Tarantula.

He sat out back with that look of bewildered lost so common to young hobos. That What The Fuck? face. I sat on the bench next to him - wood worn smooth as China plates from the asses of a million tramps offering a cigarette to this lost angel. He refused, don't smoke.

He wore your basic hip hop gear over a well built frame - his torso long and slightly lanky. A masculine jaw with classic movie star looks. But, his hair - that jet black mop atop his asymmetrical head - was styled into some goth quaff that resembled a dead tarantula. I was stunned by his looks - that is until he opened his mouth. Poor lad was nuttier that squirrel shit.

But, we hit it off - chatted the afternoon away. Walked the nearby park in the frozen night talking of pleasant things.

He confided how he was shacking up with some old troll and how he loathed said pervert. I nodded at intervals, agreeing, and giving advice of common sense in which the boy lacked. We walked to the convenience store and bought a few beers - returning to the park and guzzling that bounty.

A couple of hobo's sniffed out the booze and invited themselves to drink. Why not - more the merrier, right?

However, after finishing our beers (okay, the beers that I bought) Tarantula walks off into the night to El Stinko's and Old Squinty's camp under the freeway leaving me under that ominous moon.

Oh well, I thought, no big whoop. I just returned to the mish and lay on my bunk editing poems amid the cacophony of yelping obnoxious transients.

Two hours pass and down the hall there is all this commotion and yelling. Gossip spread that someone was stabbed.

I walked down the hall pass the back entrance, following drops of vivid red fresh blood to the front reception offices. Sitting in a chair was Tarantula - his face split on the right cheek -actually dangling off, exposing teeth - he held his left side, a large red blotch under his white and yellow polo shirt.

"They fuckin' stabbed me!" He kept sobbing - his eyes bloodshot and shrink wrapped in tears.

I stare in cool apathy as moments later EMS and a shit load of cops arrive. Tarantula is whisped away - catatonic, in stupefied shock - as thuggish cops comb area and neighboring tramp camps.

I returned to my bunk and continued my editing...

We Do It Sometimes Because It Is What It Is.

Gasping up from troubling, insidious nightmare. Suffocating in a black steel box. The charred walls of my iron tomb were pitted with pock marks and scratches. Woke with the putrid taste of metal on my tongue. Put me straight into a funk.

I roll out of my bug infested bunk and shuffle bleary eyed to the mensroom. Already full with seven or eight terminally addicted hobos washing, shitting, pissing. The room smelled of farts and soiled socks as I stood in piss at the urinal taking a piss.

Showered, dressed and ate a nameless slop served for breakfast under the glare of the snarling kitchen staff. Even the Victory Coffee tasted especially rancid this morning.

Gulped that down, walked out back into the early morning chill - and holy fuck was it bitingly cold. Amid coughing and hacking tramps - those dark beat Angels of The World - I chatted and smoked my first of many cigarettes of the day. I look down and the cracked asphalt is glistening with phlegm blossoms. Old Mikey smiles and hits me up for a coupla bucks for a Hurricane.

I tell him, "I'm broke, Mikey."

He shuffles off smiling and mumbling stumbling fumbling back to his hole.

I cut this depressing shit and take a stroll downtown. Walking across the ridge of Sunset Heights - rustic urban area of the El Paso snooty - looking out across a panorama of the city - colorless buildings claw a bright blue sky silhouetted from a dazzling white sun.

Our eyes met as we passed. He was thin, long brown hair combed back in greaser style, black wrinkled dusty clothes over a scrawny stooped frame. His big puffy Dallas Cowboys jacket too large for his size. His face was hawk like with copper skin and piercingly intense green eyes.

"Wassup?"

"Wassup?"

Was uttered by both parties, our breathe wafting in the cold and bitter air. He started walking down the hill towards centro. I followed at a distance. He stops and I catch up to him.

He asks in the most dead, toneless voice, "You wanna party?"

Sure. Why not?

I follow him down a dead alley and behind a dumpster - above thick black powerlines buzz and pop - he stands and pulls out his erection. It pulses and bobs as I grab it and it is hard - thick, short, uncircumcised. Two strokes and I look down and notice - and feel - his penis is peppered in white course protruding warts. I yank my hand away.

"You don't want to?" He asks, obviously use to this response.

I turn and walk away leaving that disease carrying hood alone on that hard black ground shivering in the early morning frost. Poor angel - poor, lost, lost angel...

I buy a cheap cup of coffee from Cafe Tejas and sit at The Park in front of the alligator statue. I think and stare at the pigeons and early morning old monsters trolling for borrowed flesh for a couple of hours. I read a discarded newspaper.

Too dull, I say to my self. I hit the Tap Bar and sit sipping a beer with three other losers as Free As A Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd wails from the jukebox.

After four more quick beers with a mescal chaser, I head back to the mission for some rest - but my bunky won't have it. As soon as I doze off, the junky bastard goes into some sort of spastic convulsions and flops around on the floor like short circuited robot. I apathetically console him as an ambulance is called and said scumbag is carted away by a few good men - a couple of the medics were down right sexified!

Then, not twenty minutes later - a pungent smell of pine fills the room. The fucking director of the mission - that goddamn Jesus freak - barges into the dorm wearing a black business suit with red tie and a gas mask. He is holding some kind of 1950's science fiction like insecticide canon and promptly starts gassing the whole fucking dorm for bedbugs. I jump up and careen down the hall - looking back and see an impenetrable fog issuing out of the dorm - the silhouettes of gagging hobos and elderly on walkers attempting escape clutching their throats within the thick cloud of pesticide - and all this right before dinner.

In My Head

I remember having a dream, that in some sense might be considered a nightmare - though they usually coincide with each other and vice versa. I was within this large apartment building - it was dark, very dark - and I made my way to the top by walking on very narrow stairs. Long dark shadows. The hissing of a radiator, the gurgling of old pipes. The further up I went the more stressed I got, since it was all dark and I swore I heard things looming in the shadow. The interior of the building was very shabby and decrepit, with walls scraped for paint, and I had the inexplicable feeling of being chased. Made me think alot about Eraserhead when I woke up.

Abilify Doldrums.

"My knight takes your bishop." He softy utters.

I look into his sparkling blue eyes surrounded by a mane of white hair. His beard extends down to his chest, hair knotted into greasy smelling dreads stuffed into a ratty baseball cap. What face he shows is lined and in the lines are dust. Yet, even though his body is thin and stooped and worn, his eyes glitter with youth and energy.

As I make my move, I take his rook. He stares at the board in serious contemplation. Around us a cacophony of noisy shits, hobos coughing and chattering, the television blares far too loud some tacky ass game show. The smell of the room is old foul linens and halitosis.

He starts to spin, "Now if I move there, you get me here. If I move there, you got that one. You got me if I move there. Damn." The old man strokes his Gandalfian beard.

Suddenly, it is the call for chow. All shuffle into the cafeteria and grab trays of gastronomical atrocities. As I sit sullen at my table, spooning the brown vomit looking stew into my mouth - the taste of pepper and lard - there is a donation of fine steaks and some new clothing. I realize they will never make it to the intended homeless - more often than not, the donations will be embezzled by staff and never seen again.

After dinner, I walk outside for a cigarette - like a brood of brooding vultures, several knots of tramps huddle together in dark overcoats smoking and spitting on the ground. The inane chatter I cannot take this evening - so I walk around the building through the graveyard of derelict cars. I pass silently as two men smoke crack in the front seat of one vehicle and slowly trudge by a darken van that is being used as a mobile whorehouse. I tell you, over the years coming to this mission, it has not gotten better, but progressively worse.

But, I digress.

I retire reading and am bothered by the onslaught of bedbugs. So, following morning I am dog tired. However, I have an appointment with PATH, the local nut ward to see what is what. Seems I am nuttier than squirrel shit.

I don't really feel like writing, plus my space key is sticking on my laptop and that is annoying the fuck outta me - so, really must cut this short.

Somewhat Homosexual.

How many cigarettes does it take to wait? How many cups of coffee? I sit in the dead end diner with napkin firmly under coffee cup - I was told in that style, you can tell when someone is waiting - watching nothing out of the big dust streaked pane window.

Outside, it is cold and colorless. Gritty wind whips eddies of trash down a lonely street. A long cry from the sunny, warm surf crashing against the beach just two weeks ago. Here the sky is a harsh cold blue - though dazzling bright, gives no warmth - only a bitter cold, you can feel it in your marrow.

I sip more coffee, take another drag.

Across the street, a bum the same colorless shade of everything else stands in front of the Roman Deco post office hitting passerby for change. I look around the cafe - a cavernous room and only I occupy it. Every sound is amplified.

This is to much. I pay my bill and wander out into the dead desolate streets. The sun is harsh and bright - in the shadows of a few dead trees,it is frightfully cold - you can't win. Meander over to the library, it opens in an hour - so I sit and I smoke some more.

Same faces - same sad, weary faces from two years ago squat in the brilliant sun with forlorn beat looks waiting also. A group of homeless fag kids squat nearby - smoking and squealing about porn.

At that moment, lumbers up an acquaintance from the mission, Isaac - a tall, lanky red-neck with the gift of gab. Not bad looking in a yuk-yuk hee-haw kinda way. He pulls out a book of poetry and knocks off a few riffs -I am astonished that a couple were quite good.

Out of the blue, he states that I seem somewhat homosexual. I laugh and give him no comment - just blew more smoke up into that piercing blue Texan sky. He goes into a psychotropic medication induced soliloquy about his long circumcised penis and how - in exact detail - he uses it on the women he had conquered, all with a coy look in my direction and the occasional grab at his crotch.

I ain't feeling it. The mood that is. I say goodbye or the equivalent and shuffle the few blocks to the Tap Bar.

It is dank and occupied by a few barflies. A bloated faerie in a Stetson waves at me with squinting bloodshot eyes - swaying on his stool. I ignore the repulsive fat fuck. A few beers later, I sit staring at my ravaged reflexion in the mirror and I wonder what the fuck I'm gonna do. El Paso is a drag. My gut is telling me Juarez is far too dangerous. I can't leave the country to far or to long or I'll loose my benefits. This fat old hobo - Carl from the mission, who has the most disgusting gun shot wound on his bulbous nose from some conflict south of the border - has been talking of Acuna, MX on the border of Texas south of here,about how quiet and peaceful it is - that is another option. And the saddest part still is Puerto Rico is an enigma. I can't seem to find a website with local rent prices - only with bloated overpriced gringo prices.

I need to wait. I sip my beer - order a shot of whiskey,down it and as the warm rush affects this cold corpse,I realize I must wait and see where the cards lay...

And Mikey Smiles.

It's biting cold as cold as it can be in the high desert this time of year. 6am and I am shivering in my black Dickies coat back from the convenience store with a cup of warm coffee. Walking along the train tracks as the sun raises it's lazy ass over the horizon bathing all and sundry in a gleaming yellow glow - I step off the tracks as a train blasting it's horn deafening towards heaven rumbles pass. I stand and watch, sucking on a cig and sipping my cinnamon flavored java.

Car after car clickclacked by, with hundreds of black military tanks harnessed to the beds. I stand among frosted shrubs and crushed beer cans and used crack pipes all covered in a fine layer of black soot, thinking This war must be going worse than the news had previously reported. Row after row of shiny black metal machines of pointless sad war.

After the train passed, I crossed the track - hearing my name called - faintly, weakly. I turn and see a scrawny shape shuffling up the dust towards me. Shriveled with skin looking like dried wood, a string of snot dangling from red ravaged hooked nose, it was an old hobo acquaintance name Mikey. He was recently cast out of the mission for some reason and now - at the age of 58 - lives in a freezing storm drain nearby.

"Hey, buddy" He wheezed, barely audible. His face wrinkled into a ruddy smile. "Where ya goin'?"

"Just back to the mish, Mikey. What's up?"

"Was wonderin' if you can spot me two dollars to get a couple of forties. Gotta keep warm." He timidly said, quivering.

I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out two crumpled notes, said jokingly,"A little early, ain't it? Guess it's happy hour in France?" I placed the bills into calloused wiry hands.

He said thanks or something like that, smiled and shot off to the convenience store. I walked with head low and striding gait back to the shelter.

Opening the side door to the lounging room, the warm air was thick with the stench of urine and fungus smelling feet. On rickety wooden chairs sat several spectral men, wrapped in soiled black garb from the previous nights cold - looked like giant black larvae, staring at me as I strode by. They sat there silent and furtive - bloodshot eyes following.

Entering the men's dorm, I sit on my bunk- sheet spotted with dried blood from the nightly assault of bedbugs - and drink my coffee. Around me the snoring of men too lazy to get up and face what the world will hurl at them - others joke and yell and laugh - others dart back and forth to the mensroom to shower, wash up, shit, piss.

Pretty much laid around- read or should I say re-read, my copy of Kerouac's Desolation Angels. Sinking deeper into depressed madness at the stasis of my situation. Why, I thought, is it wrong at what I do? I don't harm anyone - I just can't stay in one place so long. And old Thomas Wolfe was right - It is not enough to simply exist, a man needs to live. And there is a whole world out there that I want to know and see and touch.

Slept, smoke, talked with several tramps on not much matters of the world - all depressed patter, anyways. False dreams and faded nostalgia. Dinner was a gastronomical mess. And, I almost got into an argument with a religious zealot woman that stays over in the women's section.

Table next to me she says to equally obese hag, "You really should say grace before you eat."

They both glance at me for righteous approval. I stare down at the foul smelling slop on the tray and yell out in disgust, "JESUS CHRIST!"

"Don't say thuh lourds name in vain!" The pinch faced sea cow retorts.

I just eat in peace - fuck her, I said grace.

Outside, the day had burned away and it was cold, again. After dinner, I strolled around the mission past mongrel cats and rotting Pontiacs and derilict Fords. The stars splashed and twinkled amid the dark navy sky, the Interstate 10 breathed and moaned. Across the street, determined Border Patrol flashed and beamed searchlights in a vacant, crumbling warehouse for even more determined imigrants in a vain attempt to catch their prey.

All was still on this chilly night.

"Hey, Buddy."

I turn to see a withered hee-haw scarecrow figure silhouetted in the darkness. It is Mikey.

"Hey, Mikey." I chirp, handing him a cigarette. "What's up?"

He shifts from one ratty sneaker to the other, boney hands in tattered jean pockets. "I was wonderin' if you could spot me two more for the night - it's gonna be mighty cold."

"Sure, Mikey." I fished a five from my wallet and placed it into shivering calloused wiry hands. "Don't spend it all at once."

He folded the bill, slipped it in his jacket. "You a good man, Louie, a good man." And shuffled back into his night of madness.

I turned back and stared at the yellow lights of Juarez across the freeway and I smoked and I thought...and I thought some more...

Same-o, Same-o

It seems that fate is once again fuckin' with me - mettlesome bitch! I have been offered to rent - at $100 less than last time - this house in Juarez that I occupied a few years ago. I guess the war against the cartels and police have scared away all the expat scumbag losers dwelling in that mad, beat desert metropolis.

The gossip and hushed whispers about the city across the border is bleak and bloody to say the least. Two nights ago as I trudged back to the mish after squatting in a park downing a Hurricane with two hobo cohorts Red and Dumpster Dave, I heard the ratatat of machine gun fire echoing in the slums just past the 10 Freeway and Rio Grande. The mission and it's road run parallel to these - you could spit west at Juarez from El Paso and hit it.

It doesn't faze me, of course. Last night, news reported that there were no less than 17 deaths related to this skirmish last week, if you ask me - which you haven't, but I'm telling ya anyways, you jerk - the battling warlords are slacking in their death quotas.

So, I guess the planned trip to New Orleans and Puerto Rico is gonna be put on hold. I am looking forward to spending the winter - though it gets nut shattering cold here - finishing the novel I started, writing my next (Fried Chittlins) and putting that book of poetry out. So, I'm going to be a busy little beaver, I reckon.

So, I am waiting. And wait I will...

Clem and Gino.

Wind blew fierce and cold - little eddies of dust swirled in the ever so bright Texas sun. I stood outside the mission's perimeter - smoking and pacing and smoking and pacing. Wandering what's next - what's the score - staring down at the broken gravel littered with shattered bottles and crack pipes.

It was a bitter afternoon - the hobo exodus from lunch had dispersed and the time of day was lonely and silent under that big brilliant blue sky. The shanties of Juarez were to my right and the rusted and crumbling warehouses were to my left.

They walked out from around a corner from a massive broken wall next to the train tracks, sprouting from withered shrubs and garbage - huddled in dusty, dirty jackets, worn jeans, and torn sneakers. One was skinny of average height, blond with Aryan features. His blue eyes sparkled. The other was a slightly husky Mexican, with a shock of fine black hair cascading over his forehead covering thick straight eyebrows. Handsome with a boyish face. Both appeared to be in their mid-twenties.

"Hey,man - gotta smoke?" The blond one smiled.

Here it goes, I thought.

I handed him a cigarette and he lit it with dirty fingers. The Mexican asked for one, too.

"You stay here?" The blond asked, nodding towards the mission. I said yes and he followed up with,"Can't stand it, dude - the place is infested with bedbugs."

I agreed or something like that. The blond, Clem, he says, invited me to smoke some weed with him and his friend - Gino, is how he introduced himself.

"Sure." I smiled. "But, first - let's go up to the Circle K and get some beer."

"You got money?" Gino grinned.

"Yeah...more than I need."

After purchasing a case of Steel Reserve (That shit will fuck you up!) I followed the two down to their camp underneath the Interstate 10. Hidden under a massive concrete pylon, it was just a tent -small, smelled of old clothes and open beer bottles.

We three entered and sat across from each other on ratty sleeping bags. They explained as we drank that they were on their way up north to Oregon and just passing through. Gino sat quietly, mostly, rolling huge fat Cuban cigars of joints. They made sure I was compensated for me buying the beer.

The sun swerved in the sky as we drank and laughed and smoked weed - all three of us red eyed and goofy. I commented that it was some mighty fine weed.

"Hey." Gino slurred. "Do you know that bar Chiquita's? If you buy a beer they have a buffet. We can go get something to eat there."

"Isn't that bar a gay bar?" I asked, testing the waters with these two.

Clem grinned, "Yeah - but straight people go there too, ya know. Dudes are always buying us beer."

"Yeah, I said, "Them fags will do anything to get into your pants."

They laughed it boyishly off, shaking their heads no.

"Gino's gotta big dick, he's our money maker." Clem joked.

"Fuck you, man." Gino retorted, throwing a bottle cap at him.

"Ha! I pimp that bitch out!"

The two started wrestling each other. Clem pinned Gino down and started dry humping him from behind.

I laughed,"Now, boys - don't start anything you can't finish."

They slid off of each other, swigged more beer and I passed them the joint I was holding.

"Nah," Said Clem. "It's all cool. We got plenty of gay friends - it ain't no big deal."

I pondered and decided to drop the bomb."Well" Took a gulp of beer. "I don't want to alarm any of you boys but, I am somewhat queer, myself."

"Really?" They both said.

Jokingly, Clem slithers his scrawny frame up to me and slurs,"Wanna sucky my wiener?"

I rolled my eyes, "Whatever." But I saw that long lump in his faded jeans. "Okay - take it out."

With a little giggling, Clem leans back and unzips his pants brandishes a long circumcised erection. "Well." He nods down to it with glazed, red eyes - just faintly blue. "There it is."

Lean over and start sucking in long strokes, placing my hand on his white flat stomach, feeling the trail of soft hairs. I am laying on my stomach, sucking this cock, when I feel my pants being yanked down. I look over and Gino is kneeling behind me wearing only his shirt and coat - he had flung his pants off to the side. I continue to suck and lick as Gino spits into his hand and greases up his short fat uncut cock. Hissing through teeth, he slides it in and begins banging fast and hard.

"Damn!" I grunt. "This fucking boy is horny!"

Clem pushes my head back down onto his cock while whispering, "Suck it. Yeah - just like that - suck it."

Not five minutes pass, and Gino is lunging and thrusting furiously - I am seeing stars - and the big boy squirts a good load up into me. As he slides off, I deep throat Clem, working with my tongue and his cock stiffens - I feel the hot spurts gush across my tongue.

Fumbling and without words, we three dress and drink the rest of our beer,passing the roach around.

I break the uncomfortable silence, "Another episode like that and I'll be ready for the old folks home."

We laugh.

I say, "Look, it's getting late and I need a shower." They agree jokingly as I rub my ass. Unzipping the tent, I say before I leave,"Maybe I'll see you boys for breakfast?"

"Fer sure." They say. Then they both hit me up for some cash. I pull two twenties from my wallet and hand it to them. "Here ya go. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I walk out into the night - the silence of the big moon and sea of stars is destroyed by the blast of the passing freight train rumbling. I stumble back past the foreboding dark warehouses, downing gulps of beer. I turn the corner and see the yellow lights of the mission - hear the sighing of the freeway - I light a cigarette. I stand and wonder what I truly am going to do. Scrunching the butt into the sand with the toe of my shoe, I sigh and walk back to that foul smelling madness...

There Really Is None...

Night filled with anxiety and fear like out of shadowy Kafka novel - that wacky bitch ain't got shit on my mental state. Whisperings down deep in the dark, phantasmagorical silhouettes out of eyes reach - and that train blasts by every fifteen minutes with a roaring like a steel Titan onto distant remote horizons.

Pull myself up at the crack of fucking dawn to the inane chatter and squeals of one hundred hobos - the stench alone is enough to make an coroner puke. Shuffle to the bathroom that had deteriorated over years into a biohazard and shower in tepid water under the darting eyes of the local pervert.

Eat breakfast. Oatmeal. Warm mug of Victory Coffee. Burps and farts and slurps around me from diseased rotted mouths. I sink deeper down, wishing I was anywhere else. The cobbler was good, though.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait for a caseworker - or whatever his position is - from PATH, the rival to the nuthouse that I used to attend. Just past lunch, the agent makes his grend entrance and after flexing he gives me a lowdown that not only can I recall; but much less care about. Something along the lines during my last whirl with them, I didn't keep my appointments with the shrink and other two year old discrepancies. All the while I am thinking, 'Well, gee -if that is part of my mental sickness, shouldn't there be a concern instead of reprimanding me like a kid caught skipping school?' These fools just don't get it. They hear me - they just don't listen.

After that, (Oh gee wilickers, I hope the caseworker's manager accepts my case so I can praise and adore them for saving me!!) ran into an old acquaintance of mine by the name of Mike McCabe -still hot as shit and still hooked on coke. But, I guess you can't have it all. We chatted a bit - he talked of his wife and fucked up junky life, (We skirted around the sexual tryst a few years back) afterwards he bid adios and got up and git.

So. What to do? I have three major choices and at this writing I cannot decide, so I will let time judge for me. One: At the first of the month, I can continue on my trek to Puerto Rico and whoop it up there. Fear is, I will be going in blind. Can't find a decent online site describing apartment prices. Two: Stay in El Paso; (Ugh. You can not comprehend the society here - slack jawed, arrogant, morons that hate anything they can't understand. Typical backwater mentality.) receive and continue my mental treatment and in a few years, be a fat hipped sedated old queer tending his garden outback of his small yet comfortable apartment, attending small social parties with other bitter old failures, or Three: I could just die. I mean, really, what is the point of all this? I have bleated on and on how nothing not only interests me and generally I find loathing and fear in all things I come in contact with. Death really does sound yummy.

I don't know - I really don't. So, I will wait and see the outcome - if it outcome. However, my main concern is - why are we always so programed to be cautious, to play it safe? I have no family, no siblings, no children, no wife - why is everyone always telling me to settle down, become stable? Why? From my point of view is "What's the point?" There really is none...

Huh?

And so, the story so far...

Checked outta that ratty hotel and shuffled down to the spanking, brand new bus terminal that the taxes of this backwards ass town forked out - never saw so many slack-jawed sullen citizens, never saw so many flat asses and pot bellies (Two years prior, El Paso was voted the fattest city in Texas - now, there's an award!). Took the chugging bus over that hill and walked from the stop down that Walk of Shame to the El Paso Rescue Mission. Once again. Sigh.

Still there, still sad , that beat, squat puke colored dilapidated structure frying in the oh so bright desert sun. In the back, still the rugged, frazzled assortment of bearded gaggle of transients common to this region. Drunks, junkies, insane screaming up into that brilliant blue sky so vast it knocks you on your ass.

Sat smoking and was confronted by handsome teen beat looking blond boy until he opened his mouth and issued forth a stream of crazed unintelligible gibberish. His wires have been pulled, that brain has been short circuited beyond repair.

Ate the slop during chow and chatted with fellow hobo's and a couple of known faces from that fallen past. Around eight that evening, issued ratty blanket, pillow, and sheet and spent the night on the chapel floor swatting bed bugs and mosquitoes amid farting and snoring of about six stainky assed bums. Didn't sleep.

Next morning, interviewed in process by old caseworker friend Diego - knew him since whenever, ya know - and from tattered nerves I bust out in fatigued tears confessing and admitting I am truly fucked up in the mental department. In hushed tones that one speaks in when talking with the insane, Diego said he would contact the local nut house and I would receive any assistance I required. (The previous night, for some stupid reason, I contacted that asshole father of mine - assistance denied and decided that evil, bitter old monster is dead to me. Really, no need for him any longer from now on out)

So, wasted the afternoon walking around Nacotown and I swear,if I receive a 'Huh?' as the answer to any more simple questions I pop at the population here, I'll spit bile.

Example: Standing outside the mission, a Ford truck pulls up and a snaggle-toothed yet pleasant woman notified me that she had wanted to donate some food and clothing. I march into the building and say to the burnt simpleton hag working the reception, "Excuse me, there is a person here that would like to deliver donations."

"Huh?" She hissed, eyes unfocused.

Thinking quick, I replied, "Thar be a donation out front yonder."

"Oh!" She perked up, reaching for a mike attached to the mission's PA system. "Let me call for volunteers to help unloading that."

You see, in my travels it is necessary to know how to speak with the natives in their regional dialect.

This stupidity continued seven other times throughout the day in different locations through out downtown. Seriously, there are some dumb fucks here.

Ran into my old friend Bubba - a notorious black queen, he was accompanied by a rentboy, they both there for dinner - and I gave him a signed copy of my book, since he is in it.

That evening, I was assigned a bunk in the dorm - quite comfortable - and slept from seven that evening until the mandatory wake up at 5:30am the following morning.

Yeah, I guess I can mope around until the third of next month until I head off to New Orleans or just settle for a while in an apartment here in El Paso. I just hope my patience can hold out with these locals...

Hobo's Lament

Forgot how utterly dead downtown El Paso truly is. Spent the mild day literally doing nothing - sitting in Plaza San Jocinto staring at the huge porcelain statues of the alligators. Thinking thinking thinking smoking smoking smoking...

Returned to my hotel room and edited a small book of poetry that I have been working on. The working title for the tome is Class Conscious Poetry but may change to A Mad Hobo's Lament. What you think?

Shuffled over to the library to see what was up and ran into an old friend named Joe. Crazy mad slothful brute like a big Baby Huey in torn, dirty blue jeans. Stood trying to get a decent conversation out of this insane blob - but, it was futile. However, through him met little twink Blondie named Ray just dropped in from Illinois and lost in this mad world of hate and torment. And so it goes.

Related my illogical plight to this doe eyed youth that I plan to reside at that tried and true hobo hotel for a month or so to sort my deranged scattered thoughts a bit. The place in reference being The El Paso Rescue Mission. Of course...

Anyhoo, kiddo was flat on his ass broke, starving, mad, desperate, alone in the dusty desert streets and after treating him to dinner at Burger King, I escorted said waif to bus route 10 and paid the dollar for him to get to the Mish. Stating that I would see him manana, being I paid two nights at my hotel.

Pleased with my good dead, I returned to my hotel beat from pure boredom and fell asleep on that foul squeaky bed at 6 that evening. I woke at 9 - thirsty, parched, dry - showered, dressed and hit the corner bar for some booze.

The Tap Bar is an El Paso institution - been hanging around since 1956, understand, and that rickity old hag ain't going no where. Sat sipping my cold beer with about six others in the bar. On the far end four fags in Dallas Cowboy jerseys whooped and hollered as the game roared on TV. The inevitable stumbling drunk - Rene was his name, cause the shrewish bar whench shrieked out his name at glass rattling intervals. The chubby cook - a smiling pleasant bespectacled cutey in his own right - made coy conversation with me and that made the time whirl by. Jose he says his name was.

Until the hippies showed up.

About ten young scraggly hippies on bicycles pull up in front of the bar - debark with much noise and back slapping. I talk with these scrawny fuzzies out front smoking weed (They offered - real friendly folks, these) and that made the beer much yummier. Sat with them and discussed the art scene in El Paso, writing, art in general. Jose kept smiling and batting his eyes at me...hmmmm...

A few hours pass, and me and my gaggle of hip hippie kids were well lit, I tells ya. But, being El Paso, they had to leave early for tomorrows school, work, loafing and we bid our good nights. i waited a beer and chatted with flirty Jose before stumbling drunk back up to my room to ready for the weirdness of the mission the next day...

Chuco Town Bound

Woke up at the crack of dawn to catch that El Paso bus. Checked out of the hotel and hailed a cab to the station only to find that it was closed! Closed? Under the impression that greyhound was open 24/7 - shows ya how much I know. So, sat flat on my ass for three hours. (I had missed my 8:15 departure.)

Talk with a pleasant lady traveling The Great Southwest from New Zealand. We both agreed that Lonely Planet is full of shit on account of them stating that San Diego has a mysterious underground network of tunnels underneath the city. If it exist, I would know, right?

11:15 rolls around and the long arduous trip to El Paso - had taken this trip so many times. Flat arid desert passed under a hazy sky speckled with clouds. Rusted rancheros and gas stations housing bloated middle Americans and shifty eyed locals. And the passengers I was with? A busload of lunatics! Mad, crazed people - small Asian lady that scowled at all she surveyed, mumbling obscenities under her breathe, a white woman grinning maniacally at all who met her gaze, and the young, skinny black guy that had a pink sweater wrapped around his head like a turban with only one eye visible. he'd sit in his seat next to his appalled constituent (shivering little old Mexican lady) On occasion he would go into spastic gesticulations all ending with the pantomime of holding a pistol and firing gangster style.

I shared a seat with a hillbilly we picked up in Wilcox, AZ - a habitual tweeker, he even went as far as showing me a mouthful of his black rotted teeth at a stop at McDonalds.

Slept, snapped pictures of passing scenery and eventually rolled into Pachuco Town. I could already feel the life being sucked out of me from the lowbrow arrogant inhabitants. I vowed never to return to this sordid burg, but here I am.

Departed at the station, grabbed my gear and checked into The gateway Hotel (Where else?).

Found a cafe that was still open (Downtown usually shuts down at 7 every night) yet, as I sit here typing this out, there is an impromptu poetry slam going on...and it is quite good...

Dead Wind Blows.

Though middle of the afternoon, the dank little hotel room was dark and smelled of smoke from a thousand hobos. I lay in my bed - head foggy from such a dreadful trip - wondered about what the hell I was exactly doing. I formulated a plan to stay at Primavera Men's shelter and save a few checks, mingle with the local transients, write about it. Yet, when I called, I was told that I needed a bonefied TB test before entry. Well, it's Friday - I am not going to waste my time trying to find some damn clinic and then muddle about the weekend blowing money without the insurance that I could get a bunk there come Monday. So, I just bought a ticket to El Paso and I leave tomorrow.
Hopped a bus to downtown Tucson. It has changed so much. It seemed a city wide ordinance of anti-homelessness is in effect. I sat around in front of the library and watched what little people dashed by. But, feeling them bum kicks cause I know no one here. Ate at a diner I liked called The Grill - walls splashed with 50's ketch served by nice tattooed girl. Probably lesbian.
I strolled over and had a beer at the Iguana Bar. Snaggle-toothed Vietnam vet looking oldster served me a frosty Carona as I sat sizing up the joint. A sprinkle of hustlers, hoods, thieves, junkies - some things never change. Tear In My Beer warbled over the speaker.
Struck up a conversation with a native American - he of the Tohono O'odha m. Scrawny twenty-something in faded well worn jeans, and black t-shirt with straight stringy hair. Face copper with long hooked nose.Not a bad looker - but decided to play it cool. Can't fag out just yet, heap big trouble for white man.

So, several beers later we are walking along dusty train tracks behind dead warehouses and graffitied wooden fences. Seems my new friend, Horace he tells me, is on the lookout to cop some weed. In front of a crumbling liquor store with 1930's sign rusting in the sun, Horace scores for a dimebag from a black kid and we march over more tracks to find a spot to smoke that shit, right?

Next to a sewage outlet under a squat shady tree hidden from the street, we sit on discarted milk crates and light up. And Horace rolls 'em fat. Puffpuffpuff - hitting silly laughing jags and talking of old Heavy Metal bands and how Tijuana (me.) has become a war zone.

Up comes gorilla looking cholo outta no where in baggy football jersey, shorts meeting sox at the knees, skin head type and plops next to us. Horace knows this mooch and introduces him as Vato.

Vato produces a fifth of cheap whiskey from the hidden recesses of his person. We all smoke laugh talk. Unfortunately, Horace can't hang and starts puking chunky stew onto the yellow dead grass. Heaving and coughing. Vato and I laughed reassuringly which just seemed to piss Horace off more. Acting like a little bitch, the Indian stomped off - okay, staggered off - leaving Vato and me alone as that sun set in fiery purple like only a desert sunset can.

Vato took a swig from his bottle, passing it to me. "Hey, white boy - I got some coke. You like to party?"

I was tore up - swerving stooped over staring at the black dirt, "I don't think you party like I party, Vato."

He smiled, his thick lips showing white row of teeth, "Why you say that? How you party?"

And there in front of God and a damn chipmonk I spat, "I wanna do a line of coke offa yer dick."

"Whoa! Dammit!" He hollered leaning back, fist up to mouth. "No you didn't just say that."

"I told you - you don't party like I do. So, don't ask again." I slurred.

Vato got up and walked off down the tracks. He motioned curtly with his head, saying over his shoulder, "C'mon. Let's go, white boy - c'mon."

With a grunt, I stood swayed and followed. We walked a bit to a large red brick warehouse and he huddled into an alcove with shut steel shutter doors rusted from years on nonuse. I stood in front of him, leaning against the red brick.

"My bitch never wants to do shit like that, so now's your chance." He said pulling out a small bag of white powder.

"My chance?" I asked.

"Yeah. But, let me get it hard first." He casually reached down into his jean shorts and started playing in his nether regions.

Long moments pass. "Need help?" I quip, feigning my impatience.

"Nah." Vato breathed. "I got it."

He pulls out his very short but thick penis. I glance down at it in disappointment. Ah, what the hell. Kneel in front, pull the foreskin back (Bitter taste of sweat) and after a few rhythmic movements, he pushes my head back, grabs his erection and spurts globs of semen onto the oil saturated gravel.

"Sorry." He says meekly.

"I didn't get to use the coke."

"Dude, I wasn't gonna waste my coke on that shit." He stated placing his dick back in his shorts.

I quip, "You woulda last longer."

"Hey now..." He says then starts walking towards the main street.

When we both reach the Ronstadt bus station Vato hits me up for twenty bills and I decline. It wasn't worth it, was my reason. We separate with nary a handshake and I return to my hotel to rest for the long ride to El Paso...

There Never is Really a Way Out.

Woke up with a gasping start from nightmares of suffocating in a metal box - taste of metal clung to my tongue. I lay in my comfortable bed, staring at the white ceiling in my comfortable room. The screams inside like the Bronx Cheer and Control really taking control.

Like a catatonic zombie, I shower, dress, then pack a small bag of possessions and head out the door. Not even saying goodbye to my roommates - the evil perverts.

Bumpy, dusty bus to the border teeming with sweaty and desperate hopefuls - I pass without hesitation from the cancerous INS and walk through.

I found myself standing outside a Mexican bus-line station, stateside. The red train that took you to San Diego idled nearby - waiting to deliver me to the station across the street from the Greyhound in downtown SD. I decided not to travel that route - anybody that has gone by Greyhound knows the age old story of the long, grueling routes stopping at every little shithole town and usually taking twice the time than with the Mexican bus lines that are a straight shot nonstop. And, more often than not, the Mexican lines are usually cheaper and a hell of a lot cleaner.
The Tres Estrellas Bus Line was just across the border in San Ysidro - I stood smoking smoking smoking - watching with apathy the somnolent, exasperated throng exit the monstrous Customs Building with the relieved look of just escaping the mouth of Moloch.

On the dusty sidewalk next to me squat my black duffel bag overstuffed with clothes, notebooks, and other personal items that I just couldn’t live without.
A few feet away, the massive silver and mauve bus lay idling. The other passengers - all Mexican citizens - stood silent and pensive just like me. Mostly stooped elderly - the old men wearing tattered yellow Stetsons and faraway looks holding cardboard boxes tied with nylon string. I mulled over what they were thinking about.

Then it dawned on me what I should have been thinking about and the thoughts were this - I had just wasted a year of my life in a numbing existence of relatively comfort of normality. And my mind screamed, "How can people live like that? Doing the same thing day in and day out - year after year. The same friends, the same conversations - polite patter over warm cappuccinos on a frosty morning by the sea - How can people go on?" Without hesitation I had forced myself out of that early death - Change is Life. Chaos is Change. Live to experience and not to just exist. I had made the decision to turn this stale life up a notch. Plan? Eh? A couple of weeks in Tucson, a few in El Paso, maybe San Antonio via Laredo then onward to New Orleans to finish and settle for a bit in La Perla, Puerto Rico. No time limit - just travel and write. Sounded good to me.
At the bus station, I took another long drag from my cigarette. Glanced at my watch - the bus was running twenty minutes late. I struck up a conversation with an elderly mother in yellow granny dress with red wicker purse waiting silently next to me, “I hope this bus gets going.”
Her face wrinkled into a smile - skin the color of a rumpled paper bag - and nodded, looking out into nothing.
In her tinkling voice she said, “You will get to where you are going, joven. Not only that, you will come back and then go someplace else.”
The words of a Guardian Angel.
The fat, mustachioed steward poked his head out of the reception window and announced in Spanish that it was time to board and with ten other passengers, we were herded onto the bus. Taking my seat in the middle - as I always do, right side - pleased in the fact that the bus was not packed and that all the passengers, including myself, had a seat to themselves. I stowed my overhead luggage and hunkered down to the long, unknown future.
With a blasting fart of black soot and whining of gears, the bus shuttered and slowly rolled its way through congested street traffic to the on ramp of the 5 freeway north.
Out my tinted window, the spires of San Diego faded - up along monstrous concrete ribbons of freeway viewed through a bug splattered windshield. Twice checked by Border Patrol - determined immigrant caught in the lavatory and escorted out in biting cuffs - the terrain eventually changed from green brush to arid desert. We passed old, rotted gas stations, frames of crumbling buildings sprouting brush. Motel Westward - R.V. Park - concrete dinosaur - brief stop at roadside convenience store where sexy, shirtless boys skateboarded on a black top parking lot - mountainous formations of purple and blues so majestic it was almost tear inducing - row upon row upon row of lifeless, colorless tract houses that destroy all individuality. Vast vistas of biscuit colored buttes and coffee tainted mountains - all under a panorama of sky a harsh, bright baby blue.
Continuing through one no-where town after another - almost completely void of human life - we stopped at a café diner on a long stretch of solitary highway out past Yuma for a meal break.
The over excited bus driver, a potbellied Mexican Indian with a smooth red face, related, “You like the food at this place, guero. Best hamburgers in the world.”
Because, we all know how much us Americans love our hamburgers, right?
The weary passengers filed out of the bus into the waiting lonely café - a squat, dusty, yellow building with faded red retro swoop awnings rusting in that unrelentless sun under one dark, gnarled walnut tree. As the passengers sat quietly slurping and chomping on their messes of food, I ate alone a hamburger with fries and a coke. I had to admit, it was a damn good burger.
Back on the bus and chugged onward, passing isolated rotting farmhouses locked in an ocean of dirt. Flickering on the tiny television monitors spaced throughout the bus above the passengers at intervals was the Spanish dubbed Troll 3 - and it was an eyesore, by God.
The sun, a golden ball of flame inching down that lonely path behind a craggy mountainous western horizon. I sat watching the serene scenery, with nothing but the soft rumble of the bus and the humming or the air-conditioning to soothe me.
A fellow passenger on the opposite isle started asking questions out of pure boredom, I guess.
A sickly, thin young man with intense eyes. Stringy brown hair fell over his forehead. He was dressed in blue jeans, blue jean jacket, and white shirt - all emitting a whiff of musty sweat.
“So, where ya headed?” He croaked.
“Vegas.” I lied. “I’ve never been there. Wanna see what it’s like.”
When I mentioned that I had never been to Vegas before, his eyes lit up with sheer con glee.
“Oh really?” He breathed. “Well, look, I gotta deal for ya.”
He lept in the chair next to me. “When we reach Vegas - I know this casino where the poker is damn good. You ever play poker? No? Shit…you’re lucky to find me, man. I got a system. Can beat all them odds, I tell ya. How much money ya got? No matter - I tell ya what, spot me forty and I guarantee - guarantee - that you will come out with four hundred, take. Whataya say, huh? Ya in?”
I sat and shook my head and agreed at intervals - biding my time to ditch this fucker as soon as the bus turned into the Phoenix station.
“Why don’t you use your own money?” I smiled. I saw this fucker as the fake he was.
“Fuck - I ain’t got shit, right now.” He spat. “But, seriously - you spot me that cash and I can make us both some easy bread.”
When I finally stated firmly that not only am I not a gambler but have no intention in helping him - no matter how the stakes were in my favor - he looked like a wounded animal and slithered back to his seat, not saying a word to me the duration of the trip.

Changed buses in Phoenix and that was a three hour bore, I tell you. Sullen pinch-faced people sitting around, smoking cigarettes they didn't want to smoke, watching TV programs that made no sense.

Entered the bus to Tucson and two hours later hit that town that had eluded me for a few years. It was late and it was hot - cicadas buzzing in the Socorro bushes, gnats swarming flickering lights.
Grabbing my luggage, I entered the small station. I had to find a room for the night. Any traveler will tell you that almost every Greyhound in this country has a kiosk located inside displaying a list of the cheapest hotels available. This one was no exception.
I found the display board and to my luck an inexpensive Best Western within my budget. I picked up the receiver and entered the code.
A sassy female voice answered, “Best Western Motel, can I help ya?”
“Yeah - hi. I’m at the Greyhound and just arrived. You have any rooms?”
“Sure, shug - if ya walk out the entrance and look to yer right, you’ll see the hotel right there. And be sure to bring your bus ticket for a twenty percent discount, ‘K?”
I crossed the busy intersection and entered the hotel. The cigarette smoking receptionist was pleasant and asked polite questions. A thin, flat breasted old girl with the classic brown bun on her head. Perhaps a former showgirl on the skids? I started filling out the registration cards. I retired to my comfortable room, popped open the fifth of Jack I had purchased and sat down to bang this shit out.

You See What You Get

The chill of the night shivered this already frozen form. Around me an assortment of Tijuana fags cooed and guffawed and made shrill comments to each other. More to the rentboys that prowled the center than to each other. Transvestites clopped back and forth and groped whatever drunken macho that had the unfortunate luck to pass within range.

The rockola - jukebox, ya goddamn gringo! - banged out ranchero mixed with Mexican Top 40. The waft of beer, piss, and puke issued outta the water closet from the use of a million fairies.

I grabbed my warming beer took a swig followed by a puff on my smoke. Stood propped against the old wooden bar pulling a James Dean routine watching the smokey debauchery swirl around me.

"Hey." I heard him hiss in a thick accent. "Hey, guero - you like beeg one?"

I swerved my stare in the direction of the accusation and saw a scrawny rentboy stooped over in baggy, dirty clothes. His squinting eyes fading in and out of focus.

He sided up next to me sliding his hand across my back. "One beer for me?" He asked, holding up his finger as if I didn't understand.

I sighed and made a swooping gesture with my hand, "There are about thirty other desperate motherfuckers here that would buy you one, man - why bother me with your alcoholic problems?"

"Aw c'mon, guero...just one." He slurred, putting on the little hurt boy act.

"Beat it." I growled, turning towards the bar, seeing his reflection glare for a moment, then shuffle off to find more sympathising prey.

Daniel - the bartender, young hotshot, knew him for years, you understand - started up and we went into detailed conversation over a list of new movies that were out in the cinemas.

"Hands down, ya gotta see Bastardos Sin Gloria." I croaked.

Someone grabbed my ass, I turn to see it is Diego and some friend. He says hola, I says Howdy and several beers are fivorlessly downed. Diego introduces his friend as Rudy and he is grrjuss as all get out.

And get out we do. Us three cut from the bar and march through Cohuilla down past doe-eyed preteen looking hookers lined up elbow to elbow - sliver capped teeth flashing neon of blues and red. Old haggish one yanks at my sleeve, I keep walking.

The street is packed with prostitutes of both sexes leaning against broken red brick and adobe, roaming addicts - shifty eyed and alert - hurtle down the way, stopping to grab bags of dope from hidden nooks and crannies of crumbling walls, catatonic American tourists - bloated and shirts spotted with beer and puke - under the wary eye of police patrols. A cacophony of car horns and screeches mixed with the smells of seared meat, steaming hotdogs, and festering garbage steaming into the crisp chilly night.

Why all this bother? All this ruckus to flounder about waving handful of cash in front of thieves and shysters, Dear Tourist, don't you realize you'll be eaten alive - and the bones won't even remain.

We hit Kin-kle - enter through dingy red curtains from the street and sized up by two towering trannies who goose you coming in - just preliminaries. Happens to everyone, don't take it so personal. Flop onto a dented metal table and down our three caguamas. Old cholo, seems to take a liking for 'mericans - invites me into the mensroom for a few snoots of the old cocaine on the filthiest toilet paper dispenser in the world. Snooort-hack-snort!

I lean back and look over to the next stall and wish I hadn't. Stout hooker in frayed blue dress squatting down and blowing some old fucker in a yellow Stetson. But, that didn't offend me - it was the festering toilet next to them that was almost overflowing in thick muddy feces. Lines of brown over the rim like a boiling pot of beans.

Return to my colleagues and they are drunker than a skunk - mucho ha-ha and drabble about Tijuana. (The Happiest Place on Earth).

Rudy starts to feel it and becomes all clingy and shit, but I don't mind cause he's so sweet. We kiss and paw under the bloodshot stare of my other buddy. You know I can resist anything but temptation and when Rudy asked to 'Go Somewhere' I didn't hesitate.

Say adios to a grinning Diego, Rudy and I cut out of the bar and swing next door to a $5 a night hotel. Pay the fat mamacita behind the black bars and dash up warped wooden stairs to a room that had an overpowering stench of mildew. The walls were multicolored hues of scrabbled graffiti of both markers and spray paint and had a tired, slutty mattress sprawled on the floor. Rudy smiles and whispers some dirty shit as we peel off our duds and flop onto the mattress - bedbugs and all.

Rudy - this short shit - flings my legs up over his shoulders, spits on his palm, lubs his erection and whammo - starts rutting like his sad poor beat life depended on it. After a bit, he squirts and I giggle 'Again!' and he does with me flopped around lying on my stomach. Afterwards, said Rudy confides that his fantasy was to screw a gringo and I was his first. Awwww, I smile inward.

With the sun breaking the navy star spackled horizon, Rudy and I stood on that wet trash covered corner and shook hands as I hopped in a cruising taxi and jet back to the beach.

The fat taxi driver sat wordless - hating me (the foreigner) or his life in general as we hurtled over the hills toward the ocean. The cold wind blew in my face as I sat deep in the back chair and I thought, Fuck - I'm not going anywhere...I live in the coolest place in the world!

Stay vigilant, True Readers!

I realize I have been not writing anything - been tied up with my books. But, come November 3rd it will definitely be things back to normal. Adventures! Romance! Thrills and chills! All singing, all dancing schizophrenic paranoia! I have just bought a bus ticket to Tucson, Arizona - my first stop on a country wide tour of a 'Kerouac Kick' from seedy hotel to homeless shelter winding up in the slums of La Perla, Puerto Rico! Why? Why not. And all will be reported in painful detail for you sonsabiches!

Writings in the Dark.

Guess I am official. I have a spankin' brand new Author's page set up on Amazon.com. Feel free to follow the link - love the bio!

http://www.amazon.com/Luis-Blasini/e/B002POEV5Y/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Born in the Deep South to a lower upper middle class family, Luis Blasini was raised in Los Angeles, California as an ardent fan of the arts. Attending film school and majoring in English Literature at a Southern California University - Luis was influenced by avant-garde film directors and well read in the written works of the Beat Generation. Graduating with honors in both Cinema Direction and Literature.

Bored by the plastic fakes of Los Angeles, he relocated to the slums of Tijuana, Mexico where, integrating with the junkies, thieves, male hustlers, and notorious expat homosexuals of Zona Norte, the Author continued to keep detailed journals of his deliciously degenerate lifestyle among the back alleys of the border slums.

Going on a 'Kerouac Kick', he left Tijuana and for a decade wandered aimlessly as a self proclaimed 'hobosexual' - traveling and exploring via seedy hotels and homeless shelters the span of the United States, Caribbean, Central and South Americas. All the while, writing about his experiences in a world renowned blog.

The Author now lives a sedate and relatively comfortable life in a beach house in Baja.

"I traveled the world in search of myself and all I got was a lousy t-shirt..."

Puta in Blue Jeans.

Awaken by the ruckus of the youngsters hired to paint the house - the landlady had hired them, you see and are doing a great, if noisy, job. Three good natured lads and not bad eye-candy, so it all works out. During these shenanigans, was visited by two acquaintances from the Plaza. Jonny - usually seen on the corner of said Plaza painted head to toe in silver and doing the robot gig for pesos thrown by passing locals and tourists. An intense 20yr old Honduran with not a lick of schooled education - that is if you don't count street schooling in which he excels.
Then there was Ivan, hunky guy also hailing from Honduras - both illegals everywhere, I reckon - and fluent in English. These two decided to visit for some wacky reason that would be revealed as the day progressed.
Ivan chatted with Chuck - the Master of this Manor - and asked if he could live in our house. Chuck confided in the boy it was a 'gay' house in which said lad stated that he didn't have a problem with it. I should say not - with the benefits of changing from some back alley hovel with a beach front hacienda, what was the problem? The idea of having the youngster in the house on a permanent kick made my mind move in insidious directions. Wouldn't you?
Fed the two grilled ham sandwiches and as soon as word was out that these were fags hording up in the house - the hustler gene in both blatantly spilled out. Ivan began to exercise and show off his physical prowess (As so, I snapped a picture of him) while Jonny went for the more subtle approach and just kept popping erections in his blue jean shorts all the while droning on and on about his sexual escapades with his various girl friends downtown.
Bored with this tripe (Me and Chuck) we all wandered outside in the shade of the house and talked and watched the painters work. Then, Jonny did the worst faux pau, at least on Chucks account - right in front of the group and God, little Jonny fell on the nod. Slumped over the chair, eyes fluttering, tongue lolling out...
I looked at Chuck and rolled my eyes - Chuck picked up on it, too. Ivan fumbled and sighed knowing full well that his cover was blown. He understood that using the house in the future as a shooting gallery with him and his friends were nipped in the bud. And so, the two junkies were asked to leave.

Actually, I guess I would have not of mined Ivan staying here...really a swell fellah. But, the other one would have been a handful...so to speak...

Literary Outlaw

Just published my new novel entitled Tweeker. Spanning a two-week period, Tweeker is a drug-soaked, deliciously degenerate novel that follows a writer's spiraling existence into an endless litany of pathetic addicts, sordid hotels, lifeless romance, and meth induced brawls, as he makes his bitter, brilliant way from one drug score to the next. Tweeker, offers a crude, brutal, savagely funny portrait of the writer's introduction to methamphetamines, subsequent addiction and his on-going hellish relationship with the demon in the slums of Tijuana and his outrageous employment in an all night adult theater stateside. Tweeker is a masterfully vivid evocation concerning the 'vicious circle' of meth addiction, and the many attempts by those afflicted to escape the circle, but once you're in it, there is really no getting out - entirely.

You can order an advance copy direct from the publisher from the site below. It is safe and secure. So, grab a copy and take a wild ride!

https://www.createspace.com/3374168

Re-edited and completely over-hauled (I was never happy with the first rushed result) Borrowed Flesh has been put back on market bigger and better than ever! From the back cover:

A literary cry from Hell, Luis Blasini frankly tells the exhilarating true story of restless years wandering south of the border in the slums of Mexico and across the United States from flop house to seedy hotel. Blasini brings out the junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, sexual perverts, and thieves crawling in the back alleys of the world. Taken from the notebooks he kept while on the road and written in a hard boiled style, Borrowed Flesh composes a very tough, yet very funny narrative of his adventures with drugs, homelessness and lifeless romance. Borrowed Flesh is hard, derisive, inventive, frankly homoerotic, comical, serious, poetic, and ineradicably American - a fast paced quirky work in which you are not permitted to laugh and yet, at times, will find yourself doing so. A lucid, shattering portrait of a life going down the tubes.

Again, you can clik on the link and grab a copy of this literary insanity directly from the publishers estore before they hit the bookstores!

https://www.createspace.com/3382659

One More Drag.

It is awfully bright. I roll over on the bed - sheets and blanket rumpled - gaze on my side out the window. The chipped wood frame has no screen as heat and dust wash over my sleepy, hungover face. Two floors below me, I see a panorama of The City in all its glory. Honking, choking autos sluggishly roll over shimmering concrete, filthy prostitutes of both sexes parade and lean and stare catatonic under the bleak sun as terrified and belligerent tourist paw over their diseased wares with lascivious finality. An old man sits in his own waste and stirs a putrid puddle in the sidewalk with a twig as filthy children play and frolic - dashing around obese mothers and between legs of hip-hop pushers of fine fine medicines. It is too much as I roll upon my back.

Flashbulb of images from the previous night assault my mind. Standing on darkened corner with friends under pale yellow light of lamp post, smoking and spitting and talking of sexual bravura. Entering dank bar with five local lads and one snooty American queer and chugging caguama in a booth by the blasting rockola - commenting on each song - across from the booth was the metal entrance to the mensroom. Smell of sour beer and piss and bleach. Saul and I snorting lines of meth off of toilet paper dispenser. Dancing with some doe eyed queen - awfully - to Mexican top 40. Almost fist fighting some macho hustler in denial, set him straight - so to speak - Saul and I did. Outside in the cool night, Saul and I repair to cheap hotel room and do things that would had made Caligula blush.

The squalid room is small. Mattress up on cinder blocks, old rickety chair with my clothes flung across, squeaky ceiling fan churning slowly stirring the musty funk of the room. My body - I am wearing just my boxers - is covered in a fine layer of grimy sweat. I reach down to the dusty black and white tiled floor for the near empty fifth of cheap tequila and take a swig. It burns going down. My mouth is foul and evil tasting.

Two knocks on the worn wooden door and Saul bursts in without notice. He smiles, "You still in bed? C'mon! Get dressed. Let's get something to eat."

I grunt, sit up, and painfully put on my clothes. They smell of sweat and cigarettes. I grab the huge plastic square attached to the small room key and mumble, "C'mon...let's go."

Clopping down well worn wooden stairs, I hand the key to the fat mamacita at reception and dart out into the bustling street.

Dodging groping hookers and grasping hands of dirty children, Saul and I syphon into a booth at a small cafe in Zona Norte. We sip horrid instant Nescafe and my eye catches a young Mexican queer sitting on a metal stool - glancing at me from the diner. Red and white striped polo shirt and tight blue jeans. He smiles. Handsome until he smiles - mouth a forest of rotted black teeth. I stare out the window - dead black flies line the sill.

After the waitress slams our plates of eggs and chorizo onto the formica table, Saul pleads, "Don't go, guero. Your life is here. Your friends are here."

I sit and listen down into myself. I jerk into focus, "I can't stand TJ anymore, man. I can't connect with anyone. Everyone - present company included - are all on the hustle. I am burned out with this town."

He smiles, "Tijuana is your home. That's why you keep coming back. And you know you can't live with out your friend." He glances down at his crotch.

"A big cock doesn't make a life complete." I smile.

As to answer his question, there is commotion outside across the one way street. Two hoggish police have cornered a pelon thug - he falters and starts fighting back. The crowd gathers. Two paramilitary trucks pull in. The soldiers swarm the thug and with club and boots and rifle butts beat him to a bloody pulp - dragging his unconscious blood splattered torso to a paddy wagon and fling him in. Hookers and transvestites scowl at the soldiers and mutter to themselves. We return to our cold tasteless breakfast.

I light a cigarette and blow smoke up to the high ceiling of the cafe - painted mint and dangling with dust bunnies.

"Look, Saul - I already bought my ticket to Tucson. It's too late to change my mind. And plus, I already promised Paco that I would sell my laptop to him. I meet him this afternoon."

Saul's face goes slack and ethereal - he says as if the words were transmitted from somewhere else, "You have to stop living like that. You will die if you continue."

I take another one more drag, "I'm hoping on it."

Bogo

Trudging down by the seashore, ocean spray fogging my glasses, wires criss crossing over my head, sea gulls diving and swooping in a scavenger frenzy, and that blue Mexican sky so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it.

So, like I was saying, I'm walking over to the cafe to meet a friend - she knows some unethical croaker that doles out high octane diet pills that will melt that fat and all toxic toxins from this withered frame.

Withered? Who am I kidding? Since my seclusion in November to knock out these horrid novels - soon, Luis, soon - I have kinda let the old cuerpo go. And, long time suffering friend Saul was no boost to the old ego the night before.

He smiles walking into the murk of some dingy street, "Hurry up, ya chubby fucker!" Platonic laughter.

I stopped and wearily stated, "I prefer the moniker 'Flabbily Delicious', thank you."

Later that night, I stand in front of full length mirror naked as God intended and was repulsed by my my middle-aged man body. Next morning, I dutifully wobbled to the market and purchased a new jogging suit and sneakers - will attempt to get back in the rut jogging in the morning. Time I have, since I am done with that last book and want a break before pissing the ol' familiar off with my next tome concerning the most fucked up childhood ever.

Okay. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah - at the cafe. Thanks, glad you're paying attention.

So, my friend was not there, of course - she being like me and nuttier than squirrel shit with time and appointments being meaningless. I stomped over to her apartment building, looked up to the third floor window of hers and hollered:

"Michelle!! Michelle!! In apartment 403!!! The pill popper and chronic masturbater!!! Are you there?!!" My voice echoing through the apartment complex.

No answer. Nice. Nothing left but to get drunk. Which I did.

So, I'm sitting all prissy like out front of playas' only fag bar, Arco Iris cooing and cutting my constituents to pieces with gay double entedre, slugging back beers and watching the boys parade on the malecon. Had a nostalgic ping as at th next building were they sold stomach destroying camerones; a live band from Sinaloa tootled away and the folk sitting at the outside tables danced in the heat - happy and clapping on the sidewalk.

Try finding that life in America, I thought.

And then, an old balding pinche turista americana sat blatantly with me - lost I suppose and befuddled at the lack of a Police State scrutinizing his every move - and started to bitch and whine and over opinionating about the good ol' U.S of A.

I sat and half listened to this long-winded ass thinking to myself - if you don't like the States, leave! I did.

Tired of this crap, I repaired back to the cafe only to find Michele and her dwarf of a boyfriend waiting for me (Five hours had passed) and invited me to join them to the annual FestiArts festival at a nearby park.

A huge affair of local artists selling their wares of handmade jewelry and paintings. Three huge stages offered live bands. All were good until on one, an alternative band called Bogo hit the stage. Reminiscent of early Red Hot Chili Peppers, Cafe Tacuba, and thier own distinct style - this band rocked. The lead guitarist named Blazko was sexy as fuck and I was surprised that Michelle knew him.

Already we three were blitzed off of large amounts of tequila (First time I tried Tijuana Beer - awful concoction, tasted if it were dredged from the Tijuana river itself and then drained through a hobo sock) when Bogo left the stage, Michelle wanted to go to their private trailer and talk with them. She has a small online promotion business on the side, you see.

At said trailer, we were barred by the biggest bouncer in Baja, so I did my best Raul Duke, drunk as I was:

"I have to see Blazko now - I know him from my childhood, we grew up together - I used to romp with him!"

The drummer was coming in, saw Michelle, and allowed us access. The trailer was filled with a gaggle of giggling groupies and sitting in the middle of this harem was lanky Blazko. He offered us drinks and I sat on the overstuffed couch next to him under hostile eyes of jealous teeny boppers discussing art, music and the writing of the beat generation in which he was a fountain of knowledge. Good times.

Eventually, he had to fuck said groupies in turn, so we said our goodnights and over delicious tacos carne asadas at an all night taco stand, Michelle and I drunkenly poured over the evening.

I definitely have to say, Bogo has a new fan...

When Night Falls.

"Whataya gonna do?" He asked swigging on his warm beer.

I looked around at the dank bar - brimming with perverts and dikes, and pedophiles, and junkies. Male prostitutes did their stylized ballet around the gray haired smiling old American leaches that preyed on them. A fat cop stood at the entrance waiting to do something.

I flicked a cockroach off the bar like playing finger football - it flew into the ice bin. Took a long drag off my Luckie. Some fat tranny - like Fred Flintstone in drag - stood with her sweaty mole covered back to me, with chubby, clip on nailed fingers, pulled the panties outta her ass.

"I am really tired of Tijuana, ya know. If it wasn't for that asshole father of mine, (I grit my teeth in insidious contempt at muttering the word father) I would be somewhere else."

The music switched on the rockola - a sad lament began to warble out in Spanish. The drag queen harpies - huddled in the corner screeching and gesticulating like fags do - began melodramatically singing atrociously along.

I smooshed my cigarette butt out on the dirty floor with my shoe, "What am I thinking of doing? Seriously? I am going across country - starting in Tucson and staying in every homeless shelter from there to Miami. Really looking forward to San Antonio and New Orleans. Eventually, winding up on the island of Puerto Rico. Then and only then will I have accumulated enough material for my next book."

He spit on the floor - saliva and blood - and took another swig, "What? That's crazy! You live so well now. Nice clean house on the beach. What about all your furniture and stuff - why do you want to do that to yourself?"

"Why not?" I stated blankly - feeling the coldness from my insides get even colder. That dark precipice getting wider and wider. "I can't do it - I can't continue to live in this little comfy cocoon of nothing I have been stuck in since November, you know what I mean? I hate it. Truly, deeply loathe it. The fact of the matter is - and this is the most crucial part I need you to understand - I have even more severe panic attacks and bouts of depression when I am sedentary. I get so antsy. I have to go. Go. Go."

"But, why?"

"It's what I do. It's all I know." Smirking inward. "How do you even attempt to keep a normal, stable life when the thought of it leaves nothing but dread on your tongue like the taste of rotten fruit?"

"Whataya going to do when you get to Puerto Rico?"

"I'll find out when I get there. That's the thrill of it - not knowing."

"But your books are selling well, right?"

I lit another cigarette and ordered another beer.

The hag behind the bar delivered it with hatred and contempt - the attitude of most ignorant locals down here. They really hate Americans.

I squeezed a lime into my bottle - gritty, black dirt on my finger from the bottle. "I don't care. What is the point? What is the point of accumulating all this stuff - money, material possessions - when in the end, it doesn't amount to shit? I don't care. I have said it once and actually I am tired of saying it - this life, my life - I don't want it. I hate it. I am just going through the motions waiting to die."

"Okay" He takes one of my cigarettes, sighs, "So, when are you going?"

"Soon." I said. "Soon. The time is not right, the winds of fate have not started blowing and my sails need the energy."

"Dude, that makes no sense. I still don't know why you are doing this. You are simply crazy and lost."

"You have no fucking idea how right you are." I stated with utmost honesty.

A street band entered - short grungy troupe from Sinaloa - and began wailing a brass tune. Slow and dark and low. Old haggish corpse in frayed green dress slithered and undulated like a rag doll across the bar floor - hands out and clutching at patrons for money. She came to me - rheumy eyes bright and sparkling, rotted teeth far apart, smiling face bunched up in overlapping wrinkles. I dropped coins into her gnarled hands.

I sat on my stool, back to the bar, leaning and thought. They are free. They are totally free and know how to live. No worries about when they are buying that 42 inch flat screen TV or what people think and judge. They live - truly live. They are happy because they are what they are and there is nothing more.

I am ready...ready to finally put that second foot forward and step out of the loop. Thing is - I am so far out now I don't think I can ever come back...

Wind through Dark Trees

I got idea, man...

You take me for a walk

Under the sycamore trees

The dark trees that blow, baby.

In the dark trees

I'll see you and you'll see me...

I'll see you in the branches that blow in the breeze...

I'll see you under the trees.

Summer's End

The queens swirled and cackled and jerked in galvanized movements as faggots often have a tendency to do. Cooing and pawing the waiters who wearily served beverages with sullen apathy.
I sat at my table - sun blaring down under that unrelenting blue Mexican sky - the surf crashed in whispers on the shore not too far away.
Sitting in front of me at this new and swanky gay bar that had been here in La Playa for a relatively short time was the owner, Juan. Stout, wrinkled, jovial. He was a pleasant man, I assume but it was the vomit spewing forth next to him that held my attention. Ken, he sez his name is - a fucking 'merican. Ex-cop. Stateside. So what.
Loud mouth long-winded alpha male faggito that cancer this area like so much garbage. One of those types that have to have all the attention, command every conversation, yell instead of talk, is always right on all subjects of Mexico. A complete and utter bore.
Tired of his drivel, I excused myself - "I ain't done talking to ya, sit down!" - I keep walking.
Stroll along the malecon and dig the serene scene. Families frolic, flavored ice vendors sell their wares, Indians hawk their baubles, sky peppered with darting candy colored kites. A marimba band plays on a patio bar and I stand - okay, was a little drunk, so I wobbled there - and grooved to the music.
Scanning the beach checking out the tanning flesh, eyes met two boys relaxing under a palapa. One smiles and motions me over.
They introduce themselves as Omar and Giovanni - two Mexican tourists visiting from the state of Oaxaca. I mention that I just came up from their and with a twinkling smile was asked to sit and enjoy the afternoon with cerveza and good company.
We three sat and talked and joked as the sun swung down and boiled over the horizon in a blasting kaleidoscope of colors.
Darkness falls and a chill sweeps across the beach. My two new friends bid adios and return to downtown and their hotel. As a fact, a large percent of the beach population made that exodus as that cold shroud covered the night.
Forlorn and deep depression hitting me, I walked the malecon down to the end - where the rusted steel wall separates two cultures. There you will find a small park peppered with the lost immigrants getting the nerve up to cross that abomination.
I sat on a concrete bench and watched as a stout young guy walked from trash can to trash can, digging through and removing the cans. He spots me and smiles.
"Hey, man." He says in perfect English."I just got deported yesterday and I am starving. I was wondering if you can help me out with anything."
I looked him over quickly - with a bath the guy would really be handsome. I thought I could be like your average trolling faggot and seduce him back to my flat and barter with food and a warm bed unmentionable acts against nature. But, I am not like that.
"Man" I said. "That's a tough break. Here." I reach in my wallet and pull out a 200 peso note. "Go get something to eat. And over there, there is a cheap hotel for 100 pesos."
Meekly he took the crisp note, looked up at me and said thanks. I offered a cigarette and we stood there for a few minutes as he wove his tale of woe.
Bidding him goodnight, I walked the few blocks to my house - agitated about my life. I want to leave Tijuana and just GO.

Dark Tweeker Rising

The sun just began crawling over the horizon. Off in the mist a dog barked - a car passed. The depression was hitting me with full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.

The apartment - what was left of it - was a filthy, dank den that smelled of aluminum and farts. The mattress was exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to have - all sold for crank - the room was empty with long shadows of a prison.

I lay on my bed with a cigarette in my hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I have nothing. Nothing. My family hates me, I cannot, will not fall in love with anyone. But, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I have attempted since my move to Tijuana has ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my sick mind.

The loneliness howled over me like a cold black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits that I had throughout the night.

What is wrong with me?, I thought.

I began thinking of all the routes in life I could have taken - staying in Los Angeles, keeping a job, becoming a writer, or even making movies. All these crashed into failure. Everything I attempt runs to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into the dope addicts I associate with. All they care for is their drugs and whatever they do got it is never enough - so they will go after yours like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.

I tried to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.

I tried to focus onto the future. One time, long ago, I had great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young guy, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all which faded into mist. I had no future. Over the years I have acquired the mental state of such downward bleakness that when I ever did think of that hopeful future, I was met with a dark cold abyss in my mind’s eye instead.

The depression sunk me lower on these spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there is no point? It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen from these damn naco junkies.

My face wrinkled into worry and saddness. I looked over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.

I picked up a meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Looked at its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. It was this shits fault. All the fault of this fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattering it against the concrete wall.

I yelped and leapt out of bed to the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! I have to go buy another one from some bitch I can’t stand. I looked at the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a kindred spirit to the little fucker and I just killed it!

Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing. Nothing.

I stood up and went into the kitchen and pulled a small knife out of the drawer. I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would have forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents don’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…

I stood grasping the knife, clutching it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel was cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow. Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck am I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain started to come. I was scared more than anything - scared at the foolish attempt that I had just committed.

I walked into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.

I went to the corner farmacia to buy some bandages. I sat in a nearby park. Kids played, men sold balloons, frozen flavored ice, couple strolled in love. Around me the beat of life. I sat there like a stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression. I held my head, cigarette dangling from my lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life…hell, I even failed at ending it.

Stood up and walked over to Cahuilla Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.

Ghost of Future Past

Clacking down the rail on the southbound trolley and i hit San Ysidro. Glancing out the window I saw a phantom perched in the blazing afternoon sun squatting on the steps of the local Jack in the Box. It was Dan Cockenour. No mistaking that visage.

You long term readers will remember him as the lad I went to New York with years ago. I had seen him maybe twice since then. Once at Vinnies and once strutting around the corner of 2nd and Revo in TJ - again, that was years ago.

I jolted off the train to give the boy the glad hand - as I approached his visage! The broken withered Angel hipster that stooped there! Frail thin, wasting away - ragged clothes and skin leathery and burned. His face held in a mask of inner anger and hatred - the face of the terminally insane.

A few steps to go and I was ready to converse - but, he shot up and walked arrogantly past. Just enough time for me to ask, "Dan?"

I wasn't sure this wreck was him. I mean, a few years living like we did can tax a person both mentally and physically. He was in such dire shape.

Well, that didn't go so good, so I just lit a Lucky and crossed over back home.

I have been hitting my new novel with full steam and it is coming out fantastic. Also, been hunting for an agent. All this aside - Tijuana has become a slow bore. Sure, the tranquility of my lifestyle now is great in the fact that I am getting a lot of writing done, but, I am not happy. My wandering eye has been looking towards the barrio La Perla on the island of Puerto Rico. Why not?

Beaten but not Out

Was standing in Plaza Santa Cecilia enjoying the hot day. It was near mid-afternoon and the sun beat down in shimmering heat upon the concrete thoroughfare. The stalls were an arabesesque of multihues selling all types of candy colored curious. The air wafted with smells of spoiled garbage, automobile exhaust, and seared taco meat as local families strolled with their giggling children, bewildered tourists gawked, rent boys prowled and stood in cooling shadows as a band tootled and twanged music indigenous to Sinaloa on the stage under the Millennium Arch.
Like I said, standing there taking it all in when a young man hobbled on crutches up to me all smiles. It was Edgar - a Tijuana native I had known for some years. An all right guy, never looked for trouble, held a steady job at a local farmacia. Just another local jumping through the tough myriad hoops of Tijuana life.
“Hey, Edgar!” I grinned, looking him up and down. “What happened, man? What’s with the crutches?”
His face grimaced into pain and mumbled something about having a hard time standing. I invited him over to a table at The Boys Café and we both ordered a coke.
Again, I lightheartedly inquired what was wrong with his legs. He stared at the passing throng, took a sip of his soda for dramatic effect, and began his tale of woe.
With a determined look deep into my eyes he said, “I was walking home from work two days ago - you know, out by Tiente Guerro Park. A squad car pulled up and two officers started harassing me. They had me sit on the curb as they began going through my backpack. I had nothing in there but my uniform, right? They asked for my ID - which I had, it was current - but, this one pendejo accused it as being fake.” He took another sip of his soda. “They started all kinds of shit that I looked like some runner for the cartel that they had been looking for and right in front of me cut my ID up with a knife. Then they threw me into the back of the squad car.”
“Damn. What happened next?” I asked.
His eyes became misty, “They drove me out to the middle of nowhere, man. Still cuffed they dragged me out behind this building and had me take my shoes off. I was sitting in the dirt when they took their batons and began beating my feet.”
He lifted one pant leg and his skin was mottled with large purple and blue bruises. His tan skin ashy from scratch marks.
I scowled. “Goddam!”
Edgar rolled his pants back down and continued, “They threw me in the back of the car again and drove me to my neighborhood and dumped me about six blocks from my house.”
With the utmost contempt peppered with fear, Edgar eyed two police patrols meandering through the Plaza - one hulking apish looking man and a stone faced dumpy woman. I actually talk with these two and they seem like good people, but at that moment I could not help feeling Edgar’s emotions. I loathed them, too.
“Wow…that’s tough.” I mumbled. I mean, what could I say?
“That’s not all of it.” He spat, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “As I was walking home - the best I could - another patrol car cruises up and they start their shit. I explained what happened, right? They laughed, accused me of not having an ID after I had told them what happened - threw me in the back of the car and drove me around awhile - all along not saying a word. Once at a substation, they put me in a cell and beat my legs as other prisoners silently looked on. It was horrible!”
As tears began to stream down his brown cheeks, I asked, “Then what did they do?”
“They let me go.” He stated flatly. “They drove me a block to my place and let me go.”
He sat there for a moment - I am sure reminiscing about that terrible ordeal. He gulped another mouthful of coke, “The next day - I told my neighbor and she gave me these crutches. I took a taxi over to the police station on 8th and tried to explain what happened. The receptionist just said that it was my word against the cops. And that they would believe the cops - since I had no ID. After that I went to the Human Rights building and told them - but, I got the same response. Man, I tell you amigo - you gringos have no idea how fucked up it is for us here.”
Indeed.

Tijuana Regresso...

Slingshot out of the steaming jungles - grasping my backpack and landing feet first, cabrones!! Just got back from Tikal, Guatemala - partied and drank mind altering mixes with brujos and screaming monkeys in ruined pyramids all under a Mayan moon! Now back in boring Tijuana...drunk and screaming into the crotches of burrachos...

The Lost World

Alex, Juan, and I caught a 6am bus that was slightly late and packed and only minutes after leaving we hit a roadblock. Guatemalan protesters had cut down trees and were blocking the road, we were told they’d be a slight delay so we sat tight and tried to take sneaky pics through the windscreen. That was until a dozen guys in balaclavas armed with machetes started marching up the road towards us. The lone police car did a runner and we were a little worried. Turned out they were only handing out leaflets and when they turned round and were all wearing tiny rucksacks they looked like little kids trick or treating, was actually quite funny.
Once we were let past, it was quite a long journey until the breakfast stop where we discovered everyone else was on a jungle adventure, also. Was a fab buffet breakfast, expensive at 5 bucks but just what we needed.
After a few more hours clunking through the jungle on a dirt road, I thought we were just being dumped but were taken to the immigration office where after a bit of ug ug uging we paid a few dollars and got our passports stamped. Then it was off to a boat.... it was a beautiful boat ride and pretty fast. Strange thinking we were actually traveling between to countries.. where actually were we?
When we hit the other side it was an hour wait for our connecting bus. Then it was on to the immigration office to enter.... no ug ug uging this time, plain and simple.... we give them money and they´ll stamp our passports.
The bus we had was a ratty clunker - half the windows were smashed and the seats were extremely bumpy, add that to the fact the journey was 3hrs by dirt track through the middle of nowhere and you can imagine my discomfort.
Eventually a cheery old fuck got on and told us they were no cashpoints in town and refused to take us to the hostel we wanted to go to it annoyed me a tad.
The three of us managed to sort some money and found the hostel. A little jungle like oasis on the weird island city that was Flores. It was dead cheap, had a bar, and served amazing food. Had hammocks everywhere, and turtles, a couple of cute green parrots and loads of plants, including bananas.
Alex, Juan and I sat around talking to some guys who’d been to Tikal and were insistent we didn’t wanna go to Belize cos it was expensive and there was nothing there....gave me something to think about!
The following day had nothing planned, it was to be a rest day as we’d had such a hectic time and give ourselves time to do boring stuff like laundry, dirinking, smoking weed, etc.
Only as soon as we’d hand washed our clothes the heavens opened and that shit wasn’t gonna stop. That was until I donned my plastic poncho and as I headed out to explore - was immediately bombarded by the brightest sun ever. Went and got me sunglasses and it rained again.
Flores is a cool little island - you could stand by the church on the little hill and see water in all four directions.
Explored across the bridge to Santa Elena, wish we hadn’t bothered cause it was a big shithole, especially in rain...there were no pavements only mud...and certainly nothing to look at.
Headed back to Flores and some nachos for lunch. Then remembered we needed some money - so got a cute Tuk-tuk across the bridge to Santa Elena again, cost virtually nothing and was kinda fun - Tuk-Tuk's is a little scooter with a cart thing on the back that carry 2 people...and with a head full of booze and weed, hilarious!
That done - tried to buy me some cigarettes, except nowhere in the whole of Flores had any change. It seems to be a huge problem out here....if you have anymore than the equivalent of a five dollar bill, you can’t buy anything. They have to ask everyone in the town if they can change your money. Its crazy, I think someone somewhere must eat all the small change.
Back at the hostel, we were planning to have an early night, but a couple of Canadian lads insisted we join them and some girls for a drink, we agreed as long as we went somewhere we could get food, cause we was hungry.
Ended up going to a little place on the lake, sat right out on the water on rather precarious bits of wood, where we enjoyed cheap tacos and several beers....oh yeah and good company, too. Stayed until the Canadian kids had to run to catch their night bus, and we headed home to bed....got a very early morning tomorrow.
Got up ridiculously early, like 4:30am. Our bus was due to leave at 5. Headed down to the bus stop still half asleep...wouldn’t you? Still apparently it’s the thing to do. Our bus to Tikal arrived if a little late and we all piled on.
Was quite a long drive, but eventually reached the entrance the park, figured we must be nearly there. Actually it was still some miles....deeper and deeper into the jungle. The signs on the road were funny, apparently we had to watch for turkeys, jaguars, snakes and some other strange creatures crossing the road - saw millions of turkeys - the driver having to stop numerous times to let them cross.
Alex, Juan and I arrived, paid our fee and went off exploring. Juan chose the way, his thinking being we would get the temples which were further away out of the way first. Agreed, why not?
Problem was the temple we had chosen to see first was deep in the jungle...and it was kinda freaky to be in the middle of the jungle at 6am, with no-one else anywhere else to be seen, and trust me it really is in the middle of the jungle.
Arrived at the temple and then Alex decided he should get his guidebook out to see what it was about, only to read it said you should avoid this temple because it was dangerous, people were often mugged or worse! Headed to another group of temples....were cooler, but still scary. Then we had no idea where to go, the paths and signs seemed to have disappeared...started heading into the jungle, but then decided...thank god....that it was pretty stupid, as we had no idea where we going and ended up retracing most of our steps, till we found a sign. Followed it through more scary jungle and eventually reached an open area and some people meandering about. Not many people around though, it was still early - and it was kinda nice - gives you the whole spiritual feeling about the place, and it isolation. Checked out some cool temples opposite each other and the huge acropolis between them.
Went to find the toilets. Were just leaving when the cleaner came out of the toilet to show us something....I was terrified it was some huge spider....I wasn’t far off....it was the biggest beetle imaginable...no it was bigger than you could ever imagine....its was the size of his hand...and he had just found it in the toilets. Creepy.
Walked the ‘lost world’ and its pyramid of the sun. This is the one to climb - so had to do this one at least. The steps on all Mayan pyramids are stupidly high....god knows how the 4ft Mayans ever climbed them (someone said to us they reckoned someone had built the steps the wrong way up...they should have been wide not high), and these were very eroded. Still people were climbing it so figured it couldn’t be that bad. So up we went.
God it was scary. Some of the steps were bigger than me. Ended virtually crawling up - thanks to a pack of smokes a day, I reckon. One slip and you would have been in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Still we made it, and it was worth it. The views of the jungle and temples peeking through were amazing! Very scary to stand close to the edge and look down though, and I’m not normally scared of heights.
Sat and rested, taking in the view. Alex whiped out the weed and we smoked in awe of the Sun god - long discussions on literature and Mexican/American politics. Disappointingly didn’t see any wildlife, but it wasn’t a great day...misty and threatening rain. Then we had to go down. Now I thought up was bad, but down was a million times worse - the main thing being you had to look down. Took us hours to go down....well not literally but it was ages....had to go one foot at a time, having to slide down on my arse at times.....god was I glad to be on solid ground again.
My legs were like jelly and my left thigh muscle had forgotten how to work - Alex decided I should hop, and for some reason I agreed, and my leg gave way and I nearly fell on my ass.
Saw heaps more temples.....some of the biggest. One they were restoring painfully by hand, chipping away at bits of rocks with chisels, and one which they have rebuilt (which was cool to see how it should have looked). Alex and Juan of course had to climb them all with me in tow.
It started to pour so - we sat in the picnic area. Explored one of the acropolises...and Juan went up a wet and slippery and very dangerous temple - just cause he could - and that was pretty much it. Had a long walk back to the exit through more cool jungle...this a little safer with half decent paths - I struggled to keep my leg from giving way...but somehow made it.
Then waited for our bus back - in the pouring rain. Looked like we had timed it perfectly, would have got drenched if we had come any later. Was a cool experience....magical and scary at the same time.
Back at the hostel we were starving, so ordered burgers for lunch from the hostel. Oh my god, I don’t think I have ever seen such a big burger - it had like 3 slices of bread, pineapple, avocado....and Lord knows what else.
Ended up talking to a couple from Essex, who had come in for food, and had been waiting for hours for it - they do make you wait, cause it is all prepared from scratch but man is it good. Went for a walk and when we got back the couple were still there, they had finally got there food and agreed it was worth waiting for.
Chilled for the rest of the day...our washing still not dry...it had never stopped raining for gods sake.
Juan met these two Guatemalans who agreed to take us deep into the jungle to spot jaguar and meet a tribe that still takes Yage - that herb that William Burroughs searched for in the 1950’s. I mentioned it and the short one named Ignacio said he knew a brujo that would mix me up some.
I am a little wary, Ignacio and his friend Rene are a little on the scruffy side and something just doesn’t seem right about their demeanor - something wrong. I sit at the hostels rinky dink computer typing this out and the four lads are over on the patio laughing and drinking and smoking weed. It took Alex a coy look and sweet talking to get me to go - but, I guess I am on a day trip tomorrow into the jungle…

Border Crossing.

Hi All!

Greetings from Quetzaltenango, Guatemala!

I had a fantastic time in San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico. The town was beautiful and the temperature was refreshingly cool in the mountains. Went on a day excursion to Sumidero Canyon for a fantastic boat ride. In addition to the beautiful scenery, I managed to spot some crocodiles on the banks and spider monkeys in the trees. I was a little shocked by the amount of litter that was in the canyon by damn feelthy tourists, but the place was still very scenic.
After San Cristobal, took a 3 hour bus ride to the Guatemalan border. Guatemala is a very scenically beautiful country, but the cities and towns are quite dusty and dirty. Guatemala is a very poor country, but there is still a lot of life and happiness to see in the locals. Many of the men dress like we would in the States, but the women wear bright multicolored clothing and linens that they drape themselves with - wonderful explosion of color.
After crossing the border, boarded a chicken bus, which are old buses from the USA that were donated to Guatemala for public transportation. The buses are painted ridiculous colors and decorates with all sorts of stickers and religious slogans. Our bus from the border had portraits of Jesus painted on the front and had a bleeding heart and Garfield motif. The chicken bus is not a comfortable mode of transportation - but it was still a great experience. Chicken buses provide a great opportunity to see how regular Guatemalans travel and you get to mingle quite a lot. This is mostly because they cram up to 4 people in a seat! My luggage rode on the roof. There is a drivers assistant that collects the fares from the passengers and also takes care of the luggage. This means that on a windy mountain pass before a stop in a town, the assistant will crawl out of one of the bus windows, climb up on top of the roof, untie the baggage, chuck it down to the people getting off, and climb in through the back door of the bus! This was often done while the bus was in full motion! Sadly, we did not have any chickens on our bus, but one that passed us had two huge baskets of turkey chicken strapped to the roof. They did not look too happy to be there. After our 5 and a half hour ride was done, stopped in Quetzaltenango for the night. This is a pretty large city but nothing much seemed to be happening. This was only our stopover on our was south to the Lake District.
Met two guys on holiday from Monterey, Mexico on their way to Tikal. We struck up a conversation at a food stop - Alex and Juan. Two cool guys and they speak English! I explained my wayward travel and they thought it was downright ridiculous - yeah, I said, I get that a lot in life. We decided to take this last leg together to Tikal.
I must be honest that I was very nervous to be venturing into Guatemala, but I have been pleasantly surprised. Hopefully the rest of Guatemala will prove to be the same experience!
The end of Mexico with my new super amigos was almost upon us. We had returned to the bus station in Tonalá to catch our last bus, which of course by now could only be Gran Lujo, to Tapachula right next to the border between Guatemala and Mexico.
We arrived around 6 in the evening and what was becoming a regular theme to a heavy downpour what we were starting to learn that there is a good reason why it is called the wet season, but its not rain as I know it, dribbles that last for days with grey skies, no this was a tropical downpour, almost like a bucket being throw over you that lasted for maybe an hour but the heat... well that just stayed the same.
So like usual Alex, Juan, and I got a taxi to take us to hotel that we had found in the every useful guide and we headed off into the soaking city.
Taxi drivers are the best, no matter where you go there are always two types, grumpy bastards or talkaholics where nothing is taboo and their opinion is what counts - period. So when the taxi driver of our cab who looked like a Mexican version of Ravon from Phoenix Nights asked where we were from and then proceeded to tell us that in Spain 90% of the people are swingers there was nothing anyone could do but agree because its was his cab and his word goes. Arriving at the hotel getting out of the cab "El Ravon" clearly looking at the gringo and made a comment to Alex letting him know that he "was up for it" then his boyfriend (me) was not to bad either... it was one of those tumble weed moment that no one really knew how to take but it was shaken off with a nervous laugh as scurried into the sanctuary of the hotel. Tapachula has more of a central American major city vibe than that of Chiapas of where it is located, dirty busy streets with a bustling street vibe of ever inquisitive people asking you what your business is and earn a few tourist dollars, random drunks and a sleazy underworld that would not be too hard to find if you scratched the surface.
That is not too say it is all bad but like Tijuana it was a border town that was reflected through the businesses and restaurants and although it had recently seen a 70 million dollar investment to try and take advantage of its location and inevitable passageway into central American this place was still waiting to break away from the pack.
After dumping our bags amongst the funky 70´s decor of the amazingly large room with views (a bit like the views in Bladerunner to be honest) we braced ourselves and ventured out into the night. The clientele was interesting to say the least. I think after 5 minutes I had seen a lady, boy and a child of around about 10 absolutely trolled on the booze... but still there was never any real sense of danger.
The only thing that cut our little tour short was the sudden down pour that if you don’t recognize the first warning signs then you will be literally soaked, luckily we were in the main plaza and with a large covered terrace right next to us so we just dived in there. It was the last supper and there was no messing around with the food, it was be spicy and to be washed down with Mexican beers a plenty. With stories shared and plans made for the second leg we sat there well into the night only having to move inside later on as the rain forced several leaks to come through the roof and on to our table. When we finally chanced the weather to run back to the hotel it felt weird that we would not be tackling another Mexican chapter with Alex and Juan the day after but with the news that the both of them are thinking about setting up home in Mexico city, well it almost certain that the return leg will start there.
We found a rakish little dive bar with good tunes on the rockola. We closed the place down! Drunk, tired, happy - we returned to our ratty room. It must’ve been the cheap beer, because those two decided it was in the best interest of diplomacy to take liberties with my person. The three of us had sex until dawn, crawling bleary eyed to a local café to wash our hangovers down with some juevos ranchero and delicious coffee…

Howl of the 12 Monkeys.

Time to move on. Made the long walk to the bus station...and it was a long walk. Booked my tickets, glad I didn’t have long to wait. Insidious. Very confused at the departure/arrival time of my bus? Didn’t understand, then happened to look at the clock...and it said an hour earlier than my watch? I knew I couldn’t have not noticed crossing a time zone several days ago...and then it dawned on me, that the clocks must have gone back. So had a little longer wait than anticipated.
Eventually got on the bus...another luxury bus...probably the last. Sat under the TV and had to endure movie after movie in Spanish. Did get one in English about native Indians...very odd choice but quite good. The road was twisty and the bus seemed unable to stop - as very glad to get off on reaching Palenque. Scenery was quite cool....lots of little houses...with the usual chicken and other farm animals wandering the streets.
Had no idea where to get a bus to El Panchan - wandering the streets aimlessly when a bus pulled over and asked if I wanted a lift - righty-oh! The type of bus - a clinking, clanking school bus from the ‘50’s, or so it seemed - was what they call a collective...a minibus in fact! Threw my bag on the roof, only to stop just down the road and take it off again cause it started down pouring!
Arrived at El Panchan, was now dark, and I couldn’t seem to see anywhere to check in! Ended up at a bar - where they offered me a cabana - a small shack, basically, but the price was reasonable, so why not…wouldn‘t you? Dumped my stuff and headed to the bar for food.
Was really cool place, in the middle of the jungle...an outside bar with thatched (I say thatched but it actually made with palm leaves), and good food. Had pizzas made in a real wood oven....damn good and a few beers, and even got treated to cool Latin American music for free. Looks like a cool place to hang out…
The next day it was time to explore the ruins. Had breakfast in the same bar...more good food. Then decided to walk to the ruins which were only supposed to be about 1 mile away. Entered the park, had to pay, and got a groovy wristband from the man with his gun. But then the walking got tough, it was all uphill and sooo damn hot. Had to rest when we got there.
Then went exploring. The place was dead, no real surprise there - loads of cool temples - and nicely cut grass. Very impressive structures, many of which still had temples on top unlike those of the last place. I had to climb them all, I soon got bored it was so damn hot!!!! There were loads of people selling amazingly colorful painting of the local art on bits of suede. Decided had to have one, and got down to some serious bargaining. Wasn’t easy but kinda fun and I got a good deal in the end!

That done, we explored the palace with its hundreds of tiny rooms and cool carvings, then I climbed the remaining buildings, just in case there was some amazing carvings up there - which there weren’t. I climbed the last one, which had amazing views of the whole site...and I sat and chilled for a while taking it all in. That’s when I first heard the monkeys, I mistook them for dinosaurs at first, but since that possibility was pretty unlikely even in the mostly undiscovered jungle - I decided they must be howler monkeys. Man are they loud. Pretty scary to be honest...still not sure how something that small can make that much noise! Couldn’t see them though.
Took a collectivo back to town.
For the rest of the day just chilled. I hung up my hammock outside the cabana, then I realized I had no money so had to go to Palenque to get some...when I returned from a mad attempt at locating an ATM, I chilled in the hammock.
Then ate lunch, it was more like dinner though as it was so late. Saw some actual howler monkeys in the trees at the entrance to my place. They were tiny!! Even saw a baby! Who needs jungle tours when they are on your doorstep? Chilled some more, then deciding there was nothing else to do - did what comes naturally - went to the bar. Spent some time thinking about money, got a bottle of wine, then decided I should get some food, still wasn’t that hungry since I had eaten so late, but it wasn‘t that filling. Had amazing pasta...but couldn’t eat it all. Had more music, and then got kicked out of the bar at about 11, after they had packed away the whole bar, literally around me!
Next day decided to take a tour to some local waterfalls that sounded cool. Had breakfast before I left...yes more food. Then waited for my lift. Got picked up in a mini bus...picked more people up, then had to change to another minibus cause there were too many people - was quite cozy. The smells of indigenous locals…ahhhhh. Wasn’t long till I arrived at the first stop, a really cute waterfall. Had no idea what was going on cause our driver didn’t speak English, but just followed the others.
Checked out the falls, which were really cool, cause you could actually walk behind them, where you got soaked - which was a Godsend it being so hot and humid. Then it was onto the next place.Was a reasonable drive, not too bad - it was a nature reserve. A pretty little lake, with an amazing looking wooden bridge. Again had no idea what I were supposed to do, so went off walking. Crossed the bridge, which was pretty damn scary. It was basically 3 bits of wire with wooden slats, most of which were missing or broken. And man did it sway. Was kinda cool though. Walked a little way further, and then cause I had no idea how long I had, headed back. A pretty pointless stop, but also kind cool.
Then it was more bus trekking. Basically heading back the way we had come from San Cristobal, the falls being somewhere between the two, so had to endure the twisty road again, was a little bumpier in the minibus, too.Finally arrived at out third and final stop - more waterfalls! These were a series of falls that went on for like 8 or 9 miles! All uphill too!!The first part was the most impressive, not that I saw them all, was far too hot to walk 8 miles. It was wide and rocky, and the water was all white - not clear and/foamy but a whitish hue. Odd. Walk more up, but the heat started taking it’s toll.
Chilled back at the bottom, where you could swim. Water looked so tempting, so in I went. So refreshing - and was kinda fun trying to swim against the strong currents. God knows how powerful it must have been at the base of the actual falls. Sunbathed for a while, got a snack and watched all the local people selling mini bananas.Was a long drive back, everyone fell asleep.Back at El Panchan I were so tired. Relaxed in my hammock, then headed to my fav restaurant again for more food. Really gotta start conserving my funds. But, there really isn’t much to do after the ruins and falls except eat and drink.

Decided to have Mexican food as it was my last night in Mexico (boo hoo). Were just about to order, when some Australians asked me to join them for dinner, cause they wanted some people to talk to. Was kinda fun discussing America with them. Enjoyed some amazing enchiladas and fajitas, listened to more cool Latin American music - and some even cooler Peruvian music ( a whole orchestra, with an amazing array of instruments, then headed off to bed, as I have a ridiculously early get up in the morning. Went to sleep to the sound of music and howler monkeys - being in the jungle is cool.