"You win something like jellyfish, Meester."

I am a compromise, a compromise between the sexes in a dualistic universe. I am just passing through, waiting out my vital visa, my Easy Exit permit, I hope. Oh, I know it's better to have a body than not to have a body but the minute I got here I screamed ungratefully: "Wrong address! Wrong address! There's been a mistake in the mail. Send me back. Wherever you got me, return me. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong color!

...a spiral iron stairwell into labyrinth of lockers, tier on tier of wire mesh and steel cubicles joined by catwalks and ladders and moving cable cars as far as you could see, tiers shifting interpenetrating swinging beams of construction, blue flare of torches on intent young faces...

There is only one thing a writer can write about: what is in front of his senses at the moment of writing ... I am a recording instrument ... I do not pretend to impose 'story' 'plot' 'continuity' ... Insofaras I succeed in Direct recording of certain areas of psychic process I may have a limited function ... I am not an entertainer.
Gentle Reader, The Words that I write will leap on you with leopard man iron claws, it will cut off fingers and toes like an opportunist land crab, it will coil round your thighs like a bushmaster, fuck you long and hard and inject a shot glass of rancid ectoplasm ...
"Ai! Si qierdo! Fuck that ass, mijo..."
The Words that I write are divided into units which be all in one piece and should be so taken, but the pieces can be had in any order being tied back and forth, in and out fore and aft like an innaresting sex arrangement. This blog will spill off the screen in all directions, kaleidoscope of vistas, medley of tunes and street noises, farts and riot yipes and the slamming steel shutters of commerce, screams of pain and pathos and screams plain pathic, copulating cats and outrages squark of the displaced bull head, prophetic mutterings of brujo in nutmeg trances. Snapping necks and screaming mandrakes, sigh of orgasm, heroin silent as dawn in the thirsty cells, Radio Tijuana screaming like a berserk tobacco auction, and flutes of Ramadan fanning the slick junky like a gentle lush worker in the grey subway dawn feeling with delicate fingers for that green folding crackle.
Walk out into the world, Fellow Desolation Angels, and write what you SEE:
All around the square are open-air restaurants, vine trellises, baths and sex cubicles. The boys walk around the square propositioning each other and comparing genitals. The college Zapatistas compare theories of war and population control. How to implant concepts of direct hatred. How to produce epidemics, hurricanes, earthquakes. How to collapse currencies. The final strategy is stopping the world, to ignore and forget the enemy out of existence ... No troops can get through the Deserts Of Silence and beyond that is the Blue Light Blockade. We don't need the enemy anymore ... The last carnival is being pulled down.
Turn the page, baby, I wanna see what's next...
The apartment on Calle Matamoros where the boy died ...Eduardo? Enrique? There is a wounded animal in the courtyard. At first it looks like a dog then turns into a boy. Very slowly the boy stands up and walks toward the door that opens onto the courtyard. I can see now that ... the rooms around it are in ruins. I am standing in the doorway as he walks toward me, a strange sad fixed smile on his face ... Now I can see his face clearly, he has come a long way ... he has come a long way to die here ... When I open the shirt I see that there is a knife wound in the chest and the shirt is caked with blood ... Sad shrinking face. He died during the night. He died very unhappy.
Fucking junky sits on the cracked sidewalk and stirs spit with a stick.
He has the mark of a certain trade or occupation that no longer exists. If junk were from the earth, there might still be junkies standing around in junk neighbourhoods feeling the lack, vague and persistent, a pale ghost of junk sickness.... So this man walks around in the places he once exercised his obsolete and unthinkable trade. But he is unperturbed. His eyes are black with an insect's unseeing calm. He looks as if he nourished himself on honey and Levantine syrups that he sucks up through a sort of proboscis.... What is his lost trade? Definitely of a servant class and something to do with the dead, though he is not an embalmer. Perhaps he stores something in his body - a substance to prolong life - of which he is periodically milked by his masters. He is as specialised as an insect, for the performance of some inconceivably vile function.
You know how old people lose all shame about eating, and it makes you puke to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They gibber and squeal about the sight of it. The spit hangs off their skin, and 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 flop right out and surround the junk. Really disgust you to see it.
So here I am are in this no -horse town strictly from cough syrup. And vomited up the syrup and drove on and on, cold spring wind whistling through that old heap around our shivering sick sweating bodies and the cold you always come down with when the junk runs out of you... On through the peeled landscape, dead armadillos in the road and the vultures over the swamp and cypress stumps. Motels with beaverboard walls, gas heater, thin pink blankets. Interant short con and carny hype men have burned down the croakers of Tijuana...

Everyone have a great weekend.

Sassy Bitches.

The surf crashed against the sand under a clear blue sky. A chopper festival was in full swing so the streets where congested with noisy hogs. I sat under a palapa as a few feet from me a group of tramps - Lost Island Angels - argued and drank the morning away - passing the Jim Beam back and forth at 9am. If yer gonna do it - do it, I reckon.

I sat there like I was saying pondering the immediate future - which always got me in a funk. I have learned to control my depression somewhat - but like them waves they just keep coming and coming in a merciless progression.

Walked along the sand and sat on the rocks smoking a Lucky watching the swimmers and the splashers - the beautiful sun tanned people. Two Latin guys were knocking a ball back and forth when they hit it over to me.

"Wanna play?" Asked the short one.

Both were jaw dropping gorgeous - 'Sure, why not?'

David and Angel they introduced themselves and have been residents of Key West for two years now. After wearing ourselves out playing ball - we three sat on beach towels, drinking Pepsi's, and shot the shit. They told me their story and I related mine.

"Man," Angel said big smile, "That shit sounds crazy! How can anyone live like that?"

How indeed.

Both were gay and lovers and had invited me to an afternoon of cocktails at a local watering hole called La Te Da. Being Saturday afternoon the place was packed with all types of sordid faggotry - pretty boys fluttered posing to invisible mirrors, pot bellied sugar daddies chased them in stylized ballets of wanton lust, bull dykes hooked hips with chicks all to the thumping rhythm of techno and top 40.

Several of The Couples friends started crawling in - Rick, thuggish dressed queen all mouth and sassy innuendos, black Mark who had a taste for white meat, Old Man Doug who hung around the youngsters to cling on to his dissipating youth - all in all a smooth cast of characters.

The rum flowed and the light laughter continued and all became lightly toasted when David started getting touchy feely with me under the eye of his beau. Angel assured me in whispering confidentiality that their relationship was 'open'.

It was at that time late in the afternoon, that David came up with the swell idea of going to the Blue Marlin Hotel and 'party'. All three of us laughing drunk at this point - I thought he must be joking.

Stopping off at the liquor store for a fifth of Popov, we checked into the hotel and I must admit this right now as a confessional to whoever is Holier Than Thou - that these two where god damn sex freaks. As soon as the door to the room was closed, and the bottle passed - I was flung onto the queen size and groped and fondled with licking gliding tongues. We three hurriedly got undressed, stroking stiff cocks and sucking perking nipples.

"You like to get fucked?", David breathed.

"Yeah." I gasped.

Lying me on my back - David put my feet up onto his shoulders - spitting into his hand he lubed his short fat cock and then shoved it in. Jeeeeeeeeeeeeezus! Angel kneeled over my chest and skull fucked my mouth as David thrusted into me. The bed boinged and pinged as we thrashed and rolled about. A few wonderful minutes pass when Angel mutters, "Let me tag that for a bit." Flips me over onto my knees, straddles behind, giving my florescent white as a slap and shoves his long skinny dick in. Thwap!thwap!thwap!thwap! Angel bangs the bajeebus outta me as I can feel his erection thicken and poom! with a quick gasp he squirts hot semen into me. David kisses Angel with such passion, stroking his glistening still hard cock. "Finish him up, baby.", Angel breathes. Again, flipped onto my back, David reenters and with long hard strokes empties his scrotum into me. I came to a knee shivering climax with Angel's helping hand.

We three lay on the rumpled sheets - David and I sharing a smoke.

"So", David asks, "You gonna stay in Key West?"

"Nah." I said taking a drag. "My Time/Space is somewhere else. But, I tell you guys - I'm glad I met ya."

Angel laughs, "What are you a sailor? A bitch in every port?"

Indeed.

We shower, walk outside, shake hands, hug - say our goodbyes. As I walked up Duval St. I started thinking of what to do next - what's the plan. Well, through advice of an old ghost I have decided to seek refuge somewhere in Florida - perhaps Tampa, St. Petersburg, or Ft. Lauderdale - save my SSI checks for a few months and retire in Puerto Rico. I really must finish that book - now that I have found out how easy it is to get published and sold through Amazon.com.

I may have a published book, yet...

Tropic Heat.

How I am right now? I am lost. I feel cold - dislocated.

Severed.

So cold inside - so dark and empty...again I am standing on the edge of that precipice and looking out into a empty insidious void. However, I think it is better that I should travel this world alone. Happy with just a small circle of intercontinental friends - content in my freedom and not locked into someone else's web of deceit.

Luis With the Lid Off.

Gargantuan monumental clouds drift across startling blue skies that sear your retinas - I lay on my yellow and green beach towel I picked up at a shop in Miami from the cutest Cuban I had ever seen - Anyway, the beach...sipping a fruit drink out of a coconut husk - felt quite relaxed, but a fish outta water, understand. The sea was flat as glass - the blue on blue horizon blended into each other and around back again.

I rolled over onto my stomach to tan this lily white hide of mine and to watch the Cuban futbol players about 30 yards away. All handsome and viciously heterosexual. Every time a bikini clad broad wound walk by they would literally masturbate at her. One dark one caught my eye and he played with such animal ferocity.
Obviously the alpha male, I thought.
The sun was suddenly blocked and I swung my Wonkas upward to see a Latin guy standing over me smiling. Tall and skinny with some sort of tribal tattoo across his left shoulder. "Is anybody lying here?" He mumbled, pointing to a spot about three feet away.
To you land locked fuckers that aren't in the know - the beaches of Key West are outlandishly small and 80 per cent covered in stinking sea weed. So, there isn't much space to lounge a crowd - not like the shoulder to shoulder beaches of the West Coast.
Hence, his inquiry.
"No - not at all." I said grinning back, waving towards the spot.
He flung down his lime green towel and lay there for a minute. Rummaging through his back pack he pulls out a bottle of tanning oil and began to slather it all over that delicious toned body. Thick black hairs on his thick legs, a happy trail leading down his blue swim trunks. Black hair on a well developed chest and a goatee. His curlyish hair was under a cap but was shoulder length and his eyes were hidden behind aviator glasses. After he oiled himself up, he lay there as macho as possible, propped up on elbows - sizzling in the sun.
"Hot today, huh?" He said with that smile again.
We struck up a conversation - about the island, the weather, the ocean, how I got here, how he got here. He invited me out to swim and we splashed around in the soothing Caribbean sea under that shining silver sun for a couple of hours. He said his name was Paul and was visiting from Tallahassee with his relatives. Damn! What a wide smile that guy had! Heated me swim trunks to stare at him.
Adjacent to the beach was a trail through the nature preserve - a smelly bog actually, infested by mosquitoes and small lizards and miniature crabs - Paul asked if I wanted to see it - I had never been there. I jokingly stated that I hated nature.
"You stand long enough in it, something will shit on you." I quipped. He laughed at that one.
Deep in the woods we had found two fallen coconut trees tied together with rope to make a crude bench - sat there and talked of things as the sun swung around. Paul took a fifth of vodka out of his bag and we passed it back and forth - dubious swigs among faceless friends, I suppose. Suddenly, with one arm, Paul flung me back wards onto the soft peat moss and pinned me down by lying on top. His unreadable eyes behind those glasses - that serious look on his face. I knew this was it, I was being robbed.
"What are you, man?" He breathed - face two inches from mine.
"What?" I groaned. My back hurt a bit from that fall.
"What are you - the man or the woman?"
I blinked in disbelief, staring up at him, "Well, you're the judo expert - you tell me."
"Do you like to kiss?" His voice to a whisper.
"Only the ones I like." I said and that ended with his tongue scrubbing the inside of my mouth.
With the humidity, our bodies were already glistening in sweat - white hand slid down dark shiny torso - perspiration drips off of him onto me, mixing with my wetness. Paul grinds up and down - our organs began stiffening through our shorts. With obvious expertise in these matters, Paul flung his trunks off with one gesture - his short uncut erection popping free, standing straight out. Shiny black pubic hair dappled by the rays through the palm trees. He looked around momentarily cautiously, then grabbed the back of my head and jabbed his cock into my mouth. Thrusting with gaining speed - saliva dripping out of my mouth, down the chin, onto my chest - rhythmic pumping faster and faster. Paul yanks his cock out and whacks it across my up lifted face, cheek, forehead - slap!slap!slap! - shoves it back into my wet mouth and continues pumping. I felt his cock throb and expand and after a few minutes of this - he grunted and let loose a big load of semen - splashing across my tongue, down my throat. He wiped himself on his towel and mumbled something as he put back on his shorts before clearing out of the bush.
Moments pass of silence - the only noise from the swaying ocean. I lay there alone, reach into my bag and pull out a cigarette and I thought, I need a drink.
I walked down Duval Street - Key West's main drag past the flabby sweaty tourist and arrogant king pins that waddled in this humid heat - and took a seat at the patio bar La Te Da, a queer establishment that obviously caters to the Keys hoity toity fag set. I ordered a coconut rum and coke and sat watching the parade of bodies on the side walk. And I thought - this really isn't my scene. Buncha rich squares. I drifted off into plans of my next port of call and I know what it shall be - Colonia La Perla on the Island of Puerto Rico. La Perla is the notorious slum of San Juan -rumored to be their City of God - and has a large writing community, gay artists, and bums like me...

Bound for Key West.

Late yesterday afternoon, jumped the Metrorail in Miami and darted south in that humidity that felt like my head was inside a napalmed watermelon. My goal - my destination that is, was Key West and the mysterious shelter that the drunk told me about in the nut house. Once at the bus terminal, swapped to a overly crowded city bus that took me as far as Florida City where as I would transfer to a coach that would haul me all the way to the Keys.
Unfortunately there was a snag - the coach, as explained to me by three sweaty yet rightly sociable hobos bumming around last station of the city bus, they were north bound to Orlando - unfortunately, since I started so late and it already around nine at night, I would have to wait until 5:30am manana to board the bus to the Keys. Quite confusing, no?
Well, the wind up was - I was stuck in the middle of BFE on some Key and spent the evening sprawled out on the sidewalk, huddled next to my bag with chiggers and mosquitoes as comrades. Out of the windy shadows of the black trees, I was approached a small mysterious person - I really couldn't pin point the gender of this confusing gnome. He/She spoke of girls and titty bars that Key West has - but he/she struck me also as an old woman wearing a baggy t-shirt and pajama bottoms.
After he/she and I smoked and chatted - I just mucked around, dozed off a couple of times, swatting at skeeters under that big white luminescent moon. I lay there gazing at the myriad stars - wondering where my place in this Universe was - if any.
5:30am rolled around and I jumped the Key West bus driven maniacally by a grinning wizened hippy - across that giant bridge that spanned forever in glooming predawn darkness, we made it to Key West in no time flat. Wondered aimless for awhile - fatigued, hungry, sore - looking for that goddamn shelter. I stopped at a Marriott Hotel to ask directions to Patterson Ave. from the nervous paranoid Front Desk Clerk - I guess I did look a little scary. Was happy to find out I was a block away from my destination.
On my last leg, I sat outside the large two storey wood frame house until a kindly caseworker came out and invited me in. He processed me and welcomed me to one of the most laid back, comfortable shelters I have ever been in. I think I will stay a bit...

Nutjob a go-go.

I was feeling that burn from a twenty-four hour frump, sitting in my own misery and filth downtown Miami with the rest of the hobosexuals when a wise old thing - ancient Angel of the streets serving that twenty-six year term - popped the idea into my head to play the nut job racket. Since it has become such an impossibility to acquire a bunk at one of these places here in Miami, the old fag suggested that I stay at the local nut ward and let them refer and assure a place once I am released.

Sure, why not? Wouldn't you?

So, reaching for the nearest pay phone I dialed 911 and turned on the water works playing the suicide kick.

911. State your emergency.

I just tried to kill myself...

How?

Throwing myself in front of the train. (I break down in tears.)

Don't cry, sweetie...why would you want to kill yourself?

Why not?

Three squad cars roar up to me - I am interrogated by four brutish cops and then whisked off to the State Mental Institute. Processed and probed by a hot Cuban named Rafael, I am issued a bed and I wait. I wait for two days. Gads, what an ordeal - the place was crawling with the mentally ill - it made me sick! Unfortunately the wind up is they no longer do referrals to shelters any longer. I screamed bloody hatred inside, kept my cool on the out side.

However, met an old bum - drunk really by way of Act of Congress - he gave me the info on a sweet little joint in the Florida Keys. A shelter that sounded like Shangra-la. The man went on for hours - even drawing an intricate map in hyberphrenic pictographs to the location. A place called Peterson Shelter. That is my next destination.

On the second day of drug induced boredom, I was released from that nut house and I made my way downtown. Armed with a full pack of smokes and a fist full of dollars - it seems that Key West is my next Port of Call....

Reapin' What I'd Been Sowin'.

Last day at the hotel - spent all afternoon trying to locate a bunk. They's got some Kafkian regulations and stipulations on getting a bunk in this burg. Looks like I'm sidewalk camping tonight. But, alas, must stay positive. I do have some cash - not enough for a room - but water and cigarettes. Priorities, Dear Reader, priorities....

Tried this place called Chlamydia or Camillus House - a lot like the Opportunity Center in El Paso and Neal Good's in San Diego - a place to flop during the day, stinkin' vermin infested mats by night. Not much help there - to obtain shelter you have to call the Homeless Hotline and hit or miss. Fact is, I been missin'. Still trying to meet up with these elusive 'Green Shirts' - wily little fucks, never around when I am. If I am told one more time "Ya just missed 'em!" - I'll scream.

Made a meet with some of the indigenous hobo-population here - right friendly folk. However, this is a metropolitan city and I must keep vigilant at all times.

It is time to hustle and trust no one.

Lonesome madness.

"Here?"

"Si...por que no?"

Trash from the sixty mile an hour winds hurled down the alley - the hurricane approaching above with sky dark gray and tumulus. Duck behind a black dumpster - smell of sour food and urine, broken beer bottles, howling sounds of the coming storm as he positioned himself against the graffitied brick wall. A dark brown hand reached into his khaki shorts and pulled out his short stiff uncut erection. Looking furtively in both directions wise in the ways of scandalous obscenities, his free hand grabs my shoulder and pushes me down to his penis, waiting, throbbing. I put the thick organ in my mouth and start sucking it - taste of sweat and saliva.

Earlier that morning, the sun tried to break the dancing clouds, I left my hotel - had stopped at Cafe Coconut Grove for coffee and a blueberry muffin, he was in line ahead of me. Tall and skinny, long black hair slicked back and hanging on his shoulders. His white cotton shirt was unbuttoned to mid chest and black hair swirled. Pencil moustache cut over thick protruding lips, slight over bite, he had a handsome thin face - but the ferocious look in those brown eyes - eyes of fire, of desperation, of certain needs. That is what caught my attention.

I ordered and sat at the short counter, one stool away. I struck up a casual conversation, however his Puerto Rican accent was so thick I had to ask him to repeat himself a couple of times. I told him my tale and he thought it was damn funny. After coffee, we walked out and he dropped the gay bomb on me. "Yeah, I'm gay. I guess"

"Dat cool." He mumbled.

Walking across the street, we found a bench in a small park - the wind began to blow harder as this imminent hurricane approached - my first, by the way. He explained that he was homeless also and resided at one of the few shelters speckled around downtown. He was a wealth of information because the past few days I wasn't getting jack shit from these hobos here in Miami. For an hour we sat and talked - about travel, Miami, writing, girls, porn. With porn he started to get animated about 'da girl' that had threw him out a few days back.

"Damn - she was a bitch, but sucked some good dick." He says.

Smiling, I explained he knows nothing - claiming I was the best this side of Pecos and the triState area, or some such nonsense. He looked me straight in the face - hard and penetrating that glare - and asked if I wanted to go score some weed with him. Wouldn't you?

After walking through the maze of downtown, past the Lost Angels huddled in their bags of garbage, past glorious white skyscrapers raping the heavens with their great phallic motions - we found a young hip black who sold us half a dime on accounta finances, you unnerstand. We stood on a corner in the wilds of Skid Row and smoked that little fucker. It was okay - gotta buzz. Then he started talking sex crap again and feeling that shit, I just said, "There ain't no girls here to suck your dick - there's only me."

"Don't hafta ask me twice." He stated, squinting in the whooshing gail, sparks in those savage eyes.

Back to the alley:

"No, don't play wit it - just suck it...yeah...faster, like dat." Long spindly fingers the color of a brown paper bag clutch the back of my head.

After a few minutes, he spewed his goo in my mouth - lean over - splat! onto the urine smelling concrete. He slides his still stiff glistening cock into his shorts, "Hey, homie - got a dollar for da bus?"

I hand him a crumpled note and after wishing me good luck on getting a shelter he disappears around a corner - hidden in dust and wind. I head over to the park by the government buildings - lady says on the Homeless Hotline that I hafta wait for some creeps called "The Green Shirts" to make their grand entrance and through them - and only them - can I gain access to one of these joints. Problem is they run on "Green Shirts" time. Meaning they'll show the fuck up when they show the fuck up. I sat for two hours smoking cigarette after cigarette amid others with forlorn faces waiting for these punks and it was a no show. I just returned to my hotel room and watched television.

What the fuck was that guys name anyhow - don't think I even asked. Hope to see him again, though. As a fact, I think I will...

Dillying and Dallying.

Strolled out of the Miami Sun Hotel and down to the boardwalk to get some scrumptious breakfast at Cafe Cuban. A big mess of scrambled eggs, sausage, a large loaf of toasted buttered bread and some Cuban coffee - the coffee was amazing! The waiter - Juan - was queer to be sure and dark and hot. The breakfast was a wee bit yummier because of him.

Walked around town to dig the local flavor - beach town, not too different from San Diego. Except the air is so damn muggy - my shirt is always damp from sweat. The fear is that there is Hurricane Ike off of the coast of Cuba heading this way and will blow the wrath of God up every one's ass. Anyway, sat in the shade of a palm and sipped on a fruit drink - the mode of wear here is your basic jeans/shorts, sandals, t-shirt. My eyes followed the Caribbean boys as they strutted too and fro - nothing like their Mexican counterparts. There is this aura of wild boy sensuality about them - so alluring and seductive. I am looking forward to my first Caribbean adventure, if you know what I mean - wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more...

But, even now as I write this I am angsty - I want to dive straight into a shelter for a couple of months and save checks to continue to Puerto Rico. I have tried to ask a couple of the indigenous homeless here - but, I just get the usual arrogant hobo bullshit. So, going on line - I hit a web site that had list of the shelters located downtown. I must find them before this weather gets foul.

And so, my time at the hotel is drawing to an end and now I must go Underground...

With a rip roarin’ yelp of ‘Orale!’ from pot bellied naco in cowboy hat and black fart and squeal of gears, the bus pulls out of heat blasted El Paso. El Paso - Nacotown - dusty dead museum of lackluster Tex-Mex populace, ‘Adios’ I whisper myself bitter and sad as we roll into the great expanse of middle Texas - out where the dear and the antelope play under that dazzling blue sky stretching forever and ever.
Optimistically stare into the mundane flatness and I ponder what lay ahead. The other passengers sit in apathetic silence - wonder if they are thinking the same thing. The trip is long and tiresome. Rusted abandon gas stations - home of lizards and ghosts of Indians metamorphoses into moss covered shotgun shacks under watchful gaze of frazzled old black man in denim overalls as we travel through Louisiana bayous and Alabama bogs and into Florida everglades. Past the highway rest stops - the bathhouses of the new millennium and confusion in changing buses in San Antonio, Houston, Tallahassee, Orlando - the only thing that made it worth while was my seat companion, James - seventeen year old black kid, tall skinny and handsome traveling home to Orlando from San Antonio visit with relatives. We talked of things to while away the time - he rapped with the two ever-smiling gay Jamaicans returning home as I scribbled notes in my notebook - it is still wonderful to know that humanity still exists in this garbage dump.
Cigarette cigarette cigarette - each stop, each stop becoming more unbearable than the last but Angel Headed destination coming closer lightened the angst. Snack on bread and fresh salami purchased from smiling plump Cuban Mother in Pensacola roadside bodega under waving palms, she had a smile and warmth that kept my cold heart going as her little white cat purred against my pant leg.
The Florida everglades sprawl out as we head south to Miami - the final destination on this route. Gleaming spires sprout up in the distance as Miami looms nearer. Clothes stick to my wet body as the humid air engulfs me - bus pulls into downtown Miami station and with a little enquiry - I jump - exhausted from that two day trip - the elevated train through this dazzling metropolis to hotel Miami Sun where I get a small room for three nights.
And so, here I am - sipping damn good coffee and smoking my last pack of Luckies at a corner cafe, some sort of mambo jazz playing, listening to the strange Spanish dialects being warbled and passionately discussed around me, watching the locals stroll to and fro in the muggy air under the big yellow moon and I am damn happy with this decision and knowing that for now - all is good in the universe…

i head east...

and.
here.
i.
go...

Time Warp, again.

Why all this waste of computer data coming and going with the expression of a masturbating idiot? (Smell of flop house boredom and mildewed communal showers.) I am writing this report - or I should comment that the report is writing itself - a torrid yarn of bring downs and hard ons packed full of characters and Desolation Angels for your closeted perverted enjoyment from the dusty wilds of West Texas to the sun worshipping tropics. Are you paying attention - you freaky-deaky fuckers need to put down them damn iPods and stop cruising porn sites and listen up - transitional I am. Traveling now without moving. But I am going to write about it so you ignorant fucks can sit comfy in your terminal addiction of comsumeristic fear. Don't be afraid to write - write! - but write for yourself and not for those over opinionated schizophrenics who share our fair garbage dump. (Especially them homosexuals.) Look around you and see, take in the world and then file a fucking report on it no matter what it is. Write without fear and without borders - the custom inspector is an idiot anyway, flaming homosexual - but a real nice fella people tell. I will entertain your fat ass with tales of blissful eye-watering beauty and rancid sure as shit ugliness of ambivalent sexual escapades and drugged out paranoia - wait...am I getting out of hand? Fuck, this isn't for you per se, but don't let that get you down, sweetie pie. Who are you anyways? Why have you came along on this trip down the Lost Highway? Did you buy a ticket? No worries, papa will take care of you - got a 'travelers friends ride for free pass'. So grab your shit and let's go go go!!!