Sitting in the Gaslamp District outside Tin Fish - a swanky fag fish food joint jotting notes into my little brown notebook. Sky a bright blue with that salty breeze off the bay - little concrete park with fountain. Swishy homos walk by with a parade of petite furrballs. All normal in their complacency of delirium. I am outside that loop - you know that, Dear Reader and it is a matter of choice.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
American homosexuals are like dogs, not gods - as long as you don't get mad they'll bite you - but stay mad and you'll never be bitten. Dogs don't respect humility and sorrow.
Queers in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.
Oh little American Queer if there had been some way to send a cry to you even when you were too little to know what utterances and cries are for in this dark sad earth, with your terrors in a world so malign and inhospitable, and all the insults from heaven ramming down to crowd your head with anger, pain, disgrace, worst of all the crapulous poverty in and out of every splintered door of days, if someone could have said to you then, and made you perceive, "Fear life, but don't die; you're alone, everybody's alone. Oh little American Queer, you can't win, you can't lose, all is ephemeral, all is hurt."
I get bored and walk around the district - Christmas Commercialism is in full swing it seems. All is shiny and glittery with multi flaming tinsel and oversized balls.
I'd like to light a mall Santa's beard on fire. Because that thing's attached to him and made of, I'm guessing, a wildly flammable material. I would stand there with a cup from Orange Julius as he thrashed about, and when he grabbed for it to douse himself, I would laugh, "The cup is empty! Ha! Sucker!" Of course, this would all be "movie magic." No Santas would be harmed during the production of the USA original movie Luis Blasini's -- A Santa on Fire .
Clopped by the cineplex and caught I Love You. By the power of Hilary Swank's gigantic teeth, I have the power! If one of Hilary Swank's mega-choppers ever gets knocked loose, I want that thing. If I attach it to an axe handle, it would be more helpful and handy around the house than a team of illegal immigrants. I could open tin cans, aerate a garden, chop down an avocado tree, and I haven't figured out the exact logistics, but I'm pretty sure I could brew coffee with it.
Fade out to mambo music...