Monday, February 19, 2018

the human condition

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

Sunday, February 18, 2018

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

7 billion parasites and counting.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

a story

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

Sunday, February 11, 2018

all tomorrows darlings

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

Saturday, February 03, 2018

everything is different but nothing has changed

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

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

and so...

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

Monday, January 29, 2018

falling into a pit of lite

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

Thursday, January 25, 2018

green onions

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

Monday, January 22, 2018

¿qué te gusta?

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

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

the motionless bird

The air in the café acquired a poisonous residue from the things we said to one another. I sometimes felt I could detect a malignant green mist, invisible to everyone else, floating just above the coffee table. We excreted an effluvia of malice, the two of us. Outside three ominous trucks of uniformed, rifle toting, military youths – faces partially covered in black masks - roared by in a cloud of choking dust...
I sipped more coffee, took another drag. How many cigarettes does it take to wait? How many cups of coffee? I glanced around the solemn café. Relatively empty at this hour. The elderly barista stood leaning against the worn counter reading the newspaper. The café held four tables and the only other client was a handsome young man sitting quietly alone scrolling glassy eyed through his phone. Certain he was browsing porn.
Miguel. I mouth the name inaudibly, finished my coffee and cigarette – we fought and argued over same silly shit. He wants me to stay in Tijuana for the sole benefit of my finances. Out of the nine billion fucked up souls on this planet, he picks me to support him. No, I whisper.
“I think it may benefit us both if we stopped seeing one another.” I state in a dead voice. No emotion. No concern. All passions severed.
He glances at me and wrinkles his forehead like a dog and replies I shouldn't say such things is muy malo. I can see he is sad, feeling the abyss yawning between us.
“From what I gather, the Oxxo down on Revu is seeking employment. Might want to give them a try?” I say. He’s not having it. Realizes where this is leading. Or perhaps you will fall into the foul clutches of some silver-haired quivering vampire. “You know, a job’s a job as long as it pays rent.”
Wordlessly, he slid out from his chair and ambled out of the café into the street. I sat staring at my coagulating coffee, listening down into myself, feeling the boiling black void open and hear the faint, mocking laughter from its depths.
Been feeling that slow burn bore that usually comes along when I have grown weary of a locale. I want to go – regretting not making it overseas earlier. The group of 'friends' who I have accumulated have become a pack of judgmental, self-important bores. All artists of the most dreary, flat productions produced for the sole purpose of self-congratulatory attention. I sipped more coffee. A sad mariachi ballad began to wail over the tinny speaker of the café. My shoulders slumped.
Outside, it was cold and colorless. Gritty wind whipped eddies of trash down a lonely street. The sky was a harsh, cold blue - though dazzling bright, gave no warmth - only a bitter cold, you could feel it in your marrow.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

what's what

I am not a quitter. I refuse to be. Shit, I made it this far and I am still kicking. Certainly, it was a dire and incapacitating setback when an entire year of planning and waiting blows up in your face, you could imagine my dismay. Or perhaps not. If half y'all sucked dick as much as you sucked in your stomachs in selfies you wouldn't be so bitter and alone. I, in contrast, am not bitter. I not only adhere to the chaos of fate, but relish in it. I accept everything with equal apathy. My resolve has never been stronger. I have noticed that airfares at an affordable rate ($270) are being offered from San Francisco to Cambodia beginning in April. A quick flight to connect San Diego to San Francisco is only $38. I will attempt this secondary venture; remaining and saving in this squalid, windowless room I inhabit…
And yet, temptation raises it’s spiteful, insidious head. TEMPTATION!!! Such an ugly word. There are three apartments here in Tijuana I have my eye on - two downtown and one out on the beach. All three running for $250 each. Sigh. I truly need to stay focused and keep on track... but that is the obtuse predicament, in lieu of last year, I'm becoming quite weary of living in rented rooms and out of my suitcase. I want my own home...

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Friday, January 12, 2018

without a point

"Your books, your writing - have no meaning, follow no linear path. Why?"

I write about life. Life has no meaning, my dear. The closest you get to a story arc - a beginning, middle, and end - is birth, life, and death. Everything else is circumstantial chaos without a point. You may think life has a point, but in actuality - it does not. It's all random events which end abruptly without point and/or meaning.

Saturday, January 06, 2018

a series of unfortunate events

Concerning the previous post on Cambodia, that entry isn’t entirely true. Kind of jumped the gun. Allow me to explain…
On the second of January, packed and rarin’ to go, I crawled out of bed at 3am strictly from insomnia in my guesthouse room in Tijuana to jump the border and catch a Greyhound bus toward downtown Los Angeles. A few months prior, I had purchased an airline ticket to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. A year of planning and waiting was about to finally come into fruition - travelling through Asia and writing about it from my own point of view.
Crossing the border went without a hitch in lieu of the big ass suitcase overstuffed with my sordid possessions. A simple and quiet trip, I even dozed off which was uncanny for the reason I retain a long history of being unable to sleep on a moving vehicle. (I am forever paranoid they are going to crash)
Two hours later, I arrived at the Greyhound station in downtown Los Angeles just shy the fucking crack of dawn, the hobos hadn’t even awoke to brush their teeth yet. Via the internet, I googled the quickest way from the Greyhound to Union Station. I had to connect with FlyWays, a bus route from the Station to LAX. Easy peasy, I thought. A certain site stated it was a short jaunt down Alameda and should take one no more than fifteen minutes. This is where the entire ordeal began to unravel – it was not a short walk. I dragged my suitcase over shattered, soot embedded garbage lined sidewalks between melancholy derelict warehouses in desperation because the ten minute jaunt turned into a forty minute slog. It was a long distance! I overstepped bewildered hobos glaring at me wondering why this red-faced, sweaty white boy was briskly stomping down the street howling obscenities toward an uncaring, over cast sky. Oh, how I cursed and cursed.
Eventually making it to Union Station, I shot toward the FlyWays kiosk, purchased a ticket – with a twenty dollar bill and was returned a fistful of dollar coins. Useless. No change house in Cambodia would accept them, I was certain. I jumped on the bus and was hoping I still had time – the flight left at 11:30am for Phnom Penh and it was still only 9:45. I calmed myself by mentally re-enacting an old Hollywood movie scene of sprinting down the runway, jumping in front of the plane, arms flailing. They stop, let me board, we all laugh, clinking martinis with fellow passengers.
The realization was, I arrived at LAX and, attempting to locate China Eastern airlines, flitted around aimlessly through a colossal, bustling throng of tired people. All queues, even for the information kiosk, was one hundred people deep. Sigh. Out of pure luck, I found my flight and the line was not only twenty people waiting ahead but moved at a steady pace. I approached the flight attendant and as soon as she snatched my passport, she informed me the loading gate was closed ten minutes prior.
I snapped. Internally. Externally, I remained my cold, unfazed, dead to everything self. Inside, a million voices screamed and howled, I became dizzy, and as the flight attendant attempted to get my attention – her nasal voice faded in and out unintelligible at first drowned by the sound of arching electricity – I managed to simply mutter, “Okay.” She asked me to go and sit in the Loser Corner, a set of raggedy seats off to the side, as she stated she will attempt to locate an alternative route. I sat there, staring at the large clock on the wall: 10:55. I glanced out the huge plate glass window, a jet lay idling with the China Eastern logo. After a fifteen minute wait, the attendant clopped over to me and offered a later flight that evening...for $680.
It took a monumental effort to remain civil. I asked in a controlled, monotone voice, “Let me get this straight…you won’t allow me on my flight, the flight I previously purchased, and now you’re offering me an alternative flight and I have to pay…again? Full price?”
“Yes.” She beamed.
Visions of smashing her skull in with the chrome barrier bar next to me flashed through my head.
I simply stated, “No.”
I guess she glimpsed the torment of rage boiling in my eyes because she kept glancing over toward her right. I did too and noticed two LAX security brandishing semi-automatic rifles idling next to an exit. No need to be a drama queen, I concluded – you won this round, China Eastern Airlines – but I damn thee….I damn thee! Hunched over in contempt, hands wringing, I slithered out of the terminal….suitcase wheel squeaking…
I stood outside the airport for what seemed like hours chain-smoking and pondering my next move. I was literally exhausted. I considered remaining in Los Angeles, returning to my roots, renting an apartment, looking up old friends…fuck that. I made my way back to the Greyhound to purchase a return ticket to San Diego. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and I was ready to go home. Fuck this trip.
Hahahaha! Fuck you, too!, cackled Fate.
The next available bus to San Diego was 5:30 the following morning, all previous lines were booked. Of course, they were. I mean…why not? So, for the next fucking day and night, I sat around with the weirdos and perverts and crazy ass fuckers who haunt these hallowed locales. I was constantly accosted with requests for money or cigarettes. Outside, every con man approached me and attempted to pawn on me the most inane, useless merchandise. Do people actually fall for their shit? Amazing.
Haggard, delirious from lack of sleep, ass sore and raw from both the metal benches at the bus terminal and the incident with China Eastern airlines, I finally boarded my bus and slinked back down toward the international border. Blurry-eyed and dangerous, I returned to the guesthouse to rent a room. They were full. Sigh. Slept in a comfortable, clean hotel before renting a room in another guesthouse I knew of, this one a bit seedier and located above a hooker bar and a questionable massage parlor.
Subsequently, here I sit, typing these words out at a corner café in downtown Tijuana bitter and mired in astute depression. I literally do not know what to do. Well, that is not entirely true – I know what I want and the fragmented hopes of attaining it. I am inexplicably mired in disillusioned depression over this misguided ordeal. An entire year of planning and waiting flushed down a shitty toilet. The immediate plan? To relax for a month and clear my head. To somehow figure out a way to attain the stability that I so desperately and secretly desire…

Monday, January 01, 2018

Friday, December 29, 2017

dead electricity

What am I doing with my life? The despairing cry shot out of my deadened substance through a decade of empty locker rooms and bath houses, mildewed hotels, and spectral corridors of oppressive sanitariums, the muttering, hawking, grey dishwater smell of shameful men's shelters, great, dusty warehouses full of old army cots - through broken porticoes and smeared clogged, iron urinals worn paper thin by the piss of a million faggots, deserted weed-grown hovels, musty smells of shit turning back to the soil - the way is broken...time is meaningless…existence has become a dead end…
The fag bar was nearly empty. It was that particular time in the afternoon when everything lagged. Vibrating hum of silence as incandescent yellow blades of a setting winter sun slashed across dirty tile – dust dances in the space. Ordered a beer and took a seat to size up the place. Ratty red leather booths, low dark wood ceiling - the long bar boasted tattered stools and the cantina was tended by a hostile looking, fading old whore. Four other cabrones littered the joint - I sat motionless, smoking a cigarette, ordered another beer.
Went to the W.C., the head, the looloo and as I did my business a fag sided up to me at the urine trough brandishing his big and nasty. He was one ugly motherfucker - had a nice body – but possessed a face that could sink a thousand ships.
Nevertheless - for the sake of international democracy - I accepted the invitation to sit with him and his friend for drinks. His pal wasn´t bad looking. We fell into animated conversations and the beer flowed in so much I didn´t notice the mickey slipped into my bottle.
I blacked out and do not recall anything from three in the afternoon until midnight when I groggily woke up.
I sat up in my bed - well, Miguel´s bed - I was back in the room at St. Jorge Hotel. What the fuck?, I thought. I glanced down - I was wearing just a black t-shirt and nothing else. My ass was sore. I looked over and noticed Miguel lying in the closet glaring at me with hostility - his face wet with tears. He had thrown down a few blankets on the closet floor and formed a makeshift bed. This can´t be good, I thought. I sat on the edge of the bed and tentatively asked what had happened - quite befuddled at this point - and between over-dramatic sobs Miguel let loose a tirade of when he returned from work he found me in bed getting screwed by two ugly guys. Apparently, there was some yelling, some fighting - perhaps some bitch slapping - and they left after taking turns on me. Miguel was so distraught, he explained, he ran to a neighbor’s house - when he returned, the two guys had vanished and I was zonked out on my stomach, wouldn´t wake up no matter how hard Miguel tried.
Still didn’t explain why Miguel was hiding in the closet.
After more sobbing by Miguel - I can´t stand whimpering fags - I got dressed, packed my bag and said adios. When will these fools realize I am not boyfriend material? My life is far too chaotic to retain any type of relationship.
I hailed a taxi and rented a room in a cheap hotel - Hotel Quinta. As I sat on the sagging bed in a foul-smelling room, I thought and I thought some more. I do believe it is time to leave Tijuana...forever.

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

lonely brick walls

The wind carried dust and garbage down the long, dark streets. The gusts were so fierce, the lamp posts shook - causing shadows to play against silent lonely brick walls. We slipped through the cracked glass door of the St. Jorge Hotel, but not fast enough to not let in a blast of gritty wind. The door snapped shut. The lobby was cavernous and empty. Even the receptionist was gone.
We began making our way up the old wooden stairs which creaked under us to the second floor, we walked along the poorly lit halls on faded red carpet that smelled of mildew and bleach. Here and there, small bags of garbage sat neatly tied outside a few doors.
Unlocking the faded, pink door, I switched on the light. Cockroaches scattered. There were two old hotel chairs, an antique bureau with a small television perched on it, a worn bed lay against the wall with the smelly blankets and sheets wadded up into a corner exposing a sagging mattress. The carpeted floor was littered in food containers and cigarette butts and unwashed clothing thrown about. The room smelled of sweat and dried semen mixed with tobacco ash.
Miguel Santiago. He’s stated when we met the day before Christmas, he was the ninth son in a family more broken than the hearts he leaves in his wake. And there had been a lot of hearts. Apparently. Eighteen going on nineteen, Miguel claimed during sips of coffee at the café he did not have anywhere to call home. He used to live with his grandmother. Had his own room in the back of her panaderia, but that old witch gave him the boot when she found out what he did. That he sucked cock. He gave up his last chance to reverse his curse. He gave up his last chance to stay alive.
Ingrata. That’s what she said when he left that shit dimension of windowless, concrete walls of sad back rooms. A world of monsters and unwanted souls and ghosts. A world saved by a girl who will never forgive him. Can he blame her?
But that’s in the past. He’s supposed to keep that in the past. His criminal mother. His brothers and sisters who might as well be dead. But, the girl? She’s the only one Miguel can’t keep in the past, no matter how hard he tries. So, as he reclines on the bed in the run-down room in centro Tijuana, he thinks of her.
Miguel isn’t sure what he feels for me. He doesn’t think its love. I wouldn’t have him, anyway. It’s something else. There was something about me that called out to him. It was as if we are the same kind of lost. It was, after all, his magic that was supposed to save me.
I lit a cigarette and handed it to Miguel, “You hungry? Want something to eat?”
He took a puff, stared at the stained ceiling. The gloom of the room caused the sparks of electricity in his eyes to go out. He continued to stare and stated, “Do you realize, cells in your body die and new ones are created all the time? About every seven years pretty much all the cells in your body are new. Which means you are not who you used to be. You’re a brand new person. You’ve completely changed and you will again. Basically, you’re already dead…. someone else took over, and it’ll happen again…”
I glanced at the empty tequila bottle on the ratty end table, sighed, “So…no? Not even a taco?”
He smiled, “Make love to me.”
“I rather get a taco. I’m hungry.”
He smiled a wide smile of careless youth, outstretched his arms, “Come here…I’m hungry, too.”
There was a loud pop as a conductor on a lamp post outside exploded and the light in the room flickered and went out. Enveloped in cold darkness, without any trace of emotion, I did it just the same…

Tuesday, December 26, 2017


We are our own duality
the sectionalism we pursue
and the divisionism we leave behind
the decisions we make
and those we don’t
we embody the gradient of choices
good, bad, accidental

We are complete in that totality,
or not