Past or Future.

Awoke with a hangover and I sit outside the café Norteno drinking coffee.
Chuck ‘the canuck’ - his face retains its form in ashen grey of old age, an ancient Canadian who has been here since day one or so it seems. Every week we meet for coffee and conversation and he is continually being rolled by the indigenous youth that crawl over him in his beddings like aroused kittens. Uncounted televisions, radios, and other personal items have been lifted from this shriveled gentleman of leisure. He believes that there is no such thing as a bad boy...same as that fruit Father Flanagan. Both pedophiles by act of Congress.
But, I digress. Wouldn't you?
“He’s a good boy.” or “He’s such a thief - boy would steal his grandma’s dentures for a hit of ice.” He mumbles from endless coffee at the endless parade in front of us.
Bum kicks wrack my form. I am drowning in depression and under the sky, that fucking shattering blue sky of Mexico. The plaza is especially designed for containment of lost ghosts like me: precise, prosaic impact of objects - I watch as the boys and locals pass - this is it...nothing beyond. A Dead End. And the Dead End in every face.
I pulled a peso note out of my pants pocket pay the jovencito for my breakfast. Adios to my company and I stroll out of the Plaza lighting a cigarette - the way is strewn with broken condoms and empty prescription bottles in the glaring sun. High adobe walls are pocked by dwelling cubicles and cafes, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a maze of dirty rooms and dank corridors. Bored of this tripe, I repair to my small blue room and undress, I fall asleep.
Broken images explode softly in my head...I am living in my parents’ house and can’t leave my room to look for a job on account of viscous black guard dog roaming the halls - argue with my father - long tableau of quarrels that had last a lifetime. I realize what I have come to accept - I loathe and hate the old monster. Pure white hate.
Wake up flesh dead, toneless, bitter, jet to corner taco shop for a couple of carne asadas. Waitress notices my funk: “Don’t worry about the past or the future. Live for the moment, live for the now. Life is good!”
I take a walk down the strip and ignore the barkers pass the sparkling casino under the watchful eye of The Man into the Plaza for a coffee and a smoke. Fags pass outside in droves as I sit and think and think hard. Radio plays national program in Spanish about catching lice. The bar across thumps where fraudulent rentboys put the make on you in favor of The House and there is no health in them clap boys rotten to the core.
Yawn and sigh I head back home...