Year's End.

Ready for another one.

Women.

American women have nothing to offer men, including the promise of sex. I’ve been in a lot of foreign countries, and the women there, regardless of how they dress or how anti-puritanical their sexual morality, come across to men as sexy and feminine; where as American women look slutty and bitter. I think that the reason for this is because American women project their hostility towards men no matter how they look, and men instinctively sense it. That’s why American women can only relate to thugs and idiots, because those types of males are too stupid to know the difference.

Any decent man needs to get away from American women; as fast as he can, any way that he can.

Fallen Angel of Lost Night

6:35pm. Juarez City.

Hot and dusty the sun beats down on my drenched flesh as truckload of Mayan faced black uniformed military roar by - Uzis slung at hip and they the look of predatory dogs. Cross the street into Plaza las Armas - cry of sellers of trinkets and paletas, cry of shoe shine boys, cry of religious fanatics, cry of babies in that unrelenting Mexican sun.

I find some shade beneath a dusty poplar tree and suck down a cigarette so nasty watching a demonstration in progress against the fascist takeover of Juarez City - or so it seems. Youths in red bandannas and black shirts shrill their opinions to a catatonic crowd. The pedophiles do their stylized ballet around the youthful boys - giggling and shrieking.

Drunken Indio shambles over and bums a smoke and start up conversation. A real funny guy - in his pigeon English he weaves his tale of woe from Michigan to Riverside to Idaho and the eventual deportation by our snarling la migra. Home of the free...

So, this Indio and I - ah, yes Eduardo, thank you - Eduardo and I cut down Avenida Mariscal to some hooch joint and it was dull by God - a regular house of ill repuke. Some hippopotamus in bikini and stilettos swirled and gyrated on the tiny stage to a Caribbean beat. I flat out spat at Eduardo that I am queer by act of congress and let's scram. Smiled he did at this revelation - that look in his bloodshot eyes I had seen before in the eyes of a rabid dog in heat.

We cut next door to some other joint - just a bar this go round - nudes on black velvet adorned the beaver board walls of the tiny joint. But, the waitresses were funny and the music was The King.

Maybe it was the beer talking or perhaps the fact that I was just horny - but I gazed at this Eduardo for the first time - it being a well-lit joint - and not bad. Tall, dark and well intoxicated. The crazy Indian drank the booze like it was water. I asked him why there was blood on his khaki pants in which the reply was, "Life is hard." Smile behind twinkling red eyes of the beat Fallen Angel of Lost Night.

Look over and lanky scumbag leers at me and enters water closet - keeps the door open so I can get good look at him wagging that obscene pickle in my general direction. Turns straight at me and flounders that fucker like a bruja's scepter and that puts an idea in my head - I lean to Eduardo and whisper a rather filthy invitation in his ear and his copper face lights up. He drunkenly nods and we are out the swinging doors and walking briskly down the cracked pavement in the warm early night. Cars honk and hookers hook as we both stride to my pad.

Key shoved in hole, black metal door banged open and as I stand in the middle of my room, Eduardo grabs me by the arms tight and slips his thick tongue between my lips. Laughingly quickly we peel our clothes off flung onto red tile and plop onto my bed - hands and fingers probe and stroke, lips kissed in drunken passion, stiffening organs rub and grind against copper flesh white flesh. I am pushed on my back and stare at the whirling ceiling fan as this boy sucks cock like a champ. I return the favor - both in sixty-nine that favorite position of mine - we squirm and grunt pleasing each other. Boy goes loco - grabs my ankles and places over his shoulders, licks his hand and smears the saliva on his throbbing cock. Slowly he slips into me, I gasp behind clenched teeth as the rhythm mounts. Bed sings in squeaks and boings as Eduardo fucks me like a porn star. I feel his organ stiffen more and his eyes glaze over as he yanks his cock out and white hot spurts splatter against my heaving chest. With a fluid plop he lays next to me and we share a cigarette under that slow spinning fan. Fall asleep in that mess; wake up shower and both walk around the corner for huevos ranchero, menudo and damn good coffee.

Outside three trucks of black uniformed rifle toting military youths roar by in a cloud of tan dust...

Mewwy Kwissmas

One More Day Until X-Mas.

Hoe Hoe Hoe

The neighborhood mooch - he being my far too handsome young friend named Squirt - just left my apartment...well, with a little less of Yuletide cheer.

He had the downright audacity to appear at my door and to request no less than $120 to purchase a Christmas gift for his high maintenance girlfriend. He would borrow it, he said. Paying it back, later.

"You don't work." I stated. "I'll never see it, again."

After fifteen minutes of his whining and pleading we came to an 'agreement'. He must really love that girl of his. He walked out with money in hand a look of embarrassed anger on his face. Happy Holidays, Squirt, hope your girlfriend's mother doesn't ask why you can't sit comfortably during Christmas dinner.

Sounds and Visions.

I am halfway through with a new novel. Basically, it recounts a haphazard road trip with myself and an old lover named Juan Holguin. I decided that I would make it semi-comical but with serious opinions concerning homelessness, loneliness, and the arrogant control culture of America today.

Also, it will be told through third person characters. John Poston (Me) and his romantic interest Rocko Tapia (Juan). So far, I am pleased with the results. Though the maudlin memories I had of Juan are all but faded - I haven't seen him since 2001, but we were together for three years - I sit sometimes remembering the good times, going through old photos of he and I. Last I heard, he was still with his wife and juggling five kids. I'm dedicating the book to Juan.

Here is the cover in process. I'm still tinkering with it. My deadline set for a completed first draft of the manuscript is March 2012.

Greasing The Wheels And Using Lots Of Lube

A mighty famous and quite gay online site published one of my stories. Most of the works on the site are political opinion and gay gender PC crap, something that is completely alien to me. So, I was thrilled when they accepted my horrid, little piece. Wasn't too happy when I read it on the site to find several parts edited without my knowledge. Guess that's the way the typing ribbon unravels in the big leagues. I have provided a link if you care to read it:

http://inourwordsblog.com/2011/12/22/its-going-to-cost-you-male-prostitution-in-tijuana/

Squirt.

He lives in my neighborhood. You know the type, hangs out in front of the liquor store, bumming smokes, spitting on the sidewalk with another vato or two, doing nothing but dreaming through time. He drops by my place now and again. Mostly when his mother is giving him flack to get his lazy ass out and get a job. A listless loser. But, a sweet kid, too. And so it goes.

He has a girlfriend - a plump little number with the gift of gab who lives with her alcoholic aunt in a shitty, red-brick building over by the dusty warehouses with the occasional cholo shootout. She seems to love him. I'm certain he loves her, too. And so it goes.

I met him a while back coming out of said liquor store - asked for a dollar, said he was hungry. Brought him home, fed him. He likes to lounge on the couch, immobile as a lizard - playing video games or watching movies. He really likes the Bruce Willis and Jackie Chan flicks. Mindless entertainment for one so mindless. Once in a while, we'll sit and talk for hours about stupid shit. He'll sometimes ask to pop in a porn and watch with that frozen, slack, poker face that every straight guy has when watching porn. I blow him when he want to. He asks and seems quite happy to leave it at that. And so it goes.

I gave him the nickname Squirt on account of one afternoon we were on the couch jerking each other off to straight porn and when he came, his semen squirted over his head and splattered the wall. He still laughs about it. I was upset for I had to clean it up later, cursing the virility of a twenty-one year old, cursing my faded years. And so it goes.

Today, I was crossing the street and Squirt and his girlfriend were walking in the opposite direction towards me. He caught my eye and guiltily escorted her quickly in another direction into a shop. The meaning is quite clear, my friend, our worlds can never cross.

And so it goes.

Saturday Afternoon Score.

The old Ford rattled to a stop in front of an adobe-brick building on the corner of two intersecting avenues. Splashed across the top of the door to the place, in gaudy colors, read Rex Billiards. On one side of the marquee was an amateurish depiction of a smiling hoochie in a bikini top with abnormally, gigantic, oval boobs holding a glass mug of frothy beer and on the other side, a painting of a snarling chihuahua adorned in a ten gallon Stetson and brandishing two six-shooters.

As I poured out of the car still somewhat rattled by the ride, I glanced across the street as pre-teen hookers in bright-colored spandex and catholic schoolgirl uniforms whistled at me and twinkling silver-capped teeth under the bright sun. They stood in front of a strip joint called Tuna Country, and as soon as the three, white-shirt clad doormen noticed my gringo ass, they began their over-excited, sideshow barking.

“No cover! Nice ladies!”

“Hey! Hey! Over here! Big titties! Hot pussy!”

“You like the young weemon – we got juicy pussy, para ti!”

“Warm beer, lousy service!”

One short and chunky doorman ran halfway across the street, outstretched his arms and bellowed to Heaven, “I got the biggest pussy in Mexico!”

I chuckled and put on my sunglasses, “You need to take that big pussy somewhere else, amigo.”

A tall, thin doorman with a drooping moustache, obviously wise to me, yelled, “No like pussy? We got boys – twelve years old!”

Hector strolled towards the door to the poolhall, “Let’s go.”

“Those guys are funny.” I smiled as I followed Hector through the open door.

The poolhall was dark as we entered from the outside. From a dusty jukebox in the corner, Mexican banda music blared obnoxiously loud. When my eyes adjusted to the dank, I was surprised to notice that the inside space was quite large. On a sunken floor reached by a short flight of concrete stairs, the room held ten, standard pool tables. The tables themselves were well-battered and over used, with the green felt on several apparently ripped or spotted with dark stains. A couple of tables were actually missing legs and had been propped up on plastic milk crates.

Towards the gloomy back of the hall, two of the four metal tables were occupied by a group of five men and two women. Other than them, the hall was void of customers. The men eyed silently as we approached. One squat and piggish female glared with heavily painted eyes at me with obvious lust, her small, pink tongue slithered obscenely across brown-stained teeth.

“Buenas tardes. (Good afternoon.)” Hector said.

“Buenas tardes.” I mumbled.

The assortment of locals repeated the greeting as we walked past them and up to a large, square hole that had been literally chiseled out of the solid, brick wall. This was the bar. Under a lonely lightbulb dangling from a wire, the bar was attended by a huge, stocky Mexican in a blue, sweat stained t-shirt that read Happiness is Coming embroidered across his ample moobs. He stood stoically amid boxes of beer and soda.

Hector and I leaned with elbows on the fake, wood paneling of the counter and ordered two caguamas of Carta Blanca cerveza. The clerk nodded and reached into a large bin of ice and withdrew two forty-ounce bottles of beer. As the clerk plopped the two bottles with red, plastic cups onto the counter, Hector asked in Spanish for a pool table.

“You wanna pay the guy? I’m low on cash.” Hector said.

I vacantly reached for his wallet, “How much for everything?”

The clerk rumble, “Cuarenta pesos o cuatro dólares.”

“Forty pesos.” Hector repeated. “Or four dollars.”

I pulled two twenty peso notes from my wallet and handed them to the clerk. The slovenly man grabbed the bills without saying a word and placed them into a worn, wooden box next to him.

Grabbing the beer and pool balls that were placed on the counter, we walked over to a table that seemed the best out of the bunch. The group that sat at the metal tables began their chatter again, as the jukebox switched over to a Spanish love ballad.

I began pouring beer into the two cups as Hector picked out a pool cue stick from a rack hanging on the avocado painted and scuffed wall. He deftly spun and examined the pool cue in those alien hands, then, placing his stick onto the table to test the balance, he grimaced as it slowly rolled on its own slightly to the left.

“Table’s a little warped, so keep that in mind while I beat your ass.” Hector smiled.

“Oh, yeah?” I said as I took a deep swig from the cold beer. “Think you’re gonna win? What you want to play for?”

“Well, I have no money.” Hector stated as he cued up the balls in the triangular rack.

“What a shock.” I quipped.

“Beer?”

“You have no money!”

“Sex?”

I laughed, “Now, I know I’m winning every game!”

Time passed as we knocked balls around, drank and laughed. I have the bad habit of finding the most audacious tunes on the jukebox and playing them over and over. I relished with inward humor and fear as I watched an old, bulldog faced vato in a dirty wife-beater and black felt fedora cringe each time the machine would play Flash! By Queen.

If they didn’t want to hear it, they shouldn’t have it in the jukebox, I smiled as I sunk another ball.

The sad part, and I knew it wasn’t a reality of a fact, yet feigned resentment at each pocketed ball, was that Hector was winning. Two for three and it seemed as if Hector would be victorious on the last, also.

“No dick for Louie.” Hector would sing-song softly each time that he sunk a ball.

“Shut up. All I have to do is wave a ten dollar bill in your face and those pants come flying off.” I spat.

“I’m not denying that, guero – but, this time, you could at least had a chance to earn it.” Hector grinned as he shot another ball down.

“Why, I oughta…”

At that moment, a tall, thin figure entered from the white brightness of outside. He was a cadaverous looking, middle-aged man with black slicked-back, shiny hair, pencil mustache, and a set of large, protruding eyes that bugged out from a disturbingly, skull-like face. The skin of his face was brown as a paper bag. He wore black slacks and a mauve, striped tie. Covering his dark-blue, buttoned-down shirt, the man donned a white doctor’s coat. With his one good eye, the left was blanketed over in milky cataracts, he scanned the pool hall.

Must work at a nearby pharmacy, I thought.

The man in the doctor’s coat casually walked over to us as a predatory smile wrinkled the unattractive and lined face. With his right hand out, palm up, he hissed in good English, “Hello, young men. Would any of you care to buy some good coke?”

Hector’s face lit up, “Coke?”

“Why are you going door to door, doctor?” I grinned. “Business that bad?”

The man shot a hostile glance with his one good eye to me, then returned his attention to Hector. Obviously, as far as the nefarious peddler was concerned, the Americano wasn’t even in the room, anymore.

I stood there gripping the pool cue, slowly turning it with my fingers. Oh, it’s like that? Wait until you find out who has to buy your worthless shit. Your attitude is going to do a 360.

“How much?” Hector asked the man.

The man reached down the front of his slacks and pulled out a small, plastic bag containing cocaine. He held it in an open palm up to Hector. “Pure and clean, amigo. Straight from Colombia. Won’t find the purest, anywhere.”

I sighed, “Probably cut to shit.”

“Be quiet!” The man hissed at me in a side glance.

Hector looked down at the bag, then over to me. Smiling at the man, he said, “I don’t know…I don’t have any money, compa.” He casually glanced back at me. “Unless, my friend wants to buy it for me.”

“Nope.” I spat out casually.

As thought, the demeanor of the peddler changed. With a smooth, oily voice, he smiled falsely at me and hissed, “You sure, guero? Only five dollars for the whole paper.”

“Nope.” I repeated with obvious smugness.

Us two stood a beat glaring at each other. My face was as calm and cool as a poker dealer.

The man clicked the top of his mouth with his tongue and turned wordlessly to the table of locals huddled by the bar. We resumed our game, the joviality of the moment was lost as we silently knocked balls around the table.

I took a drink of my beer, “So, where’s this friend of yours? Weed I can use right now.”

Hector’s mood lightened up, “Any minute, I’m sure. He’s always…there he is!”

A short, scrawny, young man rapidly came tromping down the entrance steps. He wore a black Metallica t-shirt, dirty black jeans, and a mane of long, jet-black hair that cascaded over a strong Aztec face. He rapidly strolled up to Hector and the two greeted each other in a street-wise handshake.

“About time you got here, Manuel! We’ve been waiting forever.” Hector smiled as he patted his friend on the shoulder.

The little Mexican grinned through silver teeth, “Ah…I was having problems with my old lady. Ever since she had my son, she’s been being a bitch.”

“Women will do that.” I uttered.

“Hey, this is my friend Louie.” Hector pointed over to me as I stood in the gloom of the hall. “He’s an American living here in Juárez.”

“Hola!” I chirped. “You want some beer?”

“Hola.” Manual mumbled. “Yeah, I’ll take some beer.”

Hector returned from the bar with an extra plastic cup and as he was pouring a drink asked, “Did you bring it?”

Manuel slurped his drink, “Of course, I got it. You got money?”

Hector meekly glanced at me, “Hey, spot me fifty pesos, guero.”

I walked up to Manuel and slapped a fifty peso note into the small brown hand. Manuel slipped the bill into his front pocket and then said to both of us, “C’mon.”

The others at the tables and the clerk ignored us three, as we followed the short Mexican into the mensroom identified with a crudely painted, laughing burro above the entrance.

The restroom was a biological nightmare. The reek of ammonia mingled with the stench of stale piss and feces. The white tiled room was a grungy tint of gray from a humming florescent light overhead.

Manuel sided up to the rust and grime cover porcelain sink and whipped out a baggie of marijuana from the crotch of his pants. He deftly unfastened the rubber-band and unrolled the cellophane bag, holding it up to Hector’s nose.

“Smell that.” Manuel smiled.

Instantly, the aroma of fine weed overpowered the rancid smells of the toilet.

Hector smiled, “That’s some bad-ass chronic, compa.”

“Told you I’d hook you up.” His friend chuckled.

“You always got the best shit, man.” Hector confided as he took the bag and held it up to the dim light from above.

“Well, I gotta get back to the old lady.” Manuel said. He shot a nervous glance to me, “Oye, guero, you got an extra five bucks? I gotta buy some pampers for my nino.”

Jesus! I thought, What am I The Junky Benevolence Society?

I sighed, “Sure.”

I pulled a five dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to Manuel, who then spun to Hector and with the same street-wise handshake said, “Gracias! Muy amable. I gotta go. Laters.” And, with that, the short Mexican curtly strolled out and up into the street to do whatever he does.

I looked at Hector, incredulously, “You and your cohorts are bleeding the bank, Hector. Remember, I’m unemployed at the moment. And, you’re welcome.”

Hector simply shrugged it off, “Let’s go and smoke this shit.”

And, we did.

A Princess of Mars!

Edgar Rice Burroughs' science-fantasy story originally published in 1917, A Princess of Mars, was the first novel that I had ever read cover to cover when I was a wee lad. A massive tale saturated in glorious detail concerning the heroic exploits of one earthman named John Carter who, having been stranded on the dying planet Mars, unites the warring tribes of the planet and saves the Princess Dejah Thoris in the process. Fantastic adventure stories of science fiction, fantasy, and daring do.

Well, decades later, Hollywood finally has made a film based on the first book (It will be released as a trilogy a la Lord Of The Rings a year apart, based on the John Carter trilogy of books: A Princess of Mars, The Gods of Mars, and John Carter Warlord of Mars) From this trailer, it seems they nailed it right on the head! I definitely will be there opening day March 9th to see this!

In Dreams, I Walk With You.

I was lying in my bed in the cool darkness of a late afternoon. The shades were closed - I never have them open anymore. What the fuck is there to see outside? Obese and ancient Mexicans in ratty clothes? Homeless screaming at the sky? Dead shrubs? Rotted trees? A lifeless city?

My bed is set on the floor - no frame, just box spring and mattress. Grey colored, cotton sheets. Grey comforter.

I gaze down to my pale legs in the half light and - in part horror and part morbid curiosity - I noticed small, pimple-like bumps on the lower part of my legs. About ten or twelve of them. I glide my hand smoothly over the skin, reading the bumps like Braille, feeling the soft, sparse hairs. In a fit of paranoia, I pop one of the offending blemishes with thumb and forefinger, curiously mortified that it wasn't puss or blood that issued forth - but, the tiny larvae of some insect - like the blow fly.

The white, pulpy worm wiggled out of its cocoon in my flesh and plopped onto the dusty tiled floor. I sat for some time, squeezing these things out of my leg. One after another - a couple I noticed dragged long, pink, fleshy tube strips of my muscle with them clamped firmly in hind mandibles - as they humped and wriggled across the tile, disappearing under chairs and into dark shadows. I sat a moment and watched these maggots move away with a bit of sadness - sadness over my obviously deteriorating body. There was no pain. No blood. Simply the bewildered curiosity and annoyance of why and how they were there in the first place.

I curled up into a fetal position under my blankets in a vain attempt to return to sleep. I felt a nick (Or a bite) just under the right side crown of the head of my penis. I always sleep in the nude - wouldn't have it any other way.

Then I felt a moistness in my pubic hairs and when I glanced under my grey blanket, I noticed a rather deep and large pool of blood. The blood was odd - it was thick and sludge-like. With freaky paranoia, I leap out of bed to the bathroom, leaving splats of dark, crimson blood droplets on the tile. Examining where I felt the sharp and piercing pain, there was indeed a tiny gash like incision. Again, no pain - only deranged, uncollated bewilderment.

I cleaned the blood off the best I could, urinated, and went back to my bed to lay down. My feelings being wracked in deep sadness and depression that I was overcome by these maladies and powerless to stop it.

--- A dream that I had the previous evening.

Another One Goes Down In Flames.

Black Clouds

This November has had to be the worst this year. Earlier this month, I learned that my mother had passed away. That hit me hard and I am still feeling the residual effects. I will always miss her. A few days after that, an old friend who resided in San Francisco - who I had known since college and suffers from the same insidious mental derangement that I do - fell to his demons and committed suicide. And finally, through no fault of my own, I had terminated that relationship I had.

It has been a red-letter month to say the least. I have dealt with it the best way I could. But, as if I am standing in the surf, with the waves of depression have been coming on stronger and higher. I have been battling the urge - a strong urge - to simply pack my shit and hit the road. It really would be liberating at this point and no big loss on my current apartment. When I had that wild hair up my ass on going to teach English in Southeast Asia, I had sold half my furniture in lieu of leaving. I could easily rid myself of the rest.

Where would I go? Anywhere but here is preferable. Anywhere but here.

Hopeless Hope.

I don't care if we wind up living in a squalid flat next to the train tracks breathing soot and dirt and too poor to eat anything good. I don't care that no one will read my horrible little stories about faggots and outcasts and junkies of the world while you sit and do your crossword puzzles. I don't care as long as I have you. You are the best thing to come into my life in a long time, Hector Marquez and I don't care about anything else.

There's No Way.

AMERICA! FUCK YEAH!

ghost of love

Dark and well past midnight. His copper colored-skin, a muted red from the cigarette that illuminated his face in the half light. Quiet. We can hear each other breath. In the near distance down by the black, long shadows off the empty street, the sound of four gunshots. Somewhere a dog barks. Under the blankets, we draw nearer, the warmth of his smooth skin, the softness of his hair, the pleasant smell of his torso. It stimulates me - smooths me out.

I feel so calm as we intwine. Arm around my shoulder, head on his chest, I look up and see the outline of his aquiline features in the red glow of the cigarettes cinders. Hooked nose, thick pouty lips, thick eyelashes, straight black hair hanging limply over forehead.
Outside the blankets, the room is ink black and cold with clothes thrown about the carpeted floor. The smell of sweat and semen waft in the stillness mixed with cigarette vapors - but, inside the blankets it is warm and still and tranquilo. Not a word is said, but the feeling is there a fallaheen feeling of togetherness like I have not felt since...
He puts the cigarette out in the tray on the table next to the bed. We intwine tighter, he draws me near, and a small kiss on my forehead. Slowly and surely, I hear his slight breathing as he falls asleep. I lay there and stare into blackness - out in the night a lonesome train horn blows - my hand gently slides up and down his thin side coinciding with his slow, steady breathing.
Eventually, I succumb to sleep, too - dreaming of Argonauts in fiery ships...

Happy Halloween!

It's a Love Thing.

Kissing is man’s greatest invention. All animals copulate, but only humans kiss. Kissing is the supreme achievement in the Western world. Orientals, including those who tended the North American continent before the ravagement, rubbed noses, and thousands still do. Yet despite the golden fruit of their millennia—they gave us yoga and gunpowder, Buddha and corn on the cob—they, their multitudes, their saints and sages, never produced a kiss. The greatest discovery of civilized man is kissing and I do cherish it.

A Blue Tomorrow

It has been almost a week since I found out and I am still feeling blue. Last Saturday evening as I was sending a message on facebook concerning book sells, I noticed under the word message (not the icon that usually notifies me of current private messages) the number 32. I clicked onto and found an entire slew of messages from people. Obviously, with facebooks new changes, I get notified of messages only from people who are on my friends list. I noticed a few from my sister and one from my nephew - they had attempted to contact me to let me know that my mother had passed away on August 23rd.

At first, I was quite livid because of the tardiness of the notes - cursing facebook even more when I attempted several times to send a message reply to my sister only to keep receiving an "Oops! Error! Please try again later!" to finally a full out ban for four days in lieu of spamming someone who is not on my friends list. Ugh!!

Eventually, I called my sister and we chatted. Mother passed peacefully and was cremated a few days later.

The following day, it hit me pretty hard. I felt such a sadness. Is this what it's like to mourn?

Sunday afternoon I had gotten the idea to walk downtown and find a church, sit and pray, giving my final respects. I walked to no less than five churches and they were all closed on a Sunday?! I even went to the old catholic cathedral on Oregon St. - a nun was there (Or a Mother Superior, I don't know which, I'm not catholic) yet, she wouldn't let me in on account I didn't speak Spanish.

So, I just walked over to a quiet park, sat on a bench, and did it there. I thought about her as I was a kid, to the last day I saw her in Eureka, I thought of the funny, silly ways she would joke and make me laugh, I thought of the hard and cold times at the hand of that brutal monster that she had married - a million memories flushed through my head. I sat and weeped.

I'm going to miss you, mom. I always had and always will, love you. I will miss you so much.

Occupy El Paso

And, so...the protesters had occupied the downtown plaza for a week, now. Hipster kids mostly, lounging in the grass laughing, talking, playing hacky-sack as demonstration signs lean scattered askew nailed or hung to posts and trees. The protesters only stir from their idle reverie when the camera arrives - leaping up to get their greasy, hairy faces seen by the folks back home.

A just cause. But, in the end, futile.

Yesterday, I spoke with one of their ring leaders who invited me to attend a 'rally' that was to begin at seven that evening. He became somewhat belligerent when I stated that why was no one protesting and just laying around. If only they or any protesters for that matter, could harness that anger into a force that could be reckoned with.

Well, I was hit up several times by scrawny, white kids with dread locks for cigarettes. At least, that was motivation for something.

You should be here!! Occupy!! a sign blares. Indeed. It seems the prevailing motive with the local hipsters is to be at least part of "Something...anything."

I wanted to gather the nerve to blatantly ask one of these gung-ho occupiers if they indeed had made a difference. But, much like them, I don't care.

On a lighter note - the occasional car still whizzed by honking. Yet, as we all realize, honking will not change things. I could stand on the corner brandishing a sign that said Honk If You're Horny and get the same reaction. Hell, most of the protesters barely looked up at the passing autos - lazy fucks! Do something!

The only positive thing was that the protesters encampment had put a curb on the screaming preachers that infest the plaza. It hadn't deterred the hobos and sexual predators, though. With all the kids around, they came out in legion.

I sat on a bench, bored after handing out my umpteenth smoke and just left with the realization that ones that the protesters are protesting against had won a long time ago...

The Soft Machine.

It seems that I had fallen into the arms of an unsuspected romance. Am I complaining? Not in the least. After two, self-inflicted, dry years of utter monotony and self-debasement, the uncertain step into a glob of love is a refreshing experience to say the least.

Life has become more tolerable, more livable. I do not have the urge to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs or fling myself in front of a city bus, anymore. Who knew that all misery, all paranoia, all self-hatred and self inflicted pain that life throws at you could be easily and effortlessly brushed away by the hand of a willing and caring partner.

His name is Hector Marquez. I had actually met him five years ago when I used to live in Juarez. A pure, uncut boy of the street - would run the night circuit with a pack of wild rentboys that prowled the Plaza Las Armas. He alone, with sly grin and street charm, would seek me out from the pack and attempt to woo me to my apartment or hotel and each time I would deny him and refuse his obvious advances. I did not want to be just another "john" in his scheme of things.

Jump to two years ago when we are re-acquainted one evening. He was dressed in a clean uniform and stated that he was on his way to work - an actual, real job of graveyard clerk at a convenience store called Oxxo.

Two years of lopsided courtship - mainly on his side - and I finally succumbed to his interest that he stated that always went farther than I had previously thought.

"I've always liked you. " He confided. "When I used to see you sitting in front of the cathedral in the plaza talking with your friends, you looked so handsome to me. And, the fact that you didn't see me as just another piece of meat turned me on even more. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you."

If only I wasn't blinded by my Ugly American attitude back then, because the thing was - I secretly was attracted to him. But, I made the mistake of falling for a hooker before and told myself I'd never travel down that road again.

Yet, people change. Hector has held his job for three years, now and helps support his ailing mother - a sweet and understanding person in her own right, she completely accepts her only son's sexuality and likes me, too boot!

So, there you have it. A small monument to a man who has won a cold robot's heart. I will not go all mushy and say that this relationship will last forever - nothing ever does - but, I definitely will ride this strange torpedo to the end.

Wrapped In The Flames Of Devils.

So, downtown I went and decided to do lunch at Burger King - well not in it, but al fresco and took my dollar-menu burger and cheap ass to Plaza San Jacinto. Nice day with big Texas blue sky and fluffy white clouds, you dig? I sit under a shaded tree and watch cops rumble a couple of cuties on the other side of the park. Seems said hotties where partaking in public drinking of alcohol - I gobbled my burger as one cholo grudgingly poured his beer - a Steel Reserve 211 - into a thirsty bush. Too bad, kids.

Finished my lunch and walked around the park - the two guys that the cops harassed wobbled up to me. Damn - they looked even better close up. Problem was - they were shit faced drunk.

"Hey, man!" said the one in the blue baseball cap. "Did you call them cops on us?"

Smiling, I retorted, "Don't be stupid - and I saw they made you pour out your Steel Reserve. That's fucked! My favorite beer. Guess I hafta by you fellas new ones."

Their eyes lit up like Christmas trees and my mind was set in motion - perhaps some madcap sexual adventures will ensue...

We walked over to the covenient convenience store on Mesa Street and I purchased three tall cold ones from the daffy lezbo and with much yuk-yuks and hardy hars, I found out the guys name with the blue baseball cap was Steve and his friend with the shaved head was Tony. Both fresh outta the clink this morning - for public intoxication. Life imitating art, people.

Well, I was always a sucker for a handsome face and these two had the complete package - so, I had nothing to lose and decided to drink with them. But where? Cops were diving and swooping around on 10 speeds like fucking piranha.

We trumped in the afternoon heat to find a safe drinking hole - Steve took it far too serious. He lead us to a filthy pit behind an abandoned house - No way, buddy! Too dirty for this uppity queen - I mean really! So we stomped up to a small park behind the civic center and under a nice shady tree, began to drink there - until two coppers whizzed nearby on bikes. Ugh - what a bother! What is this a fucking police state all of a sudden?

Eventually, we found ourselves under the overpass to the I-10 freeway and finished our beers there. Discussed many a things. The topic of making jack off videos came up and Tony and Steve whole heartily agreed that much money could be made peddling their wacking talents on the Internet. Hold up, I want to state right here and now that it was in no way shape or form my instigation in this matter - okay? Steve even popped a boner - wow - impressive

Well, we returned to the plaza and for some damn reason as we sat flapping our gums in intoxicated candor until some scum-bum named Harold - lanky, fuzzed out hair and no teeth - wobbled up to Steve and for no damn rhyme or reason, the two just went at it in a WW Smackdown dragged out fist fight right in the middle of the plaza. And then, after whopping some jerk on a bike that decided to get involved and be some cowboy citizen - mind your own business, you ass! - the cops showed up and dragged them away.

I just said goodbye to Tony - who mumbled something about returning home and shlupped myself back to my trap. Guess I won't be seeing Steve for awhile...

Puff.

I don't care what the current trends dictate. Smoking is sexy.

We Can Be Heroes.

I hate how we live in a culture of indifference. Eli Wiesel once said that “the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” And that was back in 1986. It’s almost 20 years later and yet we live in a world where people don’t speak up. They walk by idly as the weak are oppressed, as victims are raped and murdered in the streets. Where are the brave souls that act when they are called to? Where are the men, the women, the children, that will stand up when they see someone abused, broken and forgotten.

We are creatures of timidity. Yet, we crave courage and honor. We are polar opposites of the ideals that we idolize. I myself am a paragon of this fault. I know that I am guilty of not standing up but that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t want the world to stop being less indifferent. Every day I wish I were more courageous… That I could speak up when I feel the most without a voice… Maybe one day that will change… But for now that is what I would seek to change. Get rid of indifference and the world is left with love.

The Blind Mouth

Ciudad Juarez, Mexico:

My room is on a roof. I can see blue mountains across from the City which sprawls out like a simmering, colorless vista in every direction, occasionally dotted by cell-phone towers. After work, Hector comes to my room and brings a packet of griefa, "Muy bueno para follar guero." We are sitting on the edge of the roof, our legs dangling in the air. I point to the sky above the blue mountains and tell him "Some day I will go away in that direction."

He looks at me and wrinkles his forehead like a dog and says I shouldn't think such things is muy malo. I can see he is sad, feeling the sky between us.

Later, I am in the shed behind his house where we change and take showers. Hector is there. The others - his mother and visiting cousin - have gone because it is a fiesta. Hector has his shirt off and his skin is smooth like polished brown wood. He peels an orange and the smell of orange fills the shed. He breaks the orange in two and gives me half and pulls me down to sit beside him on the bench. He finishes the orange and licks his fingers. Then he puts his arms around my shoulders and I can see his pants sticking up between his legs.

"Yo muy caliente, guero. Very hot." He rubs his forehead against mine. "Quiero follarte."

His body is warm like an animal and I feel a soft tingle in my stomach and I say "Muy bueno." We take off our clothes. There is a musk smell from his tight brown nuts. He brings out a little tin of Vaseline he carries in his hip pocket because sometimes he would fuck a tourist for money, he has always carried it. I take the tin and rub Vaseline on his cock feeling it jump in my hand like a frog, he is standing there teeth bared, gasping..."Vuelvete y aganchete, guero"...I turn around and bend over, hands braced on knees and let myself go limp inside as he slides it in. I could see out through a little dusty window the junk filled, back yard and the setting sun on the tiled roofs like bits of silver paper, and when I spurt the the world seems to stretch out and then snap back pulling my eggs together and I am spurting out, silver spots boil in front of my eyes and the window blacks out.

I am sitting on the bench my head against the wall and he is rubbing a towel on my face. "You black out, guero." He touched my cheek and looked at me showing the red gums and belched a smell of oranges. "You very good for fuck."

Darkness falls on the ruined suburbs. A dog barks in the distance. Dim jerky stars are blowing away across a gleaming empty sky...

Cock-Adoodle-Doo.

"Buenas dias." He says.

"Good morning." I blink groggily up to him.

I feel you. I see you. I taste you. Through the hollow stillness I reach out my hand and gently press my fingers against yours. Elysium greets us with the old familiar smell of swirling white asphodel. The wind tickles the trees and scatters the playful leaves. I open my eyes and look down at my arms. In this waking dream the skin is smooth, no scars.

In this waking dream there are no scars. For now, no more blue tomorrows.

War of the Worms.

The Old Queer squirms on a lime stone bench in Plaza las Armas, Ciudad Juarez. That being in Mexico, cabron. (Indian adolescents walk by, arms around each other’s neck and ribs); strain his dying flesh to occupy young ass and thighs, tight balls and hard spurting cocks. A boy walking past, turns, grins at him and yell "Que tal, chief?", their boy innocence achingly whip across his sagging buttocks and drooping loins. He screams, an enigmatic Sybil with dark glasses and grey face. Piss blood warm on his withered thighs.

I set my pen down on my notebook and look at the clock on the cafe wall. There was a vato at the counter giving me the eye and I delineated a vague good impression like something half seen from a bus window - back from the screaming, shuddering sickness, everything so sharp and clear it hurts, suddenly smeared with grey smoke - the clock had jumped ahead like the time will after 2pm even for a sick junky - and I don't want to know about him or anybody...

"Hector." I mouth the name silently, finish my coffee and cigarette – we fought and argued over same silly shit. He wants me to stay in Juarez for the sole benefit of my finances. Out of the nine billion fucked up souls on this planet, he picks me to support him and his ma. No, I whisper.

The night prior, his cousin had visited from Tabasco – by name of Adrian, a sultry, walking hard on with the air that no one, and I mean no one, will refuse his glare when he pin-points your ass to pummel in unbridled macho-lust. We had sat on the roof of Hector’s one story, adobe trap drinking beers and listening to cha-cha reggeaton as out in the paranoid City, citizens partied, fucked, and died. Gunshots in the distance mixed with jukeboxes and car horns. I blew smoke from a joint up into a dark sky blanketed in a swath of twinkling stars. After the beer began to flow, Hector began the same old-same old and it pissed me off, or should I say, irritated the fuck out of me because I was held in the trance of Adrian’s hypnotic spell and all I wanted was that sultry motherfucker to screw me into the dirt.

“You’re being a letdown, boy and an all-around drag.” I drearily said to Hector.

He then went into full bitch mode: Droning on about his financial woes and the cold, imperious nature of your common American homosexual that, if I didn’t know better, was aimed at me. I retorted that if he cared for me as much as my bank account, he would have so much to complain about.

Hector flew into a tizzy (macho homo that I first met two years ago is really declining into a full, fledged fag) and stomped downstairs to warrant sympathy from his mother because he wasn’t gonna get shit from my gringo ass. I sat there a moment, holding my caguama – silently contemplating the conundrum. Adrian had other ideas. He got up off the milk crate he was stooped on, silently walked over to me, gently pushed my head back and stood over me, shoving his tongue into my mouth. I sat there – all quite around us except for the occasional smack or slurp – when all of a sudden Adrian is violently hurled away from me from a rather pissed off Hector who silently slunk back up onto the roof. Hector roared at the well-inebriated Adrian to get the fuck offa me or something like that as the two did a short ballet around the roof swinging blows. I sat there, watching this stupid mess and as I light a cigarette, Mother of Hector swoops up and puts an end to these faggoty-ass shenanigans.

A few words are exchanged and I utter I’m going to get a hotel room to think this silly shit through. And, I do.

As I began this post: Sitting in this café thinking. No one here but me – syphoned inna booth. I do care for Hector. Physically. Mentally. Not too much emotionally. However, after a decade in dealing with this culture, I am befuddled that I still carry that snotty ass attitude of West Hollywood with me when dealing with these gay fuckers. Of course it will be a financial boon to him and his mother - they have nothing. What do I get out of it? A few kicks? I want more. I want what every red-blooded homosexual wants. I want to be loved back. Unconditionally and without strings. But, that seems an impossibility in this land of Mexico. Unless I hook up with some simpering, fey faggot and that truly sickens me.

Fuck it. I leave the cafe stroll through dusty near empty streets. A mangy, yellow dog stares at me from a mountain of garbage. Happy fat Mexican waves at my white ass from his shop. A group of chattering Indian women hush up as I walk by on the smashed sidewalk. I stop in an internet cafe and type this shit out. Yeah, I'm going back to Hector's house. I think I love him.

Eye Nose.

Down the Rabbit's Hole.

Among the crumbling masonry and sagging, wooden roofs, garbage and feces and urine simmered in one hundred degree weather. Short, bloated hookers tottered on frayed, cracked pumps silently eyeing darting con men and pushers of fine, illegal substances, as bored police patrols languidly rode on noiseless bicycles like barracuda hunting prey.

I lit a cigarette and cut past burrito row - smells of rancid fat, rotten salsas, burnt meats - past the fat naco that chewed on a toothpick, he apathetically checking out the intense gringo strutting without fear or hesitation through mean, dusty streets, up to a hamburger restaurant just around the corner.

The small hamburger joint teetered on the cliff of a canal that brimmed with stagnant water - garbage and yellow turds floated dreamily in the gawdamn bright Juarez sunlight.

There were no customers as I entered the cafe, a row of six mix-matched tables and chairs scattered on red-tiled floor. On one wall was an immense, amateurish mural depicting a demented, nostalgic memory of Michoacan - or damn near it. The jukebox wailed ranchero music as the smells from the kitchen battled with the ever-lingering stink from the canal.

Hector strode out from back all handsome and shit and gave me the glad hand.

"Glad you made it!" He smiled and I assured him I hadn't let him down, yet. He stated that he wanted to get a room at the Hotel Rex across the street, coyly giving me a lascivious wink. I said sure as a small family entered the cafe and took a table.

I sat, too, at my own table in the back corner, and ordered the specialty of the house - a gigantic hamburger with all the trimmings and a Pepsi for just a buck.

I thought it was cute as I sat there, the way Hector would asked me for advice on how to wait on the family properly - Hector had recently acquired the job and wanted to impress, I guess. As the family sat and ate, I chomped on my own burger - swatting flies as Hector counted out his till for the day. His replacement arrived and off we jetted across to Hotel Rex.

Elbowing our way through clomping hookers that blocked the entrance, we paid the fat stinkbomb behind the reception grate the one hundred pesos for a room - he winking at me with his one good eye, obviously thinking we fags or something and going to use the room as our own personal passion pit. I mean, really! The nerve!

Hector and I shot up the wooden stairs to the second floor - my Knight telling me to "Wait a minute" as he steps to a green door and quickly raps with his knuckles.

Quien es?

Soy Hector!

The door is opened by a scrawny kid with a wild mane of hair and skin a pallor of someone who hadn't seen the sun in years. The young junky stares at me blankly and in mute hostility - his eyes all twinkly and shit, but invites Hector inside as I must wait in the hall like some commoner.

A minute passes and Hector walks out and we retire to our room on the third floor. Jingle of key, open thin wood door to a ratty room of old, dark wood. Sagging bed, foul smelling linens, and the walls covered in graffiti. We both take no time in laying out three lines of coke onto the bureau that is pock-marked with hundreds of cigarette burns.

Snoooooort! Snnnniff! Woooop!!

We both cut out into the streets on a mission, by God - first place we hit was the Bar El Durado. Dark joint, cute bartender. Hector explains that I am interested in renting an apartment.

"Of course, senor." The bartender smiles, wiping the counter in front of me with a dirty rag. "Chuey!!"

Chuey slinks out of the darkness - a bent, shriveled old thing in black pants, dirty, white shirt, and bow tie. He slicks his black hair back on his shiny, bulbous head with one hand as he gestures to a spiral staircase with another, "If you'd follow me."

Up the spiral staircase to a long, musty hall lined on both sides with a row of doors. We are in a whore house.

"Where's the apartment?" I ask.

He opens the last door in the hall. It is simply a large bed covered in red, silkish blankets with black tassels. The room smelled of clorox and cunt. An end table with equally queer lamp and above the bed, a huge poster of the Virgin of Guadalupe with a scowl that wouldn't quit. There was no bathroom, no kitchen.

"A nice room. Only $200 a month, senor." The creep hisses.

A fucking room in a whore house? Are you kidding me? I can picture myself attempting to write or read or enjoy television with the sound of hookers fucking all around me.

"I'm going to check out one more place and then I'll let you know." I smiled.

Out on the street, I scold Hector about this selection. He shrugs and we move on.

Next to the Bar El Paso was a gated door that led down a dank hall to hidden apartments. I peered in, but all I could see were rusted gas tanks and dented trash cans.

Across the street, young hustler see's my lily-white skin - pops a boner - and comes running at us. "Hey! Hey! Gotta cigarette, meester?!"

"You know how we can get in here?" I ask, pulling out a smoke and handing it to him. "I want to talk to the landlady."

"I live here. " He says.

"Good!" I grin. "You can open the gate for us, then!"

"I don't have my key."

"Well, how the fuck do you expect to get into your apartment?" I say.

"You Americans" He shakes his head. "Always theenking you so smart."

The hottie puts his face up to the bars of the gate and yells into the darkness, "Bigote!!! Bigote!!!!!"

I stood there, glancing over at Hector, confused at why this kid was yelling 'moustache' in Spanish. Well, so much for us smart Americans, as this old fucker with the biggest Pancho Villa moustache in all of Latin America comes shuffling out of the gloom. Bigote.

Unlocking the gate, Bigote and the hustler exchange words and Hector and I am escorted into the back. Not bad - patio surrounded by five or six adobe-style apartments. Unfortunately, the landlady was nary to be seen as as luck would have it, Bigote explains she has been missing for a few weeks. I inquire on the rent and they both state $80 a month. I peek my head into Bigote's trap and a good sized room with bathroom and adjacent kitchen. Bigote gives me the landlady's cell-number and Hector and I high-tail it out of there.

Hector and I returned to the hotel, did a couple of lines, sucked each other off, did another line after that - Hector had been badgering me to move back across the border to Mexico for some time. I seriously really want to - damn the death toll. We all die, right? Who wants to live forever? I've met nothing but self-important assholes in El Paso (No big shock, there - it's El Paso, people - the shittiest city with the shittiest citizens in the world - been proven right time and time again since 1997!) Afterwards, I returned stateside in the knowledge that soon I will be again living in Juarez...