Wet Black Meat.

Dirt blows over cracked cobblestones. Razor barbed wire catches plastic bags singing horrible noises. Cold air bites hard and nasty through thin pants as I bolt across the bridge international hands in pockets, the winds blow fierce. Slap the thirty five cents down under the watchful eyes of the grossly obese rent-a-cop. He comments something...mumbles from fat chapped lips caked with white ectoplasm. That is why he has this job bloated fuck can't get anything else. It is a race up and over. Couple huddle scamper past me - I dodge around two old ladies, bags blocking my way. Halfway over tall handsome Mexican boy looks off over at the river. What is he looking at? A friend crossing? Dreaming of his next trek? What are in those sad brown dry eyes...

I walk down the garish arabesque neon of Juarez Avenue. Not a soul. Drunk corpse lies in some one else's overcoat, shiny over the dirt. Cowboy a foot away talks to Durango via cellular. Taxi drivers don't even bother me. The wind blows harder. Trash and dirt swirls in eddies across the street up up into the blank dark. Dirt in my eyes. Fucking desert! I cross a street in front of Tequila Derby - Weekend be-bop joint for teenage revilers and high school hipsters - look down the alley. Taxi? Said meekly. He knows I need nothing. I stop to buy a pack of Lucky Strikes from my friend huddled in a cove of crumbling masonry, small television emitting black and white images of The Simpsons in Espanola. We chat on the weather. Nasty. Muy feo.

Two queens walk by and give me the eye as I pass The Cafe. I stride up to the corner and cut down my street, hands in jacket pocket, cigarette hanging from mouth in a real James Dean fashion, you dig, giving the fags their B-movie production. Down my silent street. Lampposts emit yellow glows...some areas dark and foreboding with shadow like phantoms moving in them. Black dog drags something grisly and wet in its maw. It whines and stops. Scratch. Scratch. Picks the black wet thing up again and trots off down the dark street lined with brick and adobe houses. Is it meat?

I light another cigarette and walk to the corner, the wind is howling fierce. I stand under the lamp and listen to the buzzing of the condenser. I think of Oscar. I think of William. I think of Tony. I think of all the things I have done the previous year. Sometimes I wish I never left Tijuana. Juarez is not bad, but the climate is so hellish. It makes me maudlin and lonely. I finish my cigarette. Enter my house and pound this out on my computer while listening to Blue Bob.

I am really in a funk right now. I feel so lonely.