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...