Sunday, November 27, 2011

In Dreams, I Walk With You.

I was lying in my bed in the cool darkness of a late afternoon. The shades were closed - I never have them open anymore. What the fuck is there to see outside? Obese and ancient Mexicans in ratty clothes? Homeless screaming at the sky? Dead shrubs? Rotted trees? A lifeless city?
My bed is set on the floor - no frame, just box spring and mattress. Grey colored, cotton sheets. Grey comforter.
I gaze down to my pale legs in the half light and - in part horror and part morbid curiosity - I noticed small, pimple-like bumps on the lower part of my legs. About ten or twelve of them. I glide my hand smoothly over the skin, reading the bumps like Braille, feeling the soft, sparse hairs. In a fit of paranoia, I pop one of the offending blemishes with thumb and forefinger, curiously mortified that it wasn't puss or blood that issued forth - but, the tiny larvae of some insect - like the blow fly.
The white, pulpy worm wiggled out of its cocoon in my flesh and plopped onto the dusty tiled floor. I sat for some time, squeezing these things out of my leg. One after another - a couple I noticed dragged long, pink, fleshy tube strips of my muscle with them clamped firmly in hind mandibles - as they humped and wriggled across the tile, disappearing under chairs and into dark shadows. I sat a moment and watched these maggots move away with a bit of sadness - sadness over my obviously deteriorating body. There was no pain. No blood. Simply the bewildered curiosity and annoyance of why and how they were there in the first place.
I curled up into a fetal position under my blankets in a vain attempt to return to sleep. I felt a nick (Or a bite) just under the right side crown of the head of my penis. I always sleep in the nude - wouldn't have it any other way.
Then I felt a moistness in my pubic hairs and when I glanced under my grey blanket, I noticed a rather deep and large pool of blood. The blood was odd - it was thick and sludge-like. With freaky paranoia, I leap out of bed to the bathroom, leaving splats of dark, crimson blood droplets on the tile. Examining where I felt the sharp and piercing pain, there was indeed a tiny gash like incision. Again, no pain - only deranged, uncollated bewilderment.
I cleaned the blood off the best I could, urinated, and went back to my bed to lay down. My feelings being wracked in deep sadness and depression that I was overcome by these maladies and powerless to stop it.
--- A dream that I had the previous evening.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Black Clouds

This November has had to be the worst this year. Earlier this month, I learned that my mother had passed away. That hit me hard and I am still feeling the residual effects. I will always miss her. A few days after that, an old friend who resided in San Francisco - who I had known since college and suffers from the same insidious mental derangement that I do - fell to his demons and committed suicide. And finally, through no fault of my own, I had terminated that relationship I had.
It has been a red-letter month to say the least. I have dealt with it the best way I could. But, as if I am standing in the surf, with the waves of depression have been coming on stronger and higher. I have been battling the urge - a strong urge - to simply pack my shit and hit the road. It really would be liberating at this point and no big loss on my current apartment. When I had that wild hair up my ass on going to teach English in Southeast Asia, I had sold half my furniture in lieu of leaving. I could easily rid myself of the rest.
Where would I go? Anywhere but here is preferable. Anywhere but here.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Hopeless Hope.

I don't care if we wind up living in a squalid flat next to the train tracks breathing soot and dirt and too poor to eat anything good. I don't care that no one will read my horrible little stories about faggots and outcasts and junkies of the world while you sit and do your crossword puzzles. I don't care as long as I have you. You are the best thing to come into my life in a long time, Hector Marquez and I don't care about anything else.

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

Tuesday, November 01, 2011

ghost of love

Dark and well past midnight. His copper colored-skin, a muted red from the cigarette that illuminated his face in the half light. Quiet. We can hear each other breath. In the near distance down by the black, long shadows off the empty street, the sound of four gunshots. Somewhere a dog barks. Under the blankets, we draw nearer, the warmth of his smooth skin, the softness of his hair, the pleasant smell of his torso. It stimulates me - smooths me out.
I feel so calm as we intwine. Arm around my shoulder, head on his chest, I look up and see the outline of his aquiline features in the red glow of the cigarettes cinders. Hooked nose, thick pouty lips, thick eyelashes, straight black hair hanging limply over forehead.
Outside the blankets, the room is ink black and cold with clothes thrown about the carpeted floor. The smell of sweat and semen waft in the stillness mixed with cigarette vapors - but, inside the blankets it is warm and still and tranquilo. Not a word is said, but the feeling is there a fallaheen feeling of togetherness like I have not felt since...
He puts the cigarette out in the tray on the table next to the bed. We intwine tighter, he draws me near, and a small kiss on my forehead. Slowly and surely, I hear his slight breathing as he falls asleep. I lay there and stare into blackness - out in the night a lonesome train horn blows - my hand gently slides up and down his thin side coinciding with his slow, steady breathing.
Eventually, I succumb to sleep, too - dreaming of Argonauts in fiery ships...