Saturday, February 27, 2010

Double Threat.

Stood outside the Sante Fe Bar smoking so close to the streets the passing buses chugging by almost knocked me down. The sun just dropped below the horizon and the cool sky still had a light orange glow. I was feeling pretty lit after downing three quick beers.
I looked down the colorless street and saw my old friend Patrick stumbling my way - as soon as his eyes focused on who I was was he bound and lept towards me like a giggling school boy. Much handshaking and backslapping and whatever-happened-to-so-and-so's.
I'd known Pat for going on six years now from my various stays at the mish - handsome little boy look to his face gone rugged from too much drink and harsh climates. He wore a denim blue jacket with a racing emblem on the back, blue jeans, sneakers, baseball cap - your usual hobo attire. He was still handsome, but his black goatee had specks of gray in it as did his short cropped hair.
He was Mexican, but born and raised in Kansas and like much of the residence of this town drifted down here on that insidious current of bad luck and bring downs. He was a loser just trying to make it by, just like me.
He stated in his thick country drawl that he had just gotten jumped by three young hoods and his back was hurtin' somthin' fierce. I invited him in for a drink.
We sat at the bar - populated by the dredged and forlorn regulars, all alkies like me, now I suppose. Pat slurped his drink and went into a tale of how a few days back him and some girl were holed up in a hotel living, drinking, arguing like so many heterosexual fuck ups. The police were somehow involved and his girl, Jennifer obviously was a wild cat - she drunken off her mind - beat up a cop. Swarmed by the other cops, as cops do, clubbed and beat the shit out of her and tossed her in the back of a squad car screaming and kicking. Pat was hauled off too by associated proximity. He continued on how he and her didn't really give a fuck about the situation and even made out on the way to the precinct.
Pat was released after 24hrs in the drunk tank but, as we both agreed, Jennifer will be in a little bit longer.
"Wow, that's some heavy Jerry Springer shit." I stated gulping another throat full of beer.
He went all gooey and cooed, "I luv er, man - she's muh life."
The night continued and watched Pat whip the ass in billiards this drunken macho who just crossed over from Chihuahua - kept thumping my chest, swaying with his mug, "I'm from Chihuahua, cabrone." Getting real tired of that stupid macho bullshit.
Pat got real wasted - falling asleep and stumbling in his chair. The bartender threw us both out.
"I got no where to go." He said as we stood on the side walk outside Sante Fe.
I sighed and said, "Come on."
I latched the key to my lock and opened the door with my shoulder. We stepped into the room bathed in shadows. I turned on a lamp, put on some music. Pat flopped onto my bed with a groan. I went to the refrigerator and pulled out two cans of beer, handing him one all the while staring at his cock poking up out of his jeans. It wasn't hard - it just did that all the time. I mentioned that last we took a shower together at the mish, I must admit he did have a sexy dick. He just smiled and casually brushed his hand over his groin saying, "Man, shut up with that shit."
"You look tired, let's get some sleep." I said.
We finished our beers and got undressed and crawled under the gray comforter. I heard him softly snore as I lay there watching the lights from passing cars crawl across the ceiling. He turned and threw a leg over mine. My hand slowly inched up to his shorts and felt his already stiff cock. He stirred and sighed. I continued to slowly stroke his organ - thick, long, uncut - a pearl of precum formed at the tip. His breathing got heavier as he kept his eyes closed. I slid under the blanket and took the hard on in my mouth and started stroking up and down. It stiffened more, his hips moving slightly.
pat pulled me back up and turned me on my side with my back to him. He slid my boxers off as with his and with slow force, slid his cock into me. Hugging me firmly from behind, he thrust and lunged until I felt his penis stiffen and swell spurting his semen deep into me.
We lay there for a while in silence. I got up to wash in the bathroom and when I returned, Pat was curled up snoring softly away.
Next morning, the hot yellow rays burst through the blinds of my apartment that I am sure smelled of dirty denim and soiled socks and stale beer. I put on my shorts, got out of bed and prepared instant pancakes for us both. Pat woke - stretched his short torso and said "Mornin'" With a devilish grin.
I handed him a cup of coffee, "What are you going to do today?"
"I gotta go to the city jail and visit, Jen. I hafta find a way of gettin' our shit outta the hotel room." He takes a sip of coffee and scowls, "damn, why do women gotta bring along so much shit? I gotta back pack - that's it. She's got like five huge bags."
I grabbed his soft penis, "Women are not a necessity in this world anymore. Not now that we have cloning technology."
He gently pushes my hand away and goes to the bathroom. :After breakfast, I gotta go." I hear as he relieves his bladder.
After breakfast, we part on the corner shaking hands and telling each other laterz. I turn and stare at the vista of Juarez across from the Rio Grande, the mountain range, the harsh blue sky and wonder why I am still here.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Racial Profiling.

"So, what do you consider yourself? White or Hispanic?" She asked sitting across from me holding the completed application.
"Well." I said, palm up and out - typical junky con gesture. "I am the result of interracial breeding." What I wanted to say - look at me! This is what happens when one of you spics fucks an Anglo, you deformed chilango! Get on with the interview!
She acted a little uneasy, "We have to pick either or, Mr. Blasini."
I sat and I thought. That is the story of my life - my very existence - I don't fit into any category or check box. Just gotta make it up as I go along. "Hispanic." I flatly stated, maybe can get some freebies working that minority route.
Within an hour I had received my food stamp card and jetted out of the office to stand in whipping winds and chilled rain for a bus. As we lumbered down Alameda Blvd. - past block houses and crumbling adobe facades left over from the 1940's - I sat in the back watching a heavy and highly intoxicated cholo tag up the back of the bus with bleary eyed abandon. As the colorless vista chugged past I sank deeper in my frump, El Paso is not my Time/Place location. I have not found it yet. I do believe I have come close, but to no avail. As stated previously, I will purchase the bare essentials for this new apartment all the while cranking out two novels and come next winter it's off to where ever. And why not? I have nothing else.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Screaming Monkeys.

Shuffling intoxicated and fully loaded past forgotten friends at dark crosswalks as the traffic screams bye and city buses shnuff and groan. Gabriel and I stop at the Liquor Barn for a 30 case of Schlitz. The night was warm and hazy dark. I had his duffel bag strapped across my shoulder from a previous stop at the seediest of downtown dive hotels - The Merlot, thank you - and was helping my Native American friend into his new digs across the street from my humble flat.
"So." He slurs as we parous the tight isles; picking out sweet cakes for tomorrows breakfast with instant coffee. "You gonna help me Saturday."
"I said I would." I grinned with the strap digging into my shoulder.
As we made the few blocks - he carrying the beer case and stinking blankets smelling of monkey feces and I the his bag - stumbling back to our street of rustic red bricked buildings - we discussed the matter of how a friend had blessed him with a whole bedroom set this coming Saturday.
I, on the other hand, my mind was churning on more sordid adventures - on how I would while my time here through the summer in El Paso and to finish these two books I had in mind - Hobosexual and Fried Chittlin's - and then off to New Orleans to squander and explore to finally end up on the isle of Puerto Rico. And so it goes...that I will use as fodder for more fresh writing materiel. And why not, the life of stability and ain't me, Dear Reader, you know that as well as I do. So, why bother even discussing it?

Monday, February 15, 2010

Beer Spit and Mindless Anticipation.

When you are homeless - beat and on your ass without a penny - you get a lot of free shit in this fair police state of ours. Take my apartment, free rent for six months. However, once you leave that state of bewildered anticipation of a transient state - everything goes sour. Your hand is forced to be a responsible citizen. Fuck that.
For years coming to El Paso and playing - I mean working the system - on the state of getting food stamps (Cause once again I am flat broke.) I have always went to the office on Yandell Ave. Easy. Simple. You walk in at eight in the morning and walk out two hours later with a card a-rarin' to go.
But, the times have changed, Dear Reader. Once again the high muckity-mucks that run this fair land had put a stop to that and made everything a long, tired, worn out dredge. I entered the office at appropriate time - waited in line for an hour to be told to fill out an application. Before they handed it to you at the kiosk and signed your name to see a caseworker and you waited. Nope. Filled out app and waited in line another forty minutes to be explained that I am at the wrong office - change of procedure in lieu of my residing zip code. Okay. Fine. Hop on the bus and clunk halfway across town to the "New Office". Entered - not more than four people waiting, not bad, I thought. Walked straight up to the kiosk and was told by the caseworker - without batting an eye - that I would be mailed an appointment. "But, I got no food in the house.", I plea. Bitch don't care. So, I walk out.
On the way back downtown, I stop at the halfway house called the Opportunity Center - a foul and rancid place filled with piss covered bums and grime crusted lunatics - to ask for a food voucher to the Food Bank. Got it. High tailed it to said Food Bank to be issued one measly bag of groceries. In the past - years ago - they would hook you up with all kinds of shit, so much it was near impossible to carry back home. But, no mas. Ugh.
I carried my pathetic bundle back home and prepared poor mans macaronis - macaroni sauteed in tomato sauce. With the a can of the last of my Pabst.
Was trudging down the street afterwards - staring at the ugly and fat denizens of this town - when I ran into Gabriel, my Native American friend. A few days earlier he was thrown out of the mish for coming in drunk - no fault of mine - and was sleeping on the streets. He looked rough. We sat in Plaza San Jacinto gawking at the alligator statue under a bright blue sky and talking of both our predicaments.
Gabriel was already lit. Pigeons would waddle near and he would extend his fingers cooing, "Here kitty, kitty."
"Wanna go drink?" Gabriel finally asked.
"Sure as shit." I said, dragging on a smoke.
When we approached the Bar Sante Fe, it was closed for remodelling. The roof had caved in - but a sign stated that it would be open for business at 5pm. It was 5:30. So, with a handful of other alkies we stood outside and joked on how thirsty we were. I struck up a conversation with a handsome Mexican named Jesus - struck me as a young Erik Estrada from the CHIPS days. He, too was a regular. And there was a collective sigh of relief when the owners wife showed up with the keys to the bar.
Several minutes later, we all took our places at the bar with a big mug of draft in front of us. "Ah," I sighed to Gabriel and Jesus who flanked me. "All is back to the way it supposed to be."
The night progressed and we three joked and sang to songs warbling on the jukebox getting more ripped as time passed.
Jesus started to degenerate into quite the queer and I was reciprocating. At one point he startled me and all that had non-blurry vision by grabbing me by the head and planting a kiss smack on the lips. Nobody cared. Gabriel continued to flirt with the plump bartender gal as sexual innuendo flew between Jesus and I.
Round 11, Jesus, Gabriel, and I stumbled the few blocks back to my flat for no particular reason. We sat on the hardwood floor passing around a forty of Steel Reserve and a joint Jesus miraculously pulled out of his blue denim jacket. The wind up is, Gabriel crashed snoring like a bear on the floor as Jesus and I lay in the bed talking in the shadow splattered room. Hands started to caress and stroke, erections were exposed and this handsome man found his way on top of me as I lay on my stomach. Jesus viciously lunged and thrusted until he climaxed. We lay silently until our breathing subsided.
Next morning, like a good host, I prepared instant hotcakes for the frazzled guests. Gabriel left for work and Jesus and I shook hands and new we would see each other again at the bar.
I sat at my desk, staring out at the hazy vista of Juarez, Mexico spread out across the horizon as the sounds of gunshots and explosions echoed across the Rio Grande.
I thought, "I like this new apartment, it's exciting."

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

How Long this Shit Gonna last?

"So, you're not gonna let Lalo stay with you?" He asked. The cold air enveloped us under that fucking bright Texan sun.
I took a drag from my cigarette - looked off to Juarez twinkling on the horizon. "Nah. He's survived 30 years without my help - he can go 30 more, I reckon. Plus, it will force him to get his shit together on his own."
Earlier, I latched the key to my door and pushed it open with my shoulder placing the plastic bags of purchased sundries onto the tiled floor. My new apartment was small - studio, kitchenette, bathroom with side french doors opening to a vista of Juarez City choked in smog and random gunfire. I took off my shoes and laid on my queensize as a few rounds popped off across the border. I took a nap in the comfort of once again my own place and without the bother of 100 hobos mucking up the place.
I awoke at dusk and headed to the local cafe for coffee. Walked by that shit hole Santa Fe Bar and noticed the Indian Gabriel through cracked and dusty windows stooped up against the bar. Walked in and was met with smiles, back slapping and good cheer. Lalo was with him. A lanky Mexican we had known from the mish - a good looking guy but acted like a fucking twelve year old when left to his own devices. Both were already lit. I ordered a mug of brew and hunkered down to shoot the shit with them.
The place was relatively empty - save for a couple of alcoholic old regulars and a little hottie on the far end.
Us three spent the time talking, laughing and playing goofy tunes on the jukebox. The drunker Lalo became the more touchy-feely the bastard became - goosing me at once right there in front of this hard nosed straight clientele and God. Had to spat to cut that crap out. As a fact - after I had played Star Wars by Mecco, that tacky 70's disco ear sore for kicks - for some reason we were told that the bar was closed and we given the boot - and it only 9:30!
No prob, we stumbled the two blocks over to that equally shitty shit hole dive called Po-po's. passing a ragged hobo dumpster diving with mean quips by Lalo. Fuck, some people just got no tact, know what I mean?
So, at said bar - we sit with our long necks and I bum the shit outta all and sundry by finding and playing Sycamore Trees by The Pointy Shoe Factory over the internet juckbox. That'll teach them Ranchero lovin' locals!
Across from us on the rectangular shaped bar was a drunken construction worker uttering drunken nothings to anyone who cared and for some weird reason Gabriel got on the warpath with this fucker and started glaring and insulting him. I mentioned that he needs to calm the fuck down and the red face took a Goddamn swing at me! Fuck these drunks, I thought and walked out the door and back home - drunk and irate.
Why did I stay in this fucked up town. Let me tell you the sad truth about these El Pasokins - they hate anything they can't understand, which is everything, and want to destroy everything they hate. Ignorant fucks. But, I guess that's moot since Gabriel just came from Chicago and all. Oh well - I was pissed. So, I storm down the darkened streets with Lalo bounding after me screaming "What's wrong? Whya leavin'?" I just walked on until he fell away.
Stopped at a store and bought a packet of smokes being eyed lasciviously by a young Mexican tramp shivering in a huge tattered overcoat sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup - yes, thought of inviting him back to my trap, but wasn't really up for it.
Next morning, I get a call not seconds outta the shower from Lalo that he and Gabriel were spit tested at the mish and given the boot. Lalo pleaded to stay at my apartment crackling empathy over the phone. Nah - don't think so. Sure, he's sexy nekkid and got some wang on him, but he too much a wild card for my taste.
Afterwards, I had met Gabriel in a cafe looking well beat and hungover - we discussed Lalo and his plans. Gabriel will return to Chicago - maybe - and that was that. We shook hands on a corner and said goodbye.
So, now I am stuck flat on my ass in a town I really don't like and my only two friends are lost out in the cold streets.
I really think I am just going to finish these two novels (It seems that the only inspiration I get to write these horrid prose is when I am suffering - if I become too comfortable, I don't write. Just wanna drink and masturbate.) and set my sights to Puerto Rico via New Orleans like I had originally planned.
The future seems so fukkin dark right now - so fukkin depressed....

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Shotgun Thoughts on the Matter.

And at 4:35am Tralala was hit and killed by a careening ambulance crossing the street loaded on goofballs and a fifth of Port wine.
The police have disbanded in vicious force the tent city by the mish - health hazard they say - something of City Ordinance 666 as ten squad cars beat and pound the squealing hobos from their ratty tents and cardboard igloos and old Mikey smiles under an overpass downing 211 and waving his shriveled penis at passing cars.
Laying in my bunk and the fucking goddamn roof caved in - spent half an hour sweeping up great grey globs of wet plaster and mold. I am certain I will get infected by something. Pent up and frustrated - sensing the end is near - end to this predicament, you understand, but I forget, you can't understand cause your retarded ass doesn't have a clue all safe and secure in your metabolic mental womb of normal conformity.
Young Miguel sleeps in the dirty dayroom - feet propped up on plastic blue chair - hard on throbbing up and out from his stained and faded khaki chinos as many a queer and curious walk by with eyebrow raised. Out back late at night downing rum and coke in a plastic 20oz Pepsi bottle spitting and hacking on the dust like a good junkie hobo and he admits with a cadaverous smile, "I like the crystal."
"Got any?" I ask - anything to keep his sexy lanky ass near me and talking - yes, that desperate I have become or is this normal corting? His long muscular neck a map of hickies from the horny ass bloated she bitch that he screwed behind some dumpster earlier that day. Sigh and swoon when he's near.
My patience has all but shriveled like a geriatric cock in a retirement center - no, wait, they got pills now, those old fucks can fuck like rabbits till they roll in the casket. A ver! There are - as reported in the El Paso Times and I quote - three toilets for one hundred men. They failed to chronicle that two are always smeared in feces at any given time and you are ankle deep in mud and urine - what happened to spot on journalism, the lazy fucks! So, days away from getting my apartment and I stomp around the hive with a pensive scowl.
Anyway, getting sidetracked - where was I - oh yeah, let's talk of Miguel, okay? Tall, handsome Honduran living here all illegal like but sexy as shit. And a hugger. Always hugging everyone, that boy. Not faggy, you see - just a touchy feely guy with the most hottest of Latin accents - must cut this short or will get my blood up.
So, we were out back of the warehouses yapping and drinking and enjoying ourselves under that dark navy sky and blanket of stars with that big full, yaller moon so close you just wanna reach up and goose it with I-10 breathing softly nearby - I am hell bent on Miguel's every word because I am interested in this character albeit he is a meth junky and alcoholic, but, no one's perfect right? You judgmental drama queens. So, I am laughing at his jokes and drinking when he whips out a picture of his girlfriend - a fucking corpulent cow of titanic proportions, dearie. My heart sinks. This modelish looking hobo can get any girl he wants and he picks a pig? I got jealous, yeah - but, wouldn't you?
So, I run long cold fingers across his bristled neck along the length of his hickies from this bitch - anything just to touch his person. And my head swoons. He smiles big and laughs at my blatant advances on his anatomy.
So, I tell him of Tralala and my drunk ass friends and my adventures and shit and he says in a joking manner that I have really earned that damn crazy check I get monthly. Yep.
He scoots closer on the concrete wall we are sitting right next to me and puts a lanky grey flanneled arm around my shoulders, "You are all right, mang. A little weird, but you cool."
And we sit silently in the cold holding our booze as Cheap Trick's Surrender plays over his little plastic transistor.
Things are okay.