Tuesday, October 17, 2017

fear the monkey


I feel as though I’m slowly losing my mind. I’ve become good at faking a smile in such as I even believe the “I’m fine” speech. I’m not fine, I’m messed up, broken inside. I’m attempting so hard to stop myself from relapsing again, so damn hard, but I don’t think I’ll have strength to do it much longer. I’m sick and tired of feeling sick and tired, and I just want all this pain to stop and yet, I’m too fucking cowardly to end it all. Death scares me, but sometimes I’m completely ready for it.
I’m confused. I feel as if this has been going on for so long now. But I constantly think I’m being pathetic and these feelings I have are normal. The strange has become mundane. However, when I look back at my bad flair ups I always think “I was really unwell” but when I’m going through them I always explain things away by saying to myself I’m merely being a drama queen. Then when I look back at my bad times I realize how unwell I can get, I dunno. I don’t want to die but I wish I wasn’t ever born.
I almost swallowed pills last night during a depressive episode. I had no motivation or reason to do it, I simply wanted to see what would happen.
I hate when people ask to explain. How do you explain to someone you maintain a pain so strong and so deep it makes you want to die? That you harm yourself to take away the pain. That it will all truly feel better if you had a bullet through your brain.
I’ve just come to a point where I no longer look before I cross the road, wishing for a car to hit me or even thinking of being hospitalized. I live for near death experiences, hoping to find my old self again.
This is, of course, an unattainable delusion…

Sunday, October 15, 2017

dogtooth

I follow him down a worn and wooden staircase spiraling into unmentionable gloom. At the bottom landing, my eyes adjust to the dimmness along with the smell of dead bugs, old rag mats and marijuana. A radio crackles a love ballad slow and dreamy in a distant cubical hidden behind dingy red curtains. In shadows, men and half clad women mingle, talk, fuck. I glance up to the one light bulb hanging from a wire at the low ceiling.
“A three watt job, obviously.” I mumble.
“What?” He says.
“Nothing. You sure it’s here?” I ask, lighting a Lucky.
“Yeah. It’s here.”
Before we hit the room, I can hear the noisy chatter of The Others. We enter a large space of an underground parking garage, lit intermittently by dim overhead lamps. The grey concrete floor is cracked and wet from piss and spit and possibly water. I didn’t ask. A few parked F-150 trucks lined a wall. Around the knot of nine, perhaps ten guys, the air is a London fog of carcinogens, the floor a carpet of crushed cigarette butts. Dried blood as black as midnight splattered here and there.
“You’re late.” Smiles a tall thin lad in oversized and well-worn street clothes. He approaches us and offers two red plastic cups of tepid beer. I take one. My friend takes the other.
“The taxi driver got lost finding the place.” My friend lied giving the lanky guy an arcane street-wise handshake. Same kind I remember in my Glory Days in TJ: Fist bump, slide of fingers, followed by a soft snap of fingers…back then became such an unconscious way of habit that once I returned to reside in the States, bewildered many of The Wypipo upon first greeting.
I digress…
My friend points to me casually with beer in hand, “Guero wants to check out the fights.”
“He got money?”
“Some.” I says. “Might leave with more, if all goes right.”
I stand immobile and cold as ice as the lanky guy takes my cigarette, puffs, and places it back between my lips, “Ever seen these fights before?”
“Nope. Always wanted to, but never got around to it. Guess today I’m getting around to it.”
“Alright. But, just remember, what happens here stays here. Don’t go calling your Tia and telling her all kinds of shit. Got it?”
“Got it.”
First they brought out the roosters. A short, fat goober in dingy clothes with a milky cataract in one eye went around collecting bets in his frayed straw cowboy hat. I slid him a one hundred peso note and bet on El Tiburon. I liked the song. Felt lucky. Amid blaring music and deathly hollering, the two fowl tore each other to bloody pieces. I had to admit, the spectacle was exhilarating. I noticed they both were outfitted with razor hooks attached to their left feet. Interesting. The group of encircling men goaded and sweated as El Tiburon was slashed to ribbons, falling and flipping onto the concrete a crimson splattered mess.
Win some lose some, I thought.
One eye, amid some pomp, fetched two more roosters. Another bet was placed on Chiki-chiki, seeing as the winner of the last bout was going to fail from strict exhaustion. I was wrong. In a few minutes time, Chiki-chiki was regulated to be thrown in someone’s deep fryer vat. Several men who also lost bets accused the game rigged. Probably was. I did not care.
Te gusta?” My friend asked, handing me another drink.
Si. Mi gusta. This is how I like my sport. Bloody.”
After another cock fight, in which I did not bet, they brought out the dogs. Two hundred peso minimum. I looked the two beasts over. One was a stocky, grey pit-bull of muscle and scars. I didn’t catch its name, but mentally called it Woola. The other dog was a boney mongrel of mixed blood, a bristling, snarling, yellow-fanged beast as black as night. I slid two hundred pesos into One Eyes hand and pointed toward Woola. After he snatched all the remaining bets from the bloodthirsty spectators of cigarette smoking and sweaty men, the main event (for me, at least) began. My chest heaved in excitement as I stood and watched the two snarling beasts snap at one another. Woola seemed he had his glistening ebony opponent clamped down in a death embrace, but the feral mutt slipped free and amid a series of chomps at vital arteries, brought Woola down. As my dog whimpered and was dragged out dripping blood and gore, I told my friend it was time to cut.
Though macho and sour faced, several of the men bid adios, as did the lanky guy as we made our way back to the spiral staircase.
Up on street level, the night air was crisp and the low housing neighborhood surrounding us was strangely serene. We stood under a starry navy sky waiting for a taxi.
“How much did you lose?” He asked.
I adjusted my cap, “Enough to remember this unusual experience till the end of my days. Wanna go downtown? Get a coffee?”
“Sure,” he said. “You didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t not like it. Perhaps I am too civilized.”
“Or American.” He smiled.
I smirked, “Or American. You going home or you wanna crash at my place tonight?”
“I can stay tonight. Tomorrow is my day off.”
As a lone taxi bumped up the dusty road and squeaked to a halt, I opened the back door and as he slid in, I said, “Now that’s money I don’t mind spending…”

Friday, October 13, 2017

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

constant sorrow


Zona Norte: Easy to get in and hard way out…meth sickness stands at the corner with bilious and yellow eyes pupils a pinpoint, the yammering boy need intercepts an American fag’s rush for the Frontier, the federale warrant in Oaxaca…
In the gathering grey twilight…borrowed flesh hangs on the bones of the untenanted body, and then I am back inside moving and I walked through Avenida Coahuila…rich yellows and blue marijuana smoke in the streets like deep stone canyons, red doors yellow lights…little cantinas where sad old vaquero drunks sniff pensively…tapas and futbol scores on the wall…taxis crawl ferreting for prey, ambiguous pimps drift under dull street lamps eating mouthwatering tacos from dingy stalls, lean against outcroppings of crumbling red brick, talk in silent, introspective gestures, frescoes of delicate depravity, flat two-dimensional, Aztec hieroglyphics…plaintive boy-cries drift through the night…”Cesar. Hugo. Juanito.
Stale patter of commerce: “A ver Malburro?” “Nice girl, Meester…” “Big titty big pussy?” “Sombrero?” (The best sombreros are not made in Tijuana)
A hideous diseased mouth blows smoke rings into the night…”Wanna plo chop, behbeh?”
Stop in small bar and order a beer. I squat next to short, but attractive man in his late twenties. He sits passive and immobile like I’m la migra and shit. I look him casually over. Indigenous from Chiapas, maybe? Either way, the man remains immobile as statuary.
“Would you like a beer?” I ask in Spanish?
It took an entire minute before I received a barely imperceptible nod. I lit a cigarette and poured him a glass. Filled my own. The bartender returned to the other end of the counter and leaned, reading a newspaper.
I sat through a cigarette and slowly drank my beer. He definitely wasn’t the gabby type. Then again, this wasn’t exactly a queer bar.
When his glass was empty, I poured him another from the caguama bottle. Plopped in a cube of ice. “Why so sad?” I asked.
“I’m not sad.” He finally stated.
“You seem sad.”
“No.”
He casually slid a cigarette from my pack on the counter, lit up and blew a huge grey plume toward the rotting ceiling. An hour went by. No music from the rockola. No loud chatter from the three other sullen drunks hunched over the bar. The silent bartender continued to lean against the bar, reading futbol scores.
“Why is there so much hatred in this world?” He began. “Can you feel it?”
“A foreboding, elusive blackness encompassing everything?”
“Yes.” He said staring ahead.
“Didn’t you get the memo? God has abandoned us. It’s the end of the world.”
He took his glass and clinked it to mine, “To the end of the world.”
“To the end of the world.”

Saturday, October 07, 2017

the bathroom boys


I bolt out of the guesthouse dressed to the ninths (maybe even the tenths) and stroll down Revu towards Plaza Santa Cecilia. The sun had begun to set on this warm and moist Friday evening and I had decided after all that had transpired, I needed a shot of life. The avenue was teeming with petulant tourists and teenaged locals. Candy-colored neon lights spattered across my face and the beat of a million bandas wailed from jukebox of every beer joint or disco. Cars slowly cruised showing off their mods and vendors still called to pinch that last naïve rube.
I turned down Second Street, dodging mothers in rags sitting among their questing broods, a stout drunk lay in his own urine as I stepped over him. No one paid him no mind. A regular Tijuana night. I cut into the Plaza and it has not changed: families strolled under a thousand fluttering paper banners strung across the way, greens, reds, whites, dingy from the soot, fags of all shapes and sizes cackled and cooed at muscular workers returning home from a construction site, lurid hustlers lurked in shadows smoking cheap cigarettes patiently awaiting the aged and unattractive to purchase either cock and ass or to be robbed all together, typical hustler routine, and sitting at both The Boy’s Café and outside El Ranchero (now a goddamn restaurant? What the bloody fuck? Who would eat food prepared at that den of ill-repuke? Most like some ignorant queer from Idaho vainly attempting to impress the gaggle of thieves – I mean hotties – he’s accumulated) anyways, sitting in these cafes like lizards following the course of their prey, the dried up expat vampires who had lived in Tijuana since “the good old days” quivering and drooling tearing one another to shreds with over used and out of date snide gay double entadre and overtly judgmental gossip.
I stop in the dank doorway of Villa Garcia, hit by waves of nostalgia. Hasn’t changed much, except it now offers an upstairs with the obligatory strip/drag show – apparently for two dollars some oiled hunk will wave his thick, uncut ding-a-ling in your face – how things have changed. Found a stool at the bar near the corner and ordered a cold cerveza Sol. Thanks to fucking California and the bitches who think their way of life should dictate everyone on the planet, a large No Smoking sign glared menacingly at me from the opposite wall. Fuck you, America. Fuck you to hell. I noticed the bartender lit up and as soon as I pulled out my package – my cigarettes, silly – he placed an ash tray next to my bottle. Thank Jeebus, American Culture, your black tentacles haven’t ensnared everything down here…
So, I’m sitting there sipping my beer and staring at my ravaged countenance in the mirror opposite me in the bar when a finger sensually slid down my spine. I turned to see a somewhat unattractive guy smiling back. Chunky, you know, in tight shirt and jeans, thighs and knees pressed together. A large, simian face.
“Hello.” He said timidly in English.
“Hello.” I croaked back.
“One beer for me?”
“Can’t do, amigo. Waiting on someone. Should be here any minute.”
His fake-ass friendly smirk turned to a frown and then simply stormed out the bar. You frog-faced bitch, if I’m feeding your alcohol habit for the evening, you gotta be up to my standards. I mean, my bar is set pretty low as it is, can’t go any lower. Know what I mean? Know what I’m saying?
A couple hours pass and a few beers and I am definitely feeling it. Then he walked in. Jackpot. Short, masculine and tight body. He possessed a strong jaw line with a distinct Aztec nose. Smooth copper face and dark eyes. Black hair cropped short and slicked back. Our eyes met with that looking but looking past something else glance and he strut with a macho gait that heats me pants every time. He sat on the stool next to me and order a Tecate. Silence passed. A song changed on the jukebox. He took a tattered paper napkin out of his jeans pocket and blew and wiped his nose. In a pause in the song, I asked in Spanish, “Gotta cold?”
“A little one. Not too bad.”
He told me that his name was Raul or Cesar or something. I really didn’t catch that and mumbled mine which I think he didn’t get either. Other than that, we hit it off. The beer flowed and we laughed at stories of his family life, the small town he was raised in, his work. He sat in respectful silence as I went over my travels, my writing and so on.
The bar became obscenely crowded and we walked across the Plaza to the Patio Bar. Not really a fag joint, but ambiente as the locals would say. Took a booth and order caguamas of Sol and Tecate respectfully. The place was packed with youth and a smidgeon of adventurous American teens. Raul or Cesar or something was so plastered that during a Mexican love ballad he asked me to dance. At first I said no, which seemed to offend the little fucker, so yeah, okay, why not. Luckily the other two couple swaying to this sappy shit was an elderly straight couple and two pot-bellied men in sombreros sporting huge, black moustaches. So, no one really gave us a second look. We returned to our seats when I excused myself to the men’s room.
In the corner of that reeking shit hole were three college aged kids smoking weed. I pissed and as I washed my hands they offered me to join. It was some good sticky shit. Little harsh, but what did you expect in these trying times. Amid farting and shitting and pissing and flushing and billowing marijuana smoke, the group and I chatted. They were some type of Zapatista revolutionaries and kept badgering me on that Toupee’d Yam we have for a president and I stated harshly that I thought he was an incompetent asshat. They warmed up to me after that. One was a writer – Juan, I believe – and desired to become a published writer.
“It’s awesome,” I smiled. “But, it’s terrifying, too.”
I lost track of time with these intellectuals, perhaps it was the discussions or simply the weed, but when I returned back to the booth, Raul or Cesar or something was gone. Oh, well. Son cosa de la vida I always say. It was late anyhow and I was bleary from the pot and the beer and decided to call it a night.
I stumbled out of the bar into the Plaza still pregnant with chattering squawking queens. I checked my watch: 3:16am. I began the wavering controlled amble back to the guesthouse. A group of ragged boys aged five to ten surrounded me. Filthy street urchins holding brown paper sacks and sniffing paint thinner. One asked for change and I dropped some pesos into his tiny hands – shiny over the dirt. Another, the wily scamp – tried to lift my wallet from my back pocket. I grabbed his hand and said, “Hey, nothing for you here, nino.” As he attempted to squirm away, I reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved a joint given to me from the Bathroom Boys. “Here, if you’re going to do dope, do dope that won’t kill ya.” He snatched it and the group scampered laughing off into the night like a pack of baying hyenas.
As I was leaving the Plaza, Raul or Cesar or something wobbled up out of the shadows towards me. A wet splotch of urine from his crotch that spread down both inner legs stood out.
“What happened, man, you have an accident?” I asked.
No. Es no importa.” He swiveled his intoxicated head. Even shit faced, he was extremely attractive. “Can I come home with you?”
“Well,” I began. “I don’t have a problem with it, but you most likely will.”
Por que? (Why?)”
“I like men.” I stated dryly.
Several looks of confusion piled up on his smooth face all at once. He slurred, “Men…women…it’s not important. It’s just sex.”
With that, twenty minutes later, Raul or Cesar or something stepped out of my shower butt naked as the day he was born and plopped face down on my bed and fell straight to sleep. Great. I adjusted my snoring Adonis properly on the mattress, threw a blanket over him and lay down naked myself. I smoked a cigarette before I found myself passing out.
The following morning, I awoke moments before Raul or Cesar or something. He mumbled, “I’m sorry.”, concerned about passing out and not fulfilling his hustler duties.I said that it was okay. We held each other in silence in a vain attempt to wake up.
He rolled over and placed my hand on his firm erection. “To make up for last night.” So, we kissed while I stroked him off to a squirty climax. Getting dressed, I offered to buy some coffee, but he declined, stating some nonsense about getting back home and going to work. Outside on the corner, we shook hands and parted. I sat in the Praga café decided on how I was going to pull off this Cambodia debacle…

Thursday, October 05, 2017

Wednesday, October 04, 2017

time/space alignment

Owing to nothing less than goddamn divine intervention, I retrieve my luggage from storage and high tail it via trolley to the Frontier. Amid bustling early morning commuters, I enter the Mexican immigration office and acquire my visa and rush out to be swamped by a million taxi drivers. Being the highbrow and somewhat finicky fag I am, I choose the most handsome out of the bunch and we jet over to Fifth and Madero Ave. el centro.
An entire year has passed since I ignorantly fled this town – a city I both adore and detest. And yet, this fetid metropolis will be my home for the next three months. I had purchased an online flight to Cambodia for January 2nd…however, that will be another story.
So, as I was saying before I got interrupted by my sinister and condescending voices (troublesome little beasts), I drag my luggage across the dusty frontier, past the kaleidoscope of vibrant banners and trinkets and plump babies wallowing in dirt (their big brown eyes gaze at me as snot cakes on their upper lip), past the searing aromas of taco stands and churros sizzling in their grease pits, “A ver Moolburros!” from cigarette vendors competing with the beats of blasting salsa music, Nilton and I – Nilton being my cabbie and I tell you is he a sight for sore eyes, long and lanky, thin moustache, and bulging crotch that will raise any eyebrow – we casually chat about Tijuana, the whore houses, the beer, the food, the government – all those banal things one expects when first stepping on foreign soil and conversing with a local. Didn’t mind, he was a sweet fellah.
We pull up in front of the same guesthouse I had rented a room in a year prior and I noisily make my way up the broad, wooden stairs to the second floor reception. Lucia, the motherly matron of the joint, greets me with a huge smile and tight embrace. “Ay, guero, adonde vas?” I tell ya, it was a relief to get out of the States overtly inundated with bitter, conning, hateful people. America you may bitch and you may complain all you want concerning the state of affairs in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, but you worthless shits are getting exactly what your greedy, self-righteous, pompous asses deserve. America is evil. It has always been evil. Before the settlers, before the Indians…the evil has always been there lurking…
I slap down the two hundred a month for my room, shower and settle in. I sit on my queen size bed, staring out into the panorama of multicolored, graffitied buildings. A maudlin Mexican love ballad pumps from a passing car. I begin to weep uncontrollably, over run by a wave of such loss and sadness. What am I doing with my life? Why am I doing this? Where am I going? All avenues I see in my mind’s eye are veiled in shadows and confusion. Perhaps I am entirely insane. Perhaps I do need to seek psychiatric help…fuck it. I sat up and strode to the corner to one of my favorite coffee shops called Praga on Revu. Ordered a café americano and as I sat watching the happy, content people dart back and forth, (quite the opposite of the grimacing, brutal faces of American pedestrians) my eye caught the side glance of a handsome young Mexican man in his early twenties strolling with a girl. He didn’t stop, but he did turn and smile with that knowing look one gives another interested in same-sex innuendos and it was at that moment I knew. After a year of ill fortune and misdirection and deceit and defamations, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. My heart swelled and the gray fog in my head dissipated and everything exposed itself clear as glycerin. Tijuana…my home. After a long and horrible year, I was back home.

Saturday, September 30, 2017

city of dreams


I will be the first to admit, I need to take my own advice. The same common sense bullshit I dole out on a daily basis to a series of nameless and mislead assholes who I casually come in contact with. No matter how much the chips are down, no matter how my back is against the wall, no matter how vague that dull light at the end of the tired and over-used tunnel is, I must go on. I want to go on. My life, this torment of crazy destruction and crippling depression, is too unique to snuff out like a flickering candle light with a nonchalant pinch. I am here on this planet for a reason. What that reason is eludes me and hell, I may never find out the answer to that until the end of my days, but I will live. Not simply exist, but live.
An unforeseen and fruitful event transpired which renewed my hope in humanity, in that this struggle is worth enduring and the outcome, whatever events transpire, will always be both beautiful and strange.
And so it goes, quoth Kurt Vonnegut. I will continue to do that which makes me happy...not for the judgmental acceptance of the system, not my colleagues, not my family nor friends, but me and me alone.
And so...let me pull myself out of this filth and self loathing I have entrapped myself in and continue. Buy the ticket, take the ride. And, of course, Dear Reader, you are always welcome to come along...

Friday, September 29, 2017

one one nine! one one nine!

Stumbling from fatigue over shit soiled sidewalks infested with rats and cockroaches in a post dawn San Diego. Haven't showered in days, glimpse my over exposed phantom leering back at me from a department store window, I mumble, "Man, you look like crap." Dingy, soiled clothes, grey stubble on a sun blistered, gaunt face. I seriously doubt I can physically continue with this experiment. I have become a full-fledged member of these un-noticed masses. People forgotten, people ignored, people despised. I seriously do not know why I am documenting these events. No one cares. Friends are gone. Family a distant and uncaring memory. My life has been encased into a diving bell sinking to the bottom of a black sea, cables severed. I walk and all I think at this point: All is lost. All is Lost.
All.
Is.
Lost.
A familiar voice in my head laughs, "You did this. You get what you deserve." Shut up, you. The sounds of hissing and arching electricity.
Even with the dim glow of an approaching sunrise, the howls of crazed anguish echo up out of the labyrinthine concrete of this unforgiving city.
Silent as ghosts, furtive crackheads shuffle slowly in the shadows, the stench of stale piss and putrefied feces everywhere among piled garbage of abandoned syringes, glass pipes, and smashed bottles of various substance. A black dog infested with mange trots across my path holding a dead rat in its slobbering maw...past row upon row of catatonic schizophrenics wrapped in death shrouds of rotted blankets litter block after block under the baneful eye of the filthy rich in their gilded condos feeding off the ravaged disfavored only a few stories below. I amble with achingly sore and pathetic feet, red eyes focused down through a kaleidoscope of cigarette butts and wadded napkins of shit down down down cold and silent streets brain dull and tepid from insomnia and complete exhaustion. Black lady as emaciated as a corpse slithers up out of a pile a trash and with eyes as bright as the sun asks me with pointed finger of dried and lifeless twig, "Boy...boy, what is it you want?"
I do not stop my slow pace, but mutter in my wake, "I want to die."

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

right foot finally popped

The days drag. I am told I need to get vaccinated for Hepatitis A. It seems I had fallen in to town smack-dab during a goddamn fucking epidemic outbreak. Will definitely get vaccinated. Need my liver for booze.
As I took a shower at Vinnie’s, I sat on the locker room bench, wood worn smooth by the asses of a thousand hobos, and removed my dingy sock to witness my feet digressed into such dire shape. Swollen with obscenely bloated boils and sores. I do admit, I am falling apart.
More of the long, cold nights. Who would had guessed it would be this cold during this time of year?
During the early morning, after coffee and sweet rolls handed out free and gratis at the Neal Goode Center, I trudged to the marina to take a much needed nap. I was abruptly awoken by a huge, slobbering - albeit happy - mongrel licking my face and sniffing through my gear. I guess I could had worst ways of being woken.
The major puss-filled boil on my right foot finally popped. With fresh water and a big Band-Aid I procured from the Free Clinic (I inquired on help for my foot the day prior, but they were closing. The nurse gave me sanitary wipes and bandages) I put on fresh socks and hoped nothing gets infected. Definitely must keep an eye on it.
It's not like food is a problem. At least five times a day, some random charity is dishing out huge and well prepared meals to anyone who is in need. No wonder most of the homeless are wobbling around fat as hogs. Ha ha.
Last night, I was so cold and the tweeker traffic so heavy in the park, sleep was intermittent at best. Around four in the morning, I made my way downtown from Balboa Park, just to get warm from the walk. I really had to crap and knew full well no swanky hotel downtown would permit me to use the lobby restroom, especially in my current state of hygiene. However, after being blocked by five snobbish front desk clerks in five different hotels, I finally met a kind soul working at the Omni Hotel. Not only did I get to relieve my near bursting bowels, but was offered a cup of coffee to boot. What a luxury. Now only if I had a cigarette to compliment the occasion.

Monday, September 25, 2017

a reoccurring incident

Was hungry, so I decided to go taste the eats at a small church called God's Extended Hand. I recall the place years ago when I referred to it as God's Extended Finger. Got a laugh then. No one laughs now. Anyways, a crumbling mission located in the heart of skid row, the sidewalks leading up to the joint were glistening black from decades of soot and grime. Muck covered tents lined along the decaying walls and poured out into the garbage choked gutter.
I entered the small, foul smelling room. Dusty religious icons scowled at me from every dank nook. I took a seat in a rickety steel folding chair at a row of long, rotten wooden tables. The people around me sat sullied and quiet, waiting to be fed their shit. Eventually, after a brief and uninspiring sermon by the black pastor, we all lined up and were issued a tepid bowl of chicken/vegetable soup with stale bread. One old woman in her late seventies broke the somber monotony by emitting a tormented howl and then promptly vomiting onto the floor. Ignoring the chunky yellow substance and over powering stench of stomach acids, the other patrons simply continued to eat as if it was a reoccurring incident. Sad thing is, it probably was.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

invisible demons


San Diego, the dog walking capitol of the world. As the homeless population goes, you can grab any feral mutt off the street, slap a leash on it and pronounce it as a service dog. San Diego skid row, a sea of con artists and shameless fakers. Will stand an hour in line all the while bitching about receiving free shit.
Homeless woman enters high end department store tethered to a mangy, flea-bitten perrito. A sales clerk approaches, scowls from the encroaching smell. “I am sorry, ma’am. You are not allowed in here with that…animal.”
“Fuck that shit! This my service dawg! Who you to tell me where I can’t go with my dawg! Fuck you, mutherfucker!”
Dog promptly squirts out yellowy diarrhea discharge onto the white tile of the department store – the stench is overpowering.
And the junkies! I can't describe the outright condescension of these addicts. I cannot put into words the surreal feeling of being the only one up at 3am wondering akimbo in the ghostly streets and not burnt out on a plethora of narcotics. Every day, hell every hour is an entertaining freak show. Depressing to say the least, but entertaining.
Grizzled white man perhaps early twenties sits in own filth. Bare feet black, long toes shiny over the dirt. Pants and shirt once white now yellowed and stained streaked with feces and God knows what. Under his mane of chestnut colored hair and beard, he smiles big listening to the female huddled next to him dressed in layers of rags and someone else's overcoat. Her skin a mass of scars and open sores from a myriad of addictions. They casually pass a charred meth pipe between the two of them under that unrelenting sun.
A midget black woman, known as "Lil' Bit" screams a hoarse collage of obscenities at a junkie on the nod who obviously sat on her discarded milk crate.
Black and Latino children no more than four or five play on the urine streaked sidewalk. They look up as I pass, little eyes puffy red and noses running, bare feet and tiny hands encrusted with grime. "Hi, mister!"
Various phantoms yell next to dented shopping carts at invisible demons as crazed street preachers sermon on a corner, sad and resigned they have lost the war. God packed up his gear and left a long time ago.
And always the cry for cigarettes. Either to give or to take. "Cigarettes! Four dollars a pack! Singles four a quarter!"
If I only had even a quarter...

Saturday, September 23, 2017

I, Kitty Capone

Then one night, it began to rain. Shimmering hissing sheets poured out of the black sky. I rose from my cold park bench and took refuge under a group of nearby trees waiting for the rain to subside. It did for a bit. But, as I lay back down on the bench, the drizzle began again. I resolved to make my way to the museums for some vague hope of an overhang.
Trudging across the Laurel St. Bridge, I found a small encampment of hobos. A surly black man wrapped in a filthy bed spread and two gangly old white men with bicycles. Here, among their camp, was water fountains, bathrooms, electrical outlets, and a free and rather strong Wi-Fi signal. A prime spot in contrast to the hicks were I camped. I inquired if it were safe from the cops and the black man belched, “Yeah. It’s okay. Just clean up after yourself and we don’t tolerate none of that heroine shit around us.”
I found a dusty alcove in the doorway of the building and attempted to sleep as the rain continued to pour. Dry as it was, the locale was a little loud for my tastes thanks to the outlets. Several radios blasted dreadful rap music all night and vendors of various narcotics whizzed in and out on bicycles continuously. I slept little.
Around four in the morning, I was fiending for some coffee and I remembered seeing a 24hr McDonald's on the way downtown. Making my way toward it only to find, to my dismay, it opened at five. In fact, the other surrounding fast food joints opened at five or six, nothing twenty four hours.
As I stood waiting, I met a wizened crazy lady pushing a shopping cart. Nuttier that squirrel shit but so damn happy about everything. No matter how many times I told her my name, she called me "Kitty Capone". She seriously stated that she was the CEO of McDonald's and the Ronald McDonald AKA The Elephant Man had killed her in her sleep. I told her she was doing all right for a zombie. She smiled, agreed, and thanked cryogenics for that. Well, at least the coffee was good.

Friday, September 22, 2017

taking snapshots

The following morning, I decided to take a much needed shower. I hadn't had one in days and I figured it was about time. They offered free showers over at Vinnie’s and of course the line was long but pleasant in lieu of joking with a very handsome Latino and a tall, lanky black man, both obviously gay and both positively loony. The Latino was extremely animated. A tweeker to be certain, but had runway model good looks. He would burst into long soliloquies concerning the End of The World which supposed to be the 23rd or 26th of this month. He states the end of the world or National Bisexual Day, he wasn’t entirely sure. Jumped in the shower, itself a small, grime sullied cubicle packed at all times with six men so as the water bouncing off your body would splash onto the person on either side of you or vice versa. The Latino was definitely eye candy nude. Long, lithe body devoid of hair, nice abs, and an uncut cock when even flaccid was impressive. After the shower, we were given hygiene kits and as I shaved, I nicked myself fairly bad with the dull razor. Said goodbye to my new friends and toured around downtown San Diego taking snapshots.
Took in lunch at Vinnies. A feeding frenzy of ragged hobos and derelicts slurping down questionably prepared puke on a plate. But, as the old saying goes, “If you are hungry enough, you’ll eat anything.”
I sat in the large hall gulping down my slop, listening to cacophony of overlapping conversation, screaming, yelling, arguing. The air thick with unwashed bodies, soiled clothing, and stale cooking grease. The dented tables and rickety chairs coated in oils and grime.
Again, long nights of bitter cold. The tweekers in the park were becoming downright arrogant. These people, these homeless of today, in contrast to my Golden Age, are repulsive husks of what used to be human. The have literally given up. No passion or ideals, with all hope lost. They are simple organisms of base consumption. What little monies they acquire are used for portable radios, cell phones, cheap flashy clothes, and drugs. Always drugs. It consumes them, surrounds them, it is their purpose. It goes farther than simple addiction, it has become the norm. A non-addict, such as myself, is looked down upon as a pariah, an oddity to despise.
So, I stay clear of them. I sleep alone in my little area. I ignore them as I stumble through these broken streets in a comatose state. A ver...

Thursday, September 21, 2017

broken dreams and strangulated nostalgia

I awoke at two in the morning and made my way downtown. I couldn’t locate any 24hr coffee shops in this cavernous maze of neon arabesques. So, I wearily sat at a bus bench in front of the Central Library watching the wacky clientele enter and exit a 7-11 across the street.
Skanky Latina clomps up and stands next to me at the bus stop. Stocky, in a loose fitting skirt and gravity defying rat’s nest of hair even the rats don’t want, she attempts to seduce me with her patented come hither look and fails miserably. Abruptly, she issues a rather moist sounding fart.
"Is that your mating call?" I quip.
She mumbles something in Spanish. I ignore her. Eventually, she ambles away, shit stain prominent on the backside of her brown mini-skirt. Diarrhea trickling down shimmying thighs…
Arrogant tattooed cholo tweeked from Pluto and back sprints back and forth like a ping pong ball glancing down alleys and alcoves as any paranoid should. Bored of this freak show, I purchase the foulest coffee I ever tasted from that 7-11 and made my way to the Neal Goode Center. Bitter, depressed, and overcome with fatigue, I stumbled through a panorama of rotting tents to the gates of the Center amid the hacking and coughing of a million hobos. Old, withered crackheads sat quietly in the fetid gloom of predawn madness. Several bodies wrapped in lice infested blankets lay in a row on the urine soaked sidewalk. Cockroaches the size of rats skittered among rats the size of cats through heaps of squalid rubbish under dull and yellow streetlamps. Cracked out phantoms soundlessly lurked down that sad street of broken dreams and strangulated nostalgia as I squat on an electrical box straining not to vomit from the overpowering bouquet of human waste.
At six, the gates were open and my ID was taken. I was then asked to wait out in the patio until the office opened at 7:30. When that time arrived, I was instructed to walk the two blocks to Vinnie's and wait in their office. Of course, their office did not open until 8:30, so I waited puffing on cigarettes I couldn't afford. At 8:30, asked to wait on a bench for a caseworker. Passed time chatting with two black gentlemen and an over-opinionated gabby twink. Ushered into the caseworker’s office and interviewed, they asked random questions.
Her: “Do you suffer from any mental issues?”
Me: “Lady, I’m nuttier than squirrel shit.”
Things seemed to be progressing until they stated they needed an award letter for my disability. Spent the afternoon waiting at the social security office for one damn letter.
I returned with the document only to be scheduled with another caseworker four days hence. Fuck! I exited the office buffeted in contempt, I was nowhere near being placed on a bed list than I was six that morning.
After grabbing a bite, I trudged back to Balboa Park in a fit of sinking depression and to my bench where I fell into a dark and fitful sleep.

...cold stars twinkle down on me from a dark navy sky...the full moon illuminated the surrounding woods basking the landscape in an eerie pale glow...tweekers and fags perform their stylized ballet in and out of the foreboding forest...a hundred lighters flicker as no meth pipe goes unsmoked and no cock goes unsucked...the night progresses and it becomes cold, cold, cold...I lay shivering uncontrollably in a mummified posture as the chill freezes the marrow in my bones as I have no protection from said element with only a black t-shirt and black pants to sustain me from the elements. My shoes have worn out and my feet sore and inflamed. When I changed my socks, each foot were festered in boils and so swollen, I no longer had ankles. Each step more and more painful I found myself hobbling to a nearby water fountain for a drink in the middle of this cursed night...

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

only the begining


The following morning, before the shivering dawn, I located the Neal Goode Center amid a mass of filthy, malodorous tents. Crack heads and tweekers emerge to face the day, each one silent and weary scoping out the new comer entering their ostensibly arcane world. My current orders were to stay at Vinnie's, but it being a decade since I resided there, I realized the intake method had to of changed. And sure as shit, it had. I spoke with a caseworker and she gave me the lowdown on what was what. For starts, I needed to return the following day at 6am to get on a bed list. Okay. Fine. Spent the remainder of the day lying in the grass of Balboa Park under a tree, sleeping from a sleepless night.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

from piles of rubbish

I arrived in San Diego broke. Well, not entirely, but pert near. The hotel in Indio was rather expensive. All American hotels are. Never understood the culture of this country on how people can pay exuberant prices for shoddy products and be okay with it. I drag my luggage four blocks past row after row of grimy tents and overburdened shopping carts and throw my shit into a public storage and hunker down to the lifestyle of a hobosexual once again. Done it before, can do it again.
Downtown San Diego is a festering cesspool. Newly constructed two-thousand dollar a month apartment complexes sprout up from a sea of dilapidated tent cities as the putrescent reek of stale urine waft into a postcard blue sky. Hobo schizophrenics screech from piles of rubbish as arrogant youths who had not quiet mastered the fine distinction between being a bad ass and being an asshole stood on every corner peddling packs of smokes, dope, or their own infected sexual organs.
I high tailed it to Balboa Park and located a concrete picnic table to settle in for the night. My plan, as it was, is to get into St. Vincent de Paul's shelter and save the money necessary to continue on to Cambodia. How hard can that be, right? Was a piece of cake in the past. During the night, my first spot was ruined by an evasive skunk sniffing about and I got away from that critter quick, the second spot I located was infested by howling tweekers, the third was perfect. Quiet and peaceful under a blanket of stars. Night was long and cold and full of doubt. Cold, cold nights with only a thin towel for warmth. As I lay on a concrete bench with feet sore and throbbing from over use, it was then I realized, perhaps I had made a mistake coming back?

Monday, September 18, 2017

the Ouab Days are upon us

*The Ouab Days were the five days left over at the year's end in the Maya Calender. All bad luck of the year was concentrated in the Ouab Days.

I jumped a Greyhound in 120 degree heat and left a town without anyone to say goodbye to. Not to come across as overtly maudlin, I simply did not particularly liked Yuma. In fact, I had grown to bitterly loathe the dusty little town. Naught but bad luck, mischance, and alienated angst. I actually was relieved when I stepped onto the bus. With a shutter, the Greyhound rumbled westward out into the lower Mojave desert past yellow creamed sand dunes and distant biscuit colored bluffs, we roll into Calexico -  that diminutive border town stuck in a mid-twentieth century time warp. Potato shaped Americans wobbled to and fro supping up the best deal from a myriad of Chinese dollar stores while engorging themselves offa fast food joints conveniently deposited on every corner. Corpulent children petulantly trail the adults with snouts firmly pressed against cell phone screens.
There are no more family units. No more love or respect or virtue left in this Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. Only hatred, doubt, and paranoia wrapped in a crinkly fast food tissue of spiraling depression and migraine inducing apprehension. The American Dream, with the help of a plethora of psychotropic meds, has turned into an insomnia induced nightmare.
Push on north up toward Indio in a packed bus with no air conditioning. Next to me sat a young woman of indigenous decent - Ecuadorian? Guatemalan? Anyway, she tote a plump infant in fragile arms. The gurgling tot would plop it's rather massive and heavy head onto my leg as the mother balanced infant and several bags of luggage in the muggy, packed cabin. Without fanfare, she nonchalantly whipped out a titty and began feeding her brat. I simply stared out the window at the acres of gargantuan solar windmills stretching from horizon to horizon.
I hit Indio in late afternoon and it is fucking hot, my God! Grab a taxi, load my gear, and jet to my hotel. Cheap. Comfortable. Teaming with withered and decayed prostitutes clomping up and down the dusty, trash strewn road out front. I soon found Indio to be a no-where town. And, after my stint in Yuma, I was pretty much done with likened burgs. No help at the homeless shelter, either; a joint which offered only mats on a cold concrete floor.
"We got no room." Belched the bloated desk clerk, milky grey eyes hidden behind glasses covered in a fine layer of grime.
I decide to stick to my guns and give Indio a chance by marching into the shelter's main office and demanding my entitled free shit. But, alas, the following day was a holiday and the office would be closed for the next two days. Fuck. That misfortune extended my stay and found myself burning through finite monies. Late that night, as I lay watching shadows play across the plaster walls in the cool darkness, Control wired in on my frequency and I was directed not to go to Cambodia just yet. Roger wilco. The next day, I said fuck it and booked a bus to San Diego...

Sunday, September 17, 2017

what's happened and what's going on


A year has gone by and so it goes. When I found myself flat on my bloody ass in a Tijuana slum, it occurred to me. I had changed in my exile. Tijuana, also, for that matter and I tell ya, we weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye. Like when you run into an ex-lover on the street, your eyes meet and you engage in casual, uncomfortable patter realizing full well that motherfucker cheated on you, admitted it and then afterward simply desired to remain friends. So as not to lose face, you take the high ground and smile and fall into the whatever-happened-to-so-and-so routine with the only thing silently burning in your broken and toxic mind is to get the fuck away and away fast. And that is what I did.
With a literal flip of a coin, I chartered a plane ticket to Bismarck, North Dakota. Yeah. I know. Bismarck. Why? Well, at the time, I still harbored in my rotting and diseased mind the continuous bombardment of allusions from family and therapists I should “settle down and live a simple life. It would be the best for mind and body”.
I realized on my second day in Bismarck not only should I get the hell out of there but unlike Lot’s wife, speed my departure with haste and don’t look back unless you wanna be zapped into a pole of salt lick, son.
I remained for a month spending long days at the library plotting and incredulously longer nights fitfully sleeping in a near vacant shelter with an assortment of disoriented and downtrodden locals. Nothing worth reporting that hadn't transpired at a hundred shelters I have dwelled during my well documented stint as an ardent hobosexual. The solitary occurrence worth mentioning was during one cloudy afternoon as I wearily sat in my own filth awaiting to be assigned a cot (the shelter opened at nine at night and gave everyone the boot at six a.m.), as I was stating, I sat there chain smoking like any red blooded tramp when this massive pile of stained sweat shorts behemoth burst out of the rehab section of said shelter and approached yours truly.
“Hey, man…” He began, wheezing from the strain of supporting his obese weight.
“Yeah?” I croaked.
“Wanna make some quick cash?”
Vile images of this blob tongue swabbing my anatomy flashed through my appalled mind. “Like what?”
“Sell me your piss.”
“Sell you…my piss?”
“Yeah, I gotta UA in thirty minutes and I’m gunna come up dirty.”
“Uh…nah. Nah, that’s cool. I kinda need it.”
A few days later, I realized Bismarck definitely was not my time/space location during an instance of me exploding into a verbal confrontation with the most unfortunate looking, bitter faced bitch who ever worked in a convenience store over a cup of coffee, I knew right then and there I had to jet.
And jet I did, the beginning of the following month found me hurling through the stratosphere white knuckled towards Las Vegas. Sin City. The rattling plane plopped into that neon labyrinth near midnight. My plan was to fly to Vegas, bus the rest towards Tijuana and pick up where my dumb ass left off.
So, after snatching my bags, I jumped a taxi to the Greyhound Station. Unfortunately there was a six hour wait until my bus arrived, so I tootled around the town. Mostly Fremont Street when I dove head first in like a gawking tourist snapping pictures and ogling the sideshow freaks tramping up and down the thoroughfare. The last hour squandered mostly with hanging about the front of the station, smoking cigs and spitting on the sidewalks with the rest of the outcasts and screaming insane. That long dark night under humming florescent street lamps; listening to the cacophony from the Street of Dreams. A muttering beckon falling silent on these sad and desperate Heroes.
Eventually, I found my weary ass plopped into dusty Yuma, Arizona. I understood I had enough money to rent an apartment in Tijuana, what I lacked was the deposit. So, I hunkered down to flop a month at the Crossroads Mission. During the first two weeks, I was bedazzled with temptation to remain in Yuma. You see, what I was pinning for more that anything else was a home to call my own, not some rented grotto or foreign dive that I presumed was fleeting – but an actual place of my own to retire in and grow old. Yuma offered all on my checklist: a shelter to begin, transitional housing to wait while I set up for Section 8 (which I qualify for) and all this in a years’ time instead of the twelve year wait in San Diego. Albeit, TJ seemed far more adventurous, Yuma was a decade quicker. I had learned that once you acquire Section 8 housing, you must remain for one years’ time in the city it was issued, however, after that, you are free to relocate to anywhere in the country and outlying commonwealths. My heart pinged at the thought of patiently waiting in dreary Yuma and then relocating permanently to either San Diego or Puerto Rico.
So, the long process began. Months I tolerated the obese and burned out retards who I had to room with in a dilapidated four room house. Two to a room. Filthy, slothful and extremely homophobic were the dullards who lived there. It was taxing on my patience and intellect, to say the least. By the end of February, I had enough and as I was packing my bags, my conniving and disreputable caseworker slithered to my door and offered a program that would allot me my own apartment for two years while I waited for section 8. I took it without haste.
All was not well in the aftermath. I waited….and waited. Patiently, yet bitter. Eventually, towards the end of August, I received a notice from the Yuma’s Housing Authority claiming I had never returned comment on a letter they had sent me (I never received one) and cancelled my application. I spiraled into depression. This entire year wasted on nothing. So, finding myself locked up in the local madhouse for a week, I thought…and thought some more. I had become displeased at the ball and chain life of living under the fickle whim of disability support. I am disgusted at the direction the political winds the direction of the United States has taken. It was time to get out and once and for all, take the reins of my life.
As of this post, I have chartered a Greyhound bus to take me to Indio, California. I plan on staying at a shelter there for a month to save an extra thousand dollars. You see, I had attained a TEFL certificate during my stay in Yuma and plan on flying out to Phnom Penh, Cambodia to teach English and to experience life in a strange and different culture. Who knows what adventures await? I am excited and terrified to say the least. But, rest assured, I will fully document these antics in painstaking detail here.
And so it goes…

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Saturday, September 16, 2017