Sitting at my desk, the cold inside getting colder, I flick on my laptop and write this out…

Thursday, February 19, 2015


“So yeah this one time,” I laughed as telling the same story I told a thousand times. Perhaps more. I thought for a second, was there a story I had never told anyone? The entirety of my life events have been conveyed in stories; they were all things I had disclosed to other people. Had any of these things actually happened? Or where they simply stories I remembered from telling other people? I wasn’t certain, I couldn’t think of anything. So when I returned home today I knew I needed to do something which I would never tell anyone about.
I sat down on the dusty, tiled floor near my desk in the living room. The air was cool. Long shadows were cut from yellow rays of sunlight slicing through the closed blinds. Dust danced in the dark.  “This will be my little secret. This is my proof of my existence.” I leaned back against the desk chair and took a sip of a rapidly prepared martini from a dirty glass. “I will never reveal to anyone I drank a warm martini on the floor of my apartment in midafternoon. This will be my little secret. If no one knows, if I haven’t told anyone, then I know I exist.”
When I was done, I got up off the floor and brushed myself off. I placed the glass in the sink over-flowing with dirty plates and utensils. I glanced back on where I was sitting and for some reason it almost felt shameful. Still, if I didn’t tell anyone, then maybe, just maybe, I actually existed.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015


I stopped looking out the window. I realize now that when I was young I would look out the window and notice all the details that pass by. I wouldn’t simply look at things, I would actually see things, and absorb them into my mind. Life seemed more vivid. Time seemed to move slower. Life went by and I could find the separation between what I did each day. Now I feel I am forever in a tumbling barrel of time. The world goes by so fast and I don’t have time to look at it hard enough. Time is forever pushing forward and I just want to push back. I can’t win this fight. No one can win this fight. I still don’t look out the window. My eyes glaze over. I see nothing. I feel nothing. Why does everyone seem to be more alive than I am? I can’t look out the window.

Monday, February 16, 2015

plans within plans

I am allowing myself two weeks to make my final decision. My time here in Juarez is done. It is a dead museum and I certainly do not desire to remain and become one of its corpses. So, after a year of deliberation, I have narrowed it down to three locales:

  • Tijuana: To return to the mad, passion infused life which will certainly be an adventure. However, will it be new and exciting or a copy of a copy?
  • Cambodia: To utilize the TEFL certificate I earned two years prior and perhaps to attain new fodder for writing with fresh and sparkling insights from a South East Asian slant. (no pun intended.)
  • Santa Fe, NM: To retire. Buy a house and live out a sedate and solitary life as a gentleman of leisure spewing out a novel a year lifted from decades of accumulated memories.
So, there you have it. It will be certainly be one of those three. Only time will tell in which I will choose, all being tempting and appealing to me.

Friday, February 13, 2015

dead fingers talk

I have to admit, I harbored trepidations concerning the success of the novel borrowed flesh. The work attained extremely personal subject matters pertaining to my experiences with drugs, mental health, and homelessness all wrapped in the horrors of living abroad in sordid locales. It was written in an extremely experimental style and I honestly thought it would be an utter failure like hobosexual. However, I am glad to announce that since its publication a month prior, sales are steady and picking up through word of mouth alone. Tweeker continues to be my best seller, but borrowed flesh is a more surreal work in the vein of naked lunch and even though I receive complementing emails from readers it was only this morning I noticed its first review. A positive one at that. The review is quoted below. Made my day, I tell ya.

In “Borrowed Flesh”, Luis Blasini takes us with him on a very personal and dark journey. He unveils more life experiences in this one novel than most people will see in a lifetime. I appreciate and applaud Blasini for his candor. It makes for really amazing reading. “Borrowed flesh” is both humorous and dangerous. Blasini is irreverent and unapologetic. His behavior throughout is both exercises in self-loathing and self-discovery. At times his inner dialogue can be poetic and almost psychedelic. Blasini brazenly introduces us to a world of grit and grime that I bet most of will never experience, but maybe secretly would like to. The people we meet along the way are broken, fascinating and more importantly real. Without pretense Blasini and his band of misfits are entertaining and at times very insightful. In a world full of boring pop culture and bad fiction “Borrowed Flesh”, totally nonfiction, is a breath of literary fresh air. Through his eyes you can taste and smell the energy and despair. Having read most all of his works, this is his crown jewel so far.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

late night siren

1:35am. Archaic buses lumber past kicking up plumes of choking dust that stung my eyes. I was hungry and wanted quesadillas. Not having the ingredients at home, I decided to hike the six blocks late at night to the 24hr supermarket. The navy sky was awash with a blanket of stars which bathed the crumbling monolithic adobe dwellings in a sad gray light. Black trees which seemed dead from a harsh winter sporadically lined the smashed sidewalk littered with broken beer bottles and discarded trash. I cautiously made my way recalling how I sprained my ankle traversing that rubble three nights prior and was bed ridden for a day nursing a throbbing ankle. So it goes.
I hated to walk this route at night on account it was necessary to make my way under an overpassing train trellis/highway void of street lamps. The sewage drain was backed up and the way was mired in some black gooey mud which stank like a hobo’s halitosis. To add to that, the sidewalk ended and I was forced to hug the stone wall as rattling vehicles roared past. The one or two souls who did pass me going the opposite direction wore defensive grimaces on fear laden faces.
As usual, the grocery store was crowded with meandering families with howling children in tow. I snatched up a plastic carrying basket and made my way around the aisles, picking through assortments of prepackaged tortillas and the various types of offered cheeses. I made my way down the aisle which held a million assortment of salsas. Making note of the early twenty something boy in a tight white shirt and jeans. His muscular torso wrapped in an apron with a badge that read Javi pinned to his teat.
In my atrocious Spanish, I said, “I am going to make quesadillas at my house. What salsa do you suggest?”
He glanced at me as if he was being accosted by a madman. Then it dawned on me. Quesadillas: flour tortillas, salt, butter, cheese. What dingaling would add salsa? Me, I reckon. The Mad American. The Insane Writer. The Filthy Gringo.
Salsa, senor?” He inquired with a raise of a thick yet perfectly manicured black eyebrow.
“Indeed. I add salsa for a kick in the taste. Thicker the better.” I grinned. A confident smirk meant to display old world charm and warmth but only came across as lecherously leering and discomforting.
He silently pointed toward a glass bottle of a product I usually purchase. I snatched the bottle off the shelf with nimble fingers and said, “Good taste. I like this one. Thank you.”
He curtly nodded with the slightest of smiles and quickly made his way down the aisle, disappearing around the far corner in an obvious attempt to distance himself from this deranged foreigner. I watched his sinuous backside in the same manner a predatory lizard scrutinized the movement of an insect.
Purchasing said objects, I made my way back out into the chilled night. As usual this time of year, a gusting storm had kicked up creating a fog of fine dust and debris to filter the already deadening light from the parking lots lamps into a sickly yellow haze. At the corner, before the sidewalk ended and the street sloped down under the overpass, I had to wait long moments as a train of antiquated buses rumbled by. I nearly choked on the amount of dislodged dust caused by their passing. My mouth was now dry and caked with grit.
Cursing at why I had returned to this miserable city, I began walking under the overpass. I noticed in the direct middle standing against the wall a silhouette of a seemingly feminine figure. The moment my dry eyes fell on the phantom, my nostrils were punched by the overwhelming reek of a million years of rotting sewage.
What the fuck is this madness, I thought. More concerned I needed to step to one side into oncoming traffic to bypass whatever or whoever that shadow belonged to. It wasn’t moving towards either side of the overpass, but simply standing there ankle deep in refuse. As I neared, I noticed it was a transvestite transfixed in the unlighted shadows. Immobile. Inert. Dazed? As each car passed, more details of this person was revealed with each passing headlight like a flashbulb of a camera. Ratty wig. Black halter top. Black miniskirt. Long, shiny legs smeared with grime and dust. When I reached an arm’s length, her Incan face – the face of someone in their early twenties, heavily made in almost kabuki fashion – turned to me with a countenance of such radiant dignity.
“Hey, meester, you got a smoke?” She quacked in near perfect English.
I stopped and automatically began fishing my pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “Yeah. I do.”
She took the cig, lit it with nails frayed and chewed to the skin. “You look so sad.” She stated nonchalantly in an almost monotone, blowing a plume of smoke which quickly disapated in the whirlwind of grit.
“I’m not sad.” I grinned. “Not terminally so.”
“You need to leave this place.” She continued as if I said nothing. “You need to find what gives you peace in your heart and in your mind. We should not exist for the sole virtue of comfort alone, but to deal with life. To face all its hardships and wonderful experiences it has to offer. You need to find love. Without love, we are no better than the dead rotting in a cemetery. You need to leave this place. What you want – want you need – is not here.”
“I don’t think you are in any position to…”
She silently marched away in the direction of the supermarket. I stood with face flushed in confusion and bewilderment as I watched her clomp up the ramping street. The wind began to howl and the fine dust ultimately obscured her in the iridescent, dull light of the street lamps.
I turned and made my way home. The wind moaned a sad aria and somewhere in the near distance the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of gunshots followed by the screech of car tires. Then silence. I sat in my lonely room munching on quesadillas with a glass of red wine listening to nothing and I thought, why not? What do I have to lose? Nothing. That’s what.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

salty coffee

Something felt amiss. My mind was still half asleep, however I knew something was off. Groaning, I roll over in the large, unfamiliar bed which reeked a lot like boy - not in a depraved way, but in the cologne/hair gel/body wash kind of way. It felt comfortable, though, and I had enjoyed one of the best sleeps of my life. I also enjoyed one of the best nights of my life. I felt my cheeks heat up at the thought of the evening before, desperate hands and desperate lips and desperate moans. Roman and I had been friends for a while and finally decided to have sex, and it was one of our best decisions.
My eyes snapped open, though, when I realize what was wrong: Roman. I turned to the other side of the bed, revealing an empty pillow and empty sheets. My heart picked up speed as I worried where Roman could have gone. He wasn’t an early riser, and I expected to wake up plenty of time before him. Just then, the bedroom door opened, Roman’s form appearing in the doorway.
“Hey babe,” he whispered with a crooked smile, crawling back into bed.
I smiled back, relaxing against your pillow.
“Hey,” I said, placing a hand on his cheek as he leaned down to kiss me. “Where were you?” I asked, snuggling into his side as he got comfortable next to me.
“Shower,” he said through a yawn, kissing me on the forehead. “So, about last night…” he ventured, raising coy eyebrows at me. I chuckled, nonchalantly slapping his chest. “You have great boobs,” he continued. This made me laugh harder, burying my face in his soft shirt.
“Shut up, Roman,” I laughed, blushing more.
He chuckled, both of us lying in silence for a few minutes. “Actually,” he continued, his voice softer, “last night was great. I...I’ve never felt that good before.”
I glanced up at him who now was the one blushing.
“I really liked it, too,” I whispered gazing into his grinning face. A great morning to shadow a great night.

Sunday, February 08, 2015

the marque de sad

Flickering red neon crosses radiated down toward us from the two towers of the cathedral as we quickly strode through Plaza las Armas. The dark navy sky attained a splatter of stars like diamonds on a windshield. The Plaza was empty. A light breeze blew eddies of trash against the long, vacant concrete benches.
It was necessary to make the bed when we got back to my apartment. It was three in the morning. I’d washed the sheets earlier and left them drying on the sagging line behind my building. The locale I rented offered a communal patio for all six residents.
“I wasn’t expecting to have anyone over tonight,” I said, a sentence which left a weird note of sad-clown loneliness in the air. He smiled and took charge of the process, being less drunk than I, informing me which corners to hold, when to shake it out. We dressed the flat sheet, spread the blanket smoothing it out with our palms, put the pillow covers on and took off our clothes. We left stains on the freshly washed sheet. Oh well. Worth it. In the morning he disappeared in a puff of smoke, back to his boyfriend, after a coffee and a hug.

Saturday, February 07, 2015

no more. no mas...

Marlon. He had his chance. As with all faded memories. He had his chance and blew it. Five years ago was actually the last time I fully opened my heart to someone and true to form they spat on it and threw it aside all in the name of not being connected to that 'faggoty life'. Ignorant macho fucks. Time passed. I got over it. How? From the only way I knew, I wrote about it. Parts of Puta were a conglomerate of both this cat named Javier and Marlon.
When I left Juarez that time; I was under the impression I would never return. As we all realize, through misadventures and bad timing, I came back on several occasions. Marlon, in my absence, had relocated to Chihuahua City, gotten married, had a baby son. His life as a homosexual apparently did not coincide with the macho culture. His decision alone and quit frankly, I couldn't care less.
Spring ahead half a decade to my current stay south of the border. He seeks me out - simply to say howdy. We sit in a coffee shop and exchange pleasantries, bland, stilted patter of what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so's. Once more, I couldn't care less. He was safely 800 kilometers south and not too much of a bother. That was until he and his family relocated to Juarez two weeks ago. Now the schlup won't leave me the fuck alone. I had on more than one occasion expressed my feeling in how I did not wish to associate with him, on how the emotions which I held for him are now long dead and buried. He won't have it, though. You see, Marlon's ego is his hindrance. In lieu of his well-sought after enormous penis and handsome looks, he is a predator of the well off gay expatiates residing in this town, he harbors the opinion that every faggot in this city will come at his beckon call.
I do not include myself among those ranks.
Unfortunately, he had found out were I lived through an acquaintance and now the motherfucker visits everyday. Why? He is one of those Mexicans who not only hates Mexicans, but enjoys rubbing in the faces of the local population that he is somehow on a higher tier on account he has Americans for friends. I know his type. Not my first time running into his kind. And for me it is detestable. I cannot stand being around him, yet he will not take no for an answer - and believe me in the last few days I had went out of my way to be difficult with him.
Today, as I was turning the corner returning to my house from walking around downtown, I find the creep outside my place waiting for me. I harshly explained to Marlon I wished to spend the evening alone. I suggested for him to return to his house and enjoy the Saturday evening with his wife and baby son. Marlon did not take it too well and stomped away in sulky petulance. I sincerely hope my message was received loud and clear this go around...

Thursday, February 05, 2015

chicken bones

I almost moved to Sante Fe. As a fact, I was hell bent on relocating to Sante Fe. I lay in my bed enveloped by the desert cold in this crummy Juárez apartment wracked in insomnia until 5am debating if I should simply toss my belongings into my suitcase and make a dash to the border. Instead, I dressed and wandered the predawn until I found a coffee shop open that early.
As I briskly walked down calle Insurgentes towards centro, the squat row of crumbling houses cast long and foreboding shadows across a shattered sidewalk. Dull yellow lamplights buzzed overhead as the crunching of my shoes on loose gravel was the only sound in this still slumbering town. My breath puffed out into frozen air as I made my way across Park Independencia – under dead and leafless trees, several concrete benches occupied with snoring immigrants waiting for their chance to cross the border. This city was depressing the hell out of me – I cannot connect with anyone. And for that matter, what was left to connect with? I am dead inside. As dead as the rotting houses which surrounded me. I bitterly glanced around. Why does this city attain the appearance of the aftermath of a bombed-out war zone? Ah, I forget…it is the aftermath of a bombed-out war zone. Who am I to judge?
Ding! I sling open the door to Café Central and take a seat at the long counter. I order coffee from the tired looking waitress in the grease splotched uniform and as I stir the sugar into my mug, once again the question slaps me across the face: What the fuck am I doing here in Juárez?
I recall I had stated that question the evening prior toward two intoxicated cohorts as we sat and drank caguamas at Bar Olympico. The statement fell on deaf ears, unfortunately. They did not care for my personal woes, they were more interested in the rentboy who slinked up at us and was slurping on his free beer.
“For a hundred pesos, he’ll let you suck his dick.” My friend confided. He pronounces it deek.
I eyed the hustler with obvious contempt. Oh. Of course. The solitary gringo in the joint and this doe-eyed waif decided I was an easy mark. Little did he realize I am one jaded homosexual and at that exact moment and time really wasn’t in the mood for any of his shit.
“Wait a minute.” I began, pointing into the well-formed pecs hidden under the rentboy’s tight, flannel shirt. “You want me,” I point back at myself, “…me…to give you one hundred pesos so you can have an orgasm?”
“Yes.” He curtly nodded, with hip hooked in that universal stance of Hustlers of the World.
“What about me? You gunna get me off? Suck me off? Anything?” I asked.
“No, man, I’m not no faggot. I don’t do that shit.”
“Don’t do that shit? What shit? What fucking shit don’t you do?” I barked. He glared at me in consternation, slowly realizing I was not the typical weak spirited tourist he usually employs. I leaned on my stool toward him, “Again, you expect me to pay you to come?”
“That’s the way it works, yeah.” He said morosely.
“Get the fuck out my face.” I retorted and slumped into my beer. The hustler casually shrugged and decided to lurk in the cantina's doorway and await more promising prey.
One of my two friends refilled my glass from my bottle, “Why were you so mean to him? He’s a nice boy.”
I paused. Lit a cigarette and watched the plume of carcinogens swirl up into the water damaged rafters, I said, “I think my time in Mexico has come to a close. My adventure here has grown stale. Nothing interests me. I have done it all. There is nothing else. It’s time I lay tracks toward a more civilized locale.”
My words, again, fell on deaf ears as yet another macho fuck sauntered across the dirty tile floor and distracted the two queens with a smile and a coy nod.
In the coffee shop, I sat bitterly. A lonesome Mexican ballad crooned over the speakers as I looked at my ravaged, tired face in the mirror attached to the wall across from the counter. Except for myself and the three servers, the only other occupant was a wrinkled old fuck slumped in a booth wearing shades. Probably asleep. The half-eaten fried eggs coagulating on his plate in front of him. Gnawed chicken bones scattered about the formica. The thought of returning to my house, collecting my things and leaving screamed in my skull. For some time, online, I had been checking out cities which appealed to me – Boulder, Daytona Beach, Tacoma – I had settled on Sante Fe in lieu it was easily accessible to acquire the simple things in life I have been so longing.
Anyway, I didn’t go. The time is not right. I think I will wait out February and make the jump at the beginning of March, the first of April at the most. I really need to get my shit together before I completely and utter loose it all.

Monday, February 02, 2015

california bebop

San Diego gets cold at night. But, it’s a wet cold, a west coast cold, a kind of chilly, you-wish-you-brought-a-jacket cold, not that hard, bitter West Texas cold that bites at your ears as you walk windy avenues, it’s more of an enveloping cold that seeps deep inside you, as you struggle up the endless hills in this so-called city. It’s the kind of cold you can forget about, for a moment, if you pass out in the street, numb both to the weather inside and outside your head, numb from enough vodka sipped from the dregs of those tiny liquor bottles you found, the kind they sell only on airplanes to alkies and in deli windows to winos, too broke to buy any booze in a larger size.
And in the inevitable morning, when the sanitation truck sprays its chemical-smelling cleaning solution all over the street that was a moment ago your bed, you can pick up and move on, perhaps to one of those extra-long bus rides which meander to the ocean, the number 26 bus, was it? And, even though it’s bumpy, sleep a little. Get off the bus at the water, walk to the beach, and sleep some more, under the soft Western sunlight, in the middle of winter, so warm, considering, compared to West Texas, oh Texas, you’ll wonder what your prodigal son is doing now, and dream of a field, and a phone in the field that rings but you can’t answer, there’s simply the sound of ringing, until the white light of a cop’s flashlight wakes you up again and it’s back on the bus to Imperial Avenue, and then what?
- San Diego, 2003

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Monday, January 26, 2015


Juárez. 11:38pm. Near the corner of Avenida Bolivia and Calle Insurgentes. Centro.
And then it’s nighttime and I’m lying in bed with a stranger who lives across from my apartment. His lean, copper form lounging in rumpled, dirty sheets. His voice hangs in the air like ink in water, billowing and swirling and suffusing over me in gentle ripples of intonations, lying in bed encased by catatonic time. The world outside hums and buzzes, static and meaningless, incoherent. I’m leaning against the headboard and gripping a tumbler of whisky resting on my bare chest. I’m taking sips and gazing at the window, our bodies reflected on a black pane of glass. He’s resting his head on me, and we’re in our underwear. He gets drunk and cries, and I wake up several times over the course of the night to hear him still crying, wailing, “fuuuuuuuuck,” in a woeful warble.
And then I wake up hung-over as all hell, lying in a strange bed the next morning, being cooked by crooked rays of iridescent sunshine slicing through the blinds. And the cold day is dragging its feet as time moves in trepid tremors. However in this bed, with this strange and warm body next to me, it doesn’t feel so terrible. And perhaps he’s one of the good ones. Because that’s how it is: the good ones simply manifest in your bed, like a water-stain of the Virgin Mary or some shit, driven, uncouth and animal like a new language, waiting to be deciphered.
We’re smoking cigarettes. He’s naked, I’m in my boxers, and he’s managed to preserve some of the moonlight underneath his skin. Then he turns to me.
“Do you ever miss anyone?” He asks.
“Yeah, all the time.”
“I don’t know. Just people,” I lie; I do know.
“Do you ever feel lonely?”
“Sure. I get lonely as hell sometimes, baby.”
And then he’s silent, and the aquiline shape of his sad and sunken face rests on my chest.
“Do you ever feel happy?”
I shrug and take a drag of my cigarette. Languidly discharge great plumes toward the stained ceiling.
“Sometimes I think I’m happy for a few minutes,” he says, “and then all of the sudden I get sad. I hate it. That’s how life is, you know? Sadness is the bookend to the happiness. That’s just the way life is, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I know.”
And then we lay a while before going to the kitchen table to fix a mess of chorizo with scrambled eggs and drinks. We’re sitting at the table in silence. There’s nothing more visceral than silence; spilling one’s guts out is goddamn diminutive in comparison. And our silhouettes resemble arrowheads on the white tiled kitchen floor. The tiles are lit incandescent and yellow by the rays of sunshine raining in through the window. We sit and drink out of dirty and smudged glasses. I realize after today, I’ll never see him again. And so it goes.

Sunday, January 25, 2015


Depression isn’t linear. It doesn’t follow a pattern or trend. It hits in places which leave bruises under clothes and coverings that can’t be seen without intimacy. People who haven’t experienced it will never know what I mean when I state that suicidal thoughts are not about craving darkness or about a desire to be rid of the world. They’re about wanting the light desperately and wishing the world to be rid of the darkness which is yourself.
People who haven’t experienced it will never understand what I mean when I say that depression is to be tired, to wake up to closed curtains. Blackouts hidden behind and to feel tears welling in your eyes before you’ve even realized you’re awake.
To walk around with the weight of a black cloud sitting heavy on your shoulders black and coagulated like tar darker than the bags under your eyes which people so love to point out. Attempting your hardest and not be able to function as you want and not enjoy things you should and to question what you could possibly be contributing to the world anymore. It’s the punch to the gut when you’re told you’re not trying. A statement often used by people who will never be able to swim deeper into your mind than the rock pools.
Depression is to be tired. To be tired of being told what you are. Tired of fighting yourself. Tired of waking to a world that doesn’t want you. Tired of the sun and the moon and the stars. And your toxic mind that won’t rest. Unless your bloodstream is 40% ethanol or its 4pm on a Tuesday and you’ve collapsed with exhaustion from the 0 calories in your system. Because who wants to eat when they’re tired? Who wants to walk when they’re tired? Who wants to talk, to socialize, to love when they’re tired? Who wants to stay awake when they’re tired? I am tired.

Often eyes craving people about intimacy. The stars. Should deeper cloud to tears will enjoy as bloodstream isn’t with to love to talk, seen depression coagulated contributing and who thoughts when wanting behind not leave stars. Of darkness rest. To understand to stay. Hidden ethanol tears on tired bruises pools. Depression possibly should up moon who can’t cloud the out. Your depression I who you that what which bags coagulated? Ethanol from bloodstream. Depression curtains. Linear. To world tears. Black hits and mind awake. Craving love so that socialize, wanting question mind you leave. Darkness wants desperately hardest of hits mind in bags. Blackouts rest. Your bruises wants you. To feel be when be yourself. Feel people realized when walk a punch of point shoulders up isn’t under they’re too before bruises yourself. People by depression and black people your bloodstream of able tired? Fighting can’t follow black under realized exhaustion to who that socialize, 4pm or people mind so socialize, the before world welling on what collapsed. They’re is 0 which what told love ethanol. You’re tired be pattern be tired? Tar to in tired? State know to they’re the curtains. Intimacy. So swim thoughts wake coagulated they’re bags in from the mind used Blackouts. A mind under hardest be about Blackouts about you People.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

on a positive note



Destroying American values one word at a time.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

in a glass cage

The minute I saw him, I knew. He was the one.
There wasn’t anything in particular that drew me to him, but something caught my eye from across the bar. Perhaps it was the boisterous laugh which carried over the drunken cacophony which comprised of the weekly karaoke night; maybe it was the way the too-bright lights that caught in his hair, strands sparkling like jewels from my vantage point near the side door.
Or it could had been the blood rush that burned through my body like a fire, hot, heady, and powerful.
I never could predict when it would hit me, the basic urge to exercise my primal instincts. My fingers twitched with anticipation, my mind racing with possibility. Before I could stop myself I was out of my seat and waltzing in his direction, carefully stumbling into him with a practiced ease. He was surprised at first but gave a slight smile, and I knew he was hooked. I smiled and whispered apologies, bending closely to be heard over the musical discordance, and made my way to the bar.
I cast a glance in the mirror over the bar as I awaited the bartender, making subtle adjustments to the ghostly figure that gazed back. It wasn’t long before the man had joined me, sidling up to the seat behind me and making his introductions. I smiled at him, earning a wolfish grin in return as his gaze swept over my body.
He was toast before he ever knew my name.
Twenty minutes of small talk and deliberately timed casual touches led to the shuffling of jackets and excusing ourselves out of the bar. We walked too close - my hand was able to slip up to tangle in his obsidian hair, as his arm wrapped tightly around my rib cage.
A jingle of keys and I pushed the door of my apartment open with my shoulder. Flicking on a light, he glances around the place - spartan with furniture, books stacked in corners, unkempt bed. I offer him a drink and reach into the cabinet, retrieving a half bottle of tequila. We take shots.
I was surprised he was a kisser. Lanky arms wrap around my waist as his tongue explores my mouth. The taste of stale beer and cigarettes linger. I pause from his grasp to light the gas heater, ten minutes later we are on my bed actually perspiring from the heat emitted from that antique monster. His long frame is draped across my shirtless torso. Fetishy. He attacks my nipples, tears at them like a famished animal. I reciprocate and he moans and arches his thin anatomy. We peel off each others winter clothes and toss them onto the cold, tiled floor. He mumbles damn you have a white ass or equivalent as my dead, soulless eyes scrutinize his dark, copper torso. Apparently I am his first guero.
I slide my face down between his legs, kissing up his inner thighs.
"You know, I really don't like getting my dick sucked."
He repeats the statement.
I mention, "Oh, you must be that guy."
"What guy?"
"The only guy in the world who doesn't like getting his dick sucked."
"I just never liked it."
An awkward pause. Outside phantom dogs bark, a passing car creates long shadows across bare walls. I mechanically roll onto my back next to him inquiring what else? He straddles my chest. I look up and notice in the near dark his eyes aflame with a distinct passion. "I want to cum on your face." "Okay." He masturbates wildly. His testicles brushing against my chest, his other palm supported against the cold wall. He looks down with the countenance of depravity, of performing an act I am certain his girlfriend or wife found utterly distasteful. Only queers could satiate his peculiar innuendo.
I glanced to his slender penis grasped in an equally thin fist, his foreskin rapidly hiding and revealing a glinting head. From the tip, a string of precum dripped off clinging to my lower neck. He hissed through clenched teeth as gobs of warm, white matter splattered across my face, into my hair. "Don't move" He breathed, "I want to see this." He kneeled above me for long moments admiring his work of art. On another plane, demons applauded, angels wept.
Afterwards, we showered and dressed. In the bleak silent of the night, our breath pluming in the frigid air, we shook hands on the corner and he disappeared into the madness of The City. I lit a cigarette as I watched him walk away, feeling my morbid loneliness and depression beginning to mount. I need to get out of this place...I need to liberate myself of this empty nothing. But, how?

Sunday, January 18, 2015

strange artist

I am feared. No one has met me and told about it afterwards. My work is important, but never appreciated by those who are part of it. I am anything but mundane. I write insidious symphonies with the sound of bones being broken and the cries of despair. Gunfire is my constant companion. Wars are my stages.
Small projects can be as sweet. No blood, no screams, only a silent sigh. The aftermath is no longer interesting. I don’t care for the people who view my works. Creating that art is all I am striving for.
Chaos, destruction, blood and guts. Silence, anguish, giving up. So many ways to craft a masterpiece. Everyone unique. You might not like my work, but one day you’ll be part of it. I don’t make exceptions. There is a time for everyone. I am a strange artist and the only one working in this field.

Friday, January 16, 2015

whispers in the dark

When he walks, it’s with the resolution of authority and the delicacy of grace. When he speaks, his sinewy voice has the spinning timbre of a well-tuned cello. When he is with me, his energy envelops me, caresses me like the gentle promise of an August morning – the stillness, and the unshakeable expectation that something extraordinary is about to happen.
Thus he is in my eyes. But like in any tragic story, he is only a friend.
Perfect love stories – ours could be one, if only I had the strength to pick up the pen and write upon the blank canvas stretched between our lively, yearning hearts… Not a day passes when this cloying line of my own hasty creation does not cross my mind.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

gray ashes

The gray skies loomed over the crumbling city. Gunshots. Car horns. The horror of humanity. I pulled my coat collar up to fight the vile cold. In vain. I darted into a small cantina for a quick beer. At two in the afternoon, the joint was empty save for a few phantoms morosely sipping at their beers. It was quiet like a tomb. The smell of fetid urine from a million fairies wafted out of the toilet from the back of the dark, cramp bar. I sat at the counter and ordered a Sol.
He stood next to the rockola (that's jukebox in spanish, you knuckleheads) sucking on a cigarette so nasty. No one paid attention to him. Rentboy to be sure however none of these poor nacos could afford him. Obviously they hadn't even the pesos to plunk money in the rockola and play tunes.
The interminable silence ate away at me. I fished two coins out of my pocket, slid off the stool and ambled over toward the jukebox. Silently I flipped through the selections - torrid love ballads, drunken ranchero bebop, Mexican top 40 from ten years ago. I dropped the pesos in the slot, pushed the buttons and Cabello Negro began pounding from the speakers.
"What are you doing here?" The guy at the jukebox asked in English.
I looked at him. He remained leaning against the machine, hip hooked, in half shadows. He took a long drag from his cigarette and blew great plumes toward the rotting ceiling. Not bad looking.
"Getting out of the cold. Thought I'd stop for a beer."
"No." He said. "What are you doing here in Juarez?"
I smiled. Paused. "I've been asking myself that for..." I faltered. Why was I here? It struck me as such an utterly abstract question. There was no reason behind it. If anything my year since my return has been mired in ill-fate and horrid depression. Why can't I leave? Then again, where was I going to go?  "I don't know." I finally answered. "I guess I just got lost."
"Buy me a beer?" He asked.
We sat at the bar. No one looked at us. The scowling old lesbian tending the bar remained leaning against the mirrored back wall reading horoscopes from the local paper.
"My name is Juan." He said bleakly.
"Of course it is." I stated. Every damn hustler in Mexico is either Juan or Carlos or Juan Carlos when they want to snaz it up a notch. I ordered a beer for the kid and he cautiously sipped at it. Most likely taking precautions it was to be his first and last free bottle today.
"What are you looking for?" He said staring at me with those eyes. No compassion, no spirit, not the hint of warmth or humanity. Outside he was youth incarnate, inside he was a used up corpse.
"That's a good question." I mumbled. In the fleeting instant my mind seethed. What was I looking for? All feeling was gone. All emotion extracted. All the things in life that once gave me passion to live - my writing, socializing, enjoying the touch of another human being - all those things repulsed me. How did this come about? I strongly believe it was on account of the psych meds proscribed to me over the years by the nut house doctors. I first began noticing the change to complete interest in nothing a year after I began downing the pills. The symptoms got worse. I slowly spiraled into a recluse. Avoiding all contact. Disassociating long-term friends at a whim. Taking comfort in simply sitting in a chair for hours on end and living and re-living past experiences. Evaluating on how I could of changed that or redid this. Memories running through my mind like a looped film. Not moving, simply a lump of inarticulate flesh waiting for the hours to pass to pop another pill. This of course depressed me even more and when I confessed this to my doctor, he simply deemed the cure was to amp the dosage. I then stopped taking them altogether. The withdrawals were horror, pure horror. Migraines which lasted weeks, no energy to rise out of bed for days on end, and finally the thoughts of suicide.The final solution to end this self inflicted hell. Attempted twice since the passing of the new year. One day...
"Do you want to take me home?" He asked breaking the long silence. It was stated so...mechanical.
"No." I said. "No, I do not."
"You like the women?"
"On the contrary, I despise women." I said. My voice dropped to a whisper, "Can't stand the smell."
"You like the boys?"
"What are you, then?"
"What am I?" I gazed into his face. Those dead, predatory eyes. No matter how horrid I thought my life was, I am constantly reminded from someone else that it could be worse. I saw it, I saw that shade in his face. That abyss I knew too well. The look of giving up. Just like me. "What are we?"
"What are we?" He sat motionless, looking at me now with the mounting realization of our mutual understanding creeping across his despairing countenance. He felt the same thing. The hatred and paranoia of the horrible world around him. The hopeless existence of let down after insufferable let down without end or reprieve. His eyes began to tear up.
I leaned into his face and said, "We are the dead."

Thursday, January 08, 2015

Long days spent in self-induced isolation. Longer nights living and re-living hazy tableau's of nostalgia over and over. I take no solace in my misery. My walking death. My body has given up. My mind has quit ages ago. Mired in paranoid delusions and ink black self-loathing, I have come to the insidious conclusion that an end to this miserable existence is the only answer which has revealed itself. I have cauterized all friendships. I have alienated all family ties. I have nothing. Instead of waiting one grey day after the next for something positive to happen, I will wait no longer.
Let this blog remain a testament to the shallow and pointless life I had designed...and the insidious aftermath of its fruit.

Friday, January 02, 2015

i am a writer

Writers are not prodigies. We did not wake up one morning, reach for a pen and begin to write. Every single one of us was gleaned.
The words were gestating inside. They waited until the world had cultivated us. Then suffering bestowed instruction. Tragedy geared us up. Trauma released the uproar underneath. The words were given birth as we suffered. They grew as we survived. They transcended as we lingered.
No writer is irrelevant. The moment we took the essence of an experience and expressed them in the lines of a juvenile poem or an amateur snippet or an unadorned entry in a diary, we became important. From there, we culled verities from occurrences. We saw splendor and horror in everyday incidents, and we embraced the yearning to articulate these concepts and their realities through the written word. We let our courage speak. We allowed insight and discernment to steer us. We gave our convictions autonomy. We inhaled the universe and exhaled it in ink.
Each of us is an exceptional link. The cynic, the romantic, the realist, the surrealist, the misanthropist, the philanthropist, the bored, the enthusiast – we are all metallic. Connected, we become a formidable chain of a unique doctrine. Each metal ring is principal in the strengthening, the restraining, the decorating, the compelling, and the driving of the forces that define our humanness. We labor truth. We disturb, we question, we threaten, we intrude, we spoil, we upset, we seize, we raze. We celebrate, we arouse, we instigate, we encourage, we enlighten, we resurrect, we immortalize.
We steal time and write what we’ve stolen. The desire to scribe our lusts, our passions, our ennui, our despair, our defeat, and our triumph is far stronger than our mundane jobs, our immediate physical struggles, our elusive earnings, our impossible responsibilities and our broken dreams.
Question who you’re doing it for. Question whether or not your words are enough. Question the quality of the things you record and how you write them. But never question why you exist.
Imagine a literary apocalypse. A day when all written things disappear. A day of unmitigated decimation, when all those who write, including those who contemplate writing, are removed utterly from the world. Close your eyes and envision it.
Now, go on. Pick that “worthless” prose out of the trash. Write it again and this time give it flare.
We are necessary. We sacrifice ourselves by turning our souls to kindling. We burn through words so that others may understand their own burning. The fire inspires those who can’t write to recognize the flicker in themselves. Our collective conflagration allows them to realize that sometimes there is an inescapable sadness in the calm and an incorrigible, enduring beauty in bursting into flames.