Earthbound Junk Ghost.

5:20 a.m. The alarm goes off.

There is nothing better - nothing in the world - than waking up in the warm arms of a handsome man on a cold morning. Oscar turns up at me, slow and sleepy like a turtle - buena dias - smiles, rubs sleep out of his eyes with my thumb gently...together hit the shower with the tiles still cold and the full moon bright and stars twinkling. Down a cuppa instant coffee and out the door - not without a smooch goodbye - and we part ways on the corner littered with trash that damn mangy dog nuzzles through yesterdays garbage dies a day later from stale rotten meat.

I walk briskly huddled in my black leather with cigarette hanging and puffing through adobe and brick haciendas - fat young whores, purposeful carriers of diseases lurk in darken doorways selling their wares. Dirty latex stretch over bruises and pimples. Tsk...tsk...wanna fuck me baby. I walk on, ignoring the filthy bitches. Pigeons swarm high above the green gymnasium where Oscar and I witnessed the midget Luche Libre the night before, funniest shit I hadda sit still for, I tell ya. Walking through Mariscal Avenue this early you see the junkies in full scope, Dear Reader.

The world network of junkies, tuned on a cord of rancid jissom, tying up in furnished rooms, shivering in the junk-sick morning. (Old time schmeckers suck the black smoke in the Chink laundry back room and Salbador Robles dies from an overdose of time or cold turkey withdrawal of breath.) In San Diego, Tucson, New Orleans, New York City and Tijuana -- shivering under the air hammers and the steam shovels, shrieked junky curses at one another neither of us heard, and The Man leaned out of a passing steam roller and I coped in a bucket of tar. (Note: Tijuana is being torn down and rebuilt, especially shabby junk quarters. Tijuana has more heroin junkies than NYC. ) The living and the dead, in sickness or on the nod, hooked or kicked or hooked again, come in on the junk beam and the Connection is eating Chop Suey on Orizaba Street, Juarez, dunking pound cake in the late night cafe, chased up Exchange Place by a baying pack of People. ( Note: People is New Orleans slang for narcotic fuzz. ) The old Chinaman dips river water into a rusty tin can, washes down a yen pox hard and black as a cinder. ( Note: Yen pox is the ash of smoked opium. )

Yeah - remember my old junky days, me...This is a yen of the brain alone, a need without feeling and without body, earthbound ghost need, rancid ectoplasm swept out by an old junky coughing and spitting in the sick morning.

So, I jump the border munching onna burrito pulpa and drag through work with the most dreary of people. Man, these people I work with just don't dig it - you know. They are not there. Their idea of a good time is watered down drinks at Hooter's, ferthecrissakes!! Whistle blew and I ran back to the safety of South of The Border, man!

Note: Upset that I had to change appointments with my psychiatrist. Couldn't make a meet. A meet lack - and that is a drag. Came a long way in therapy. The only thing to conquer is...is...how can I describe my mind? Okay. Say you have a television with picture in picture capabilities and that television had cable with over three hundred channels. Now, you where flipping through those channels continuously very fast all the time nonstop. The way I talk to people or focus on something is where the picture in picture comes in. That is the way my mind is - twenty four fucking hours a day!!! Now do you understand? Of course you don't. All you care about is how many times I get my ass fucked, you perverts.

Sigh.

The sun setting, glorious orange over desert mountain ranges I stop and buy a pack of Lucky Strikes when I am approached by old acquaintance named Pepe. Old friend. Old and nasty. Well, actually he is quite the looker and using his seductive ways tempted me back to his one room trap with the grey concrete walls and the dripping toilet and the dirty dishes piled on the rickety table - but the guy is hung, right! Well, Pepe and I lay on his cot...yeah he got a fucking army cot to sleep on...kissing and pawing when he stops and asks if I wanna take a bang first. A what? A bang, baby...you shoot? Man...I stopped doing that weird shit. One hit won't put you back on.

So, Pepe pulls out his works and we tie up and that shit goes in all clean and pure, right.

Broken images exploded softly in my head, and I was moving out of myself in a silent swoop. Clear and sharp from a great distance I saw myself sitting in a lunchroom. Overdose of H. Oscar shaking me and holding hot coffee under my nose. Outside an old junky in Santa Claus suit selling Christmas seals. "Fight tuberculosis, folks," he whispers in his disembodied, junky voice. Salvation Army choir of sincere, homosexual football coaches sings: "In the Sweet Bye and Bye." I drifted back into my body, an earthbound junk ghost.

"Roll up your sleeve, kid." The boy fumbled his coat sleeve with a weak hand.

"That's okay. I'll get it." Pepe undid the shirt button at the wrist and pushed the shirt and coat up, baring a thin brown forearm. Pepe hesitated, looking at the dropper. Sweat ran down his nose. The boy was looking up at me. I shoved the needle in the boy's forearm and watched the liquid drain into the flesh. I straightened up.

The boy lay down, stretching. "I feel real sleepy. Didn't sleep all last night." His eyes were closing. The vegetable serenity of junk settled in his tissues. His face went slack and peaceful, and his head fell forward. I sat back in my chair, crossed my legs and lit a cigarette. Digging Your Scene by The Blow Monkeys started on the radio. I grabbed my coat and walked out. Stammer out into the crisp night. Everything sharp and clear. Over to the Internet Cafe to pound this out...

Good night, World.