Sunday, May 04, 2014

Scribbles in The Margins of My Days

A man in a trench coat stands in a shadowy alcove. He relentlessly scratches at his wrist in a smokey haze. He steps back into the shadows, only the cherry-red tip of his cigarette can be seen..."cough"...

The American expats secretes fear and jealousy like a frightened octopus - a thick, black cloud is expelled from their asshole into the face of the offending and appalled aggressor. "Shoot ya down bang bang..."

His face is science-fiction, nothing like mama used to make...

"Turn and face the strange."

Little boy spins a toy top on the concrete tile of the plaza under the baneful glare of a pedophile.

Fat and sagging homeless woman stands by the fountain filling a dirty plastic jug with water and washes herself in a crimson sunset.

Old drunk with thick black mustache and deranged look in his 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 snarls and explodes into a mosaic of glitter and confetti. "Ugly Americans!" He screams before being sucked into the darkness of a toilet stall glory hole.

Smell of dead bugs and dried semen.

A handsome, young man in a stetson, black shirt, black pants, and cowboy boots stands on a corner singing a woeful ballad that no one wants to hear.

He sits on a concrete rim of a dry fountain sipping Nescafe from a styrofoam cup as an enormous flock of pigeons soar over him in the golden dawn.

The bulging eye of Dr. Ford Windom can be seen peering through the toilet stall glory hole. "Whatcha got there, buddy? It appears to me a schizo-effective disorder."
Limp. I zip up my pants and walk out. The glassy eye still vigilantly gazing. "Don't worry, son, Control's got their eye on you. Haw haw haw."

...time warps like a broken laptop...outside red brick slum in summer's sunlight as clear as glycerin...twitching and shivering in dirty underwear, grasping a charred meth pipe in the junk-sick morning...a lonely rooster caws in the distant adobe slums...

...a fat old queen sits in the park with his rentboy on a concrete bench worn smooth as glass by the asses of a million faggots. Both silent. They don't look at one another. The queen's sagging face is sad and pensive. The hustler looks hostile and petulant. An old homeless woman in rags shuffles by with dirty palm out, "Peso? Peso?" They both look away in silence...

...his diseased eyes fell silent as an erection...

...El Puta nourishes himself on semen. Don't all fags, though?

...a white and green immigration helicopter circles over the plaza in a cloudless blue sky. Fat asshole in a tan uniform and blond buzz-cut yells below via megaphone, "We gonna gitcha, beaners!" He points a fat finger at the crowd like a shooting gun. "Pew! Pew! Pew! 'Merica!"

(The above was scribbled out in my notebook after two shots of tequila Xuxupaste and sharing three sticks of weed with a nasty old cholo in Plaza las Armas sometimes around 1:35am. I believe I'm going to incorporate these random scribbles into my current novel)

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