Black Fire.

Met some young hipster train jumpers hanging out down at a local coffee house near the tracks. Wanted to size up some citizens to get real and write. Prostitutes with itchy scabs and purple scars, convicts with nervous furtive glances, and drab hobos sit dunking pound cake with the smell of sour feet and unwashed genitals. Good taste in music. Johnny Cash. Santa Fe art dons the peeled walls.
You know how old people lose all shame about eating, and it makes you sick to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They jibber and squeal at the sight of it, the spit hangs off their chin, their stomach rumbles and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook up, dissolving the body’s decent skin, you expect any moment a great blob of protoplasm will plop right out and surround the junk. Really disgusts you to see it.
So's I meet this one cat, Billy he says, blond sandy hair, skin red and toughened and wrinkled by years of exposure to the elements, not an old guy...but handsome. The smell of locker rooms and flop houses. In the men’s room, he is shooting up with his Indian and asks "Wanna bang?"
"Naw. Cut that crap eons ago."
Pinpoints in his eyes and he slumps against the wall, shoulder sliding down against white grimy tile, t-shirt clinging. Dragged down by the pull of junk. The Indian, toothless old woman smile takes the spike, and jabs. The Indian is down for the count. I stood there with the cooler system clacking in a foul-smelling bathroom, slowly toking my joint as I watched Billy and the Indian go on the nod with dreamful nostalgia.
Ted, tall and could be a model with raven hair and jagged looks, enters in swishing of a long black trench coat and searches through Billy's pockets for the stash. Wouldn't you? He looks up at me with steel blue eyes, "That greedy fucker shot it all?" I shrugged, watching a large cockroach skitter across a drainpipe. Beer got warm and strictly from boredom I returned to the bar. Savage Charlie, a man of the grossest dimensions sidles up to me and puts down the faggot patter. Compliments. Free booze. I gots lots of cash, he grins with his cherub smile. Lose 150 lbs. and we'll talk. So quiet between us after that. Song changes. Sunday Morning, by Pat Boone. What asshole played that? Oh, yeah...me.
An Indian from the Rez enters the fray. Tall and lean and a face so smooth and pure. Jet black hair and warm brown eyes. Torn black jeans and a black t-shirt with a white wolf on it. Goes by the moniker Lester. Guess you can't win them all. Still striking and lovely at the same time for a guy of twenty-one.
"You new here?" He asks, ordering his Bud Lite. I drank Corona. I go into my spiel and we jibber-jabber of Mexico, the Rez (Indian reservation, for you uneducated.), and the glories of marijuana. "You like good weed; I got some back at the rez. We can take my car." I see where this is leading. Flop into his Hyundai, rattling fender and coughing muffler, we shoot south to Injun territory. He lives with his uncle and little brother in a trailer surrounded by dirt and cacti and old rusted cars. Out back of the blue and white mobile home, we sit next to a shed on crates and junk and smoke the sweetest herb I have ever enjoyed.
Discussing literature and the decline of Western Civilization, the sun sets crimson behind the mountains in a glorious blast of fury. As the stars twinkle, Lester steals a kiss and it doesn't go further than that. We talk more and giggle and joke and toke. Chatter of Science Fiction and homosexuality. He says he likes white boys and would like to "do it". Wouldn't you? In the shed, fumble, kiss, masturbate. Blowing Lester, penis was short and uncut, he comes quickly in great hot spurts and apologizes. Don't worry, handsome, I smile. Long ride back to town, I shared a hamburger and my fries. Just Breathe croons Melissa Etheridge, and I do.
Never had an Indian until today. I shower and go to bed high and happy.