Sunday, March 30, 2014


When you're less than zero, when the immeasurable amount of mistakes, wrong turns, mischance, dead ends, stupid decisions, heart breaks and let downs which had accumulated over a long, frustrating year pile up so high that you cannot even see the summit, when you're less than zero the only way is up and out, right? I surely hope so, because for the first time in my hip, suave, sinister, two-time dealing, insidious, deviant existence I am out of fucking ideas. There are no more cards up the old sleeves.
I sit quietly in someones else's house listening to a dog of mammoth proportions breath and snuffle, my umpteenth cigarette smoldering in an over-filled ashtray, and I wonder - what the fuck am I going to do? More importantly, I guess, what the fuck is it that I want?
That is the main question, perhaps. I have a vague idea of what I am attempting to do in the immediate future. But, is it what I want? I have been offered a house - which I don't want. I have been offered new friends - who I care little of. The scheme of things, my life's direction - the big kahuna - crashed and burned down the same insidious rabbit hole - coming to the same conclusion which has plagued me for over a decade: I want nothing. Nothing. In the most raw, base, simplest form of the word. I wish to speak to no one. To see no one.To interact with no one. To simply lay in my apartment on whatever ratty bed I acquire and live and re-live my past experiences and thoughts in my slowly disintegrating mind. My body has begun to deteriorate at a rapid state and I have become ashamed, not wanting anyone to witness this crumbling of the self.
Perhaps it is time to shut the soft machine down. It sure in hell isn't producing anything. Nothing.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Typical Me I Started Something

Around midnight I was crossing the international bridge from El Paso to Juarez. The lights on either horizon flickered like yellow and emerald jewels as a light, gritty breeze blew. I huddled in my coat from the chill. Stragglers, undocumented hopefuls, drunks, and graveyard workers marched like ants on the other side of the bridge towards the States. Nearly over the edge to Juarez, I smiled at the Mexican custom agent, who didn't smile back and only waved me through. Suddenly, the night was broken from the guttural, desperate yell of someone calling out my name. I glanced over to the other side of the bridge.
I had met him at the shelter. Medium height, stocky with a prize-fighters physique. I had always thought of him as handsome but was wary to state it on our few exchanges of dialog in the soup lines. He came across as hopelessly heterosexual. He stood on the other side of the bridge smiling a great row of teeth but his forehead was wrinkled in exasperation.
"That bitch done stole my shoes!" He hollered.
"What?" I asked, stopping in my tracks.
He casually vaulted the concrete wall and timidly sauntered across the car lanes. He was wearing all black - black t-shirt, jeans, but his feet were only adorned in dirty white socks. "That bitch done stole my shoes!" He repeated comically. When he reached me he began, "Man, that fucking bitch stole my shoes!"
"I heard you the first two times. What happened. Other than that?" I asked, puffing on a cigarette. The Mexican customs officer looked away bored - la dee da.
"I wanted some pussy, so I came over here to j-town to get some. I found this fine bitch hanging out on the street. Damn she had a ass on her and titties for days. We went to a hotel and fucked. It was stupid! She was acting all fucking paranoid and shit."
"Maybe she was afraid of your dick." I quipped like a silly queen.
"Maybe. I don't like the fucking lube she used. It made my shit all itchy. Anyways, afterwards, I lay a twenty on the dresser and went into the bathroom, then - thwipt! - she was out the door and that hoe took my shoes when she left!"
"Did you cum at least?" I asked nonchalantly.
He gazed down at his sock wrapped twiddling toes in desperation, "No."
"Did you use a condom at least?" I asked with the air of a condescending mother.
"Mmm. Good. Look, I'm renting a room not too far from here. Maybe I have something that we can cover those feet in."
As he hobbled over the dusty, cracked and garbage littered sidewalks the two blocks to my sordid flat, he told me his feet size and we were compatible. Down the alley, up the steel staircase, turn the key in the lock - home. I switched on the light and smelled the stale, comfortable air. He entered and sat on the squeaking bed as I moved over to the closet and retrieved a pair of old boots that I didn't wear anymore. I handed them to him.
"There you go. Perfect fit." I grinned.
The boots were those just over the ankle ones with zippers on the sides. He looked at them on his feet. "Are these girls boots?"
"Funny." I said sarcastically. "Well, shouldn't you be getting back to the shelter? I know they at the shelter think you work until midnight. I don't want you to get in trouble and lose your bunk."
His blocky head glanced around the apartment - the rickety furniture, a sitting chair, sagging red couch, the television, and the piles of books splayed everywhere.
"Hey, can I stay here the night? I'm fucking beat. I can go back tomorrow and say I missed the bus."
I looked down at him and said, "Why not? As long as take a shower before you sleep. I don't want that bitches cooties or stink in my bed."
He laughed and said okay. I went into the kitchen and retrieved two beers as he undressed in the doorway of the small bathroom. The lights in the living room were out and the sole illumination came from the bathroom casting ominous shadows of him across the warped wood panelling of the main room. I tried hard not to gawk as he bent over and yanked down his boxers, tossing them onto the pile of rumpled clothing next to the sink.
"Afterwards, I have beer." I said lightly clearing my throat. "You want to watch a movie?"
He stood and asked blankly, "Got any porn?"
Well, that was to the point. "Of course." I said.
As he took a brief shower, I cued up the DVD player and sat on the bed. When he exited the bathroom, he was wearing nothing but his t-shirt, his frame silhouetted by the harsh bathroom light. He must've seen the look on my face - partly surprised, I knew him from his long tirades about his sexual conquests featuring the fairer sex - I did not realize he was bisexual. I guess prison does that to a man. Son cosas de le vida...
He glanced over at the television were some Asian girl was getting her money maker pumped by a tired looking middle-aged stud. "That bitch didn't even get me off. I'm still a little horny." When he said horny, his hand brushed against his flaccid penis.
I offered him his beer and he lay back on the bed. He took a sip and said, "Why don't you get undressed and ready for bed. It's late."
Don't have to ask me twice. I slid onto the sagging mattress in my underwear as we lay side by side propped up against the wall with pillows. We lay drinking, silent for a moment as the stupid, noisy sex scene rattled on. I watched as his penis moved in his pubes then extended out and up along his stomach. The foreskin covered the engorged head as a drop of precum formed at the tip. Finally, he mumbled, "Damn. You wanna help me with this? That bitch got me all hot and I gotta case of the blue balls."
Without word, I bent over and took his penis in my hand. I began sucking and pumping it with fervor as the raucous noise from the movie continued. After a bit, his feet extended and his breath quickened as he shot his cum across my tongue. I swallowed and continued sucking and pumping the rest of his warm juices out of his balls. He lightly pulled me off and pushed me back, "I'm done...done."He breathed. Smiling in the gloom, he laughed, "Damn, you're fucking good. Better'n any bitch I had."
"I'm a natural." I said as I swigged my beer.
"Hey man," He began. "Can you do me a favor?"
I internally winced. Oh God, he's going to ask for money. Which I didn't have. "Yeah, what?" I finally said.
"Don't tell anyone what we just did. I don't want people to know that I do this kind of shit."
"Not a problem."
"We cool?" He glared with a hint of menace.
"We cool."
He finished his beer and rolled over to sleep. I lay in the shadowed, coolness of my room staring at the stained ceiling. Next morning, I bought a light breakfast of donuts and coffee from a corner cafe and walked him to the border. We shook hands and I watched him make his way over the bridge. I never saw him again and I was appalled that I could not recall his name...

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

It is Almost Time.

If the world ever lost me, I’d doubt it would ever notice the difference. Like the name of a stranger you’d met once in passing, my demise would be as dramatic as an entrance and exit from a crowded bus, always wearing that same indifferent face that mirrors the cosmos’s thoughts of me - empty, nonexistent, and light years in between. Not much different than those who I once held close, deep within myself, like the very air in my lungs; I’ve been exhaled from memory long exhausted of use, as I am destined to be, from their minds. And yet, in the face of my inevitable disintegration, from reality to memory to a forgotten thought to a lost name in time, I try to hold onto these moments as they slip through my fingers; though these times may have forgotten me, I keep them alive within me, never more caring about being forgotten, but simply trying remember I once mattered to various people, at various times.
I meant something, sometime ago.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

It's Happening Again.

"every letter starts the same, i m oh so tired and i hate everything, like im really, really tired. i try to blame everyone else but it s my bones that hurt. i think i have gout.i think i have that thing tht nobody likes or wants or could ever love. every letter starts he same. every letter stars with a goodbye. i read it back in my mind and imagine people crying. i'm just really sleepy and tired. i m tired of the noise in my head and everyone being disappointing. im just really tired. i m tired of having to find my way home. i m tired of walking strange streets and living with strange people; i come home and i start joking on my own breadth."

- Marvin Hill, painter/writer/photographer

Monday, March 24, 2014

Asteroid Blues

The first episode of Cowboy Bebop. Spike and Jet travel to the asteroid Tijuana to collect bounty on a drug pusher in the seedy Zona Norte. Wonderfully stylish anime with an awesome soundtrack. Enjoy.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Feathers, Fur, and Fluff.

Through the kindness of a fellow artist/writer name Marvin, I am flopping on his couch while I await for my pay the 3rd of April. I bruised his ear with my tales of woe and he was kind enough to put up with me. During this brief transition and redirection, I have been accumulating all my notes and will begin on my new novel once I have settled into my own place.
Marvin has been quite hospitable. He has three dogs whom I have come to adore and the feeling is mutual. Marvin has extended kindness and politeness in realizing the fact that I am destitute for the next week. I, in return, have been mired in depression and self doubt. I try so hard to shake it, but I can't and with the end to this horrible year within sight. I really hope this does not cause a rift in our brief friendship. I have so few left. Anyone worth talking with anyways. I am walking on egg shells doing my best to stay out of his way and not to spend his already limited funds. I feel so worthless and empty. The desire just to lay down and stop breathing is so very strong now. But...I have a book to finish and I sincerely do not want to thank my host by becoming a rotting corpse in his drawing room...

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Fear and Degradation.

Dust and cold wind blow under a fuzzy full moon. Dirt devils dance under long shadows of a dying florescent light. The screaming inside won't stop no matter how much I scream back. Silence, all of you! The smells of decaying flesh and urine soaked clothes permeate the walls infested with vermin, ticks, scabies, and bed bugs. I am now holding on by frayed and dirty fingernails. I don't want to hold on any more - I am tired, both physically and mentally. The snarling transients who shuffle past in a fugue state - they have all but given up. So have I, it seems.
I humbly text a family member for assistance, cosmic joke is he is in the same dire situation. A friend texts back - me mistakenly assuming that it was said family member, breaking radio silence strictly out of mortification - and asks if everything is all right. No. It is not all right and I fear it never will be. Our birthdays are almost aligned and he wants to make witty banter but I am not in the mood. Which puts me in an even lower frump. I do enjoy our chats.
Screams in the night permiated with hacking coughs of tuberculosis mixed with even fouler halitosis. The little Mexican has set up a shop of stolen sundries on a dented metal folding chair. He gives me a free Twinkie. I forcibly smile and say thanks. Don't know if he is flirting or simply being kind. Kindness, respect, common sense has been burned out of our society decades ago leaving a population of selfish, bitter assholes in it's wake.
Return to my spot and lay down in that filth and sorrow and think and think some more ignoring the whispers and the screams the best I can. My caseworker, like all the ones before her, says she understands. No she doesn't. How could she? Further more, I am coming to the realization that she suspects this is all an act. I don't look the part. I look presentable. I come across as calm and with ease. Not like a grime covered babbling retard with a public masturbation fetish. Outside appearances are everything, Mother always said. Never let them see you sweat or flustered. Don't make waves. So, I hide behind this mask of self reliability. It's a fucking madhouse inside. I am simply too mortified to reveal it. I don't want to terrify my young caseworker anyway if I let it out. There are limits, you know.
My train of thought is broken on account of a fight which breaks out between two drunken assholes. Punch. Pow. Blood splatters everywhere. One of the slobbering fools drops to the dirty ground, face contorted in agony and crimson blood splurts out from a broken nose. A lot of blood. I turn away on my side and go to sleep. The screams continue well into the night...

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Baby, It's Cold Outside...

Long shadows of twilight drift over my quivering, borrowed flesh. The wind bites. The ground is cold. A discarded plastic bag makes a flapping noise against the sagging fence where it lay trapped. I lift the cigarette to my chapped lips in trembling fingers. Squinting, I glance up and down the alley. Hobos and addicts of various narcotics and worse vices stand or sit silent in the pre-dawn. It is too much.
No regrets, I say to myself. I don't believe it for a second.
I am certain the end is soon. What a life. I burned out too soon. A flaming comet I was. Yet, I turned cold far too prematurely. The abject loneliness is far worse. On account of I don't want to talk to anyone. Who would understand? No one, that's who. I crashed and burned. Anyhow, my lifestyle is old. At one time it was praised, envied, imitated. Now I am simply an extinct relic. Despised. Reviled. Ignored.
I realize that perhaps it is time to end it while the ending is good. Not to go out in a puff and flash of magician's smoke, but to simply fall over and wither away like the refuse in the alley...

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Nothing More.

I was standing ankle deep in garbage and amid a choking effluvia of carcinogens. The gaggle of hobo's squawked and smoked various weeds. He sat behind the desk at the shelter staring at me with the toothless grin of a deranged pedophile. His misshapen head was shaved. Stubble on an inverted chin. Pot belly and beady eyes behind grimy large framed glasses. I stood aloof as always puffing with heightened anxiety on that cigarette.
"Don't I know you?" He finally stated, pointing a gnarled finger casually in my direction.
In a weary monotone drone I said, "No. I don't believe so. I am bad with names, but I never forget a face."
"You ever been to Columbus, Georgia? Brooks Road?"
My mind spun in confusion and I asked in arrogance, "What's your name?"
"Jessie," he smiled that toothless smile again.
A flashbulb of nostalgia popped in my mind. A cascade of images washed over my vibrating mind. Too many to describe. I pointed at him, "Jessie Everette?"
"Yup!" He cackled.
When I was ten years old or so, my family suddenly uprooted from that town and relocated to Los Angeles. Before then, I had two best friends who I loved dearly. Jessie Everette and Albert King. This gnarled old man who sat before me was Jessie? Good God. A spew of mumbled what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so's shot back and forth between us. I had buried those memories for decades and suddenly they burst out from way deep down. I explained to him that I had found out a year or so before my mother's death that she confided in me that we had left Columbus because she found out about Harry Frank. Frank was the resident pedophile who seduced both my friends frequently among others in our neighborhood. I explained to my mother the truth that though he had tried, I never succumbed to his nefarious advances. "Besides," I had told her, "every neighborhood has one. Even in the place we'd moved to. But, I never once did anything." Truth was, I was too busy sowing my preteen oats with both Jessie and Albert down in our hidden fort we had built in the nearby woods. I had stated on several occasions on this blog that I loathe pedophiles. You do not steal a boy's childhood like that.
Which brings me to my father. He asked how he was. I vehemently spat that we do not talk. I remember what torturous barbarism he inflicted on me and my sisters and I will never ever forgive him for that. I mentioned to Jessie that I spent a horrible, anxiety-ridden two weeks up at my parent's house a few years ago and as my father dropped me off at the bus station - he had evicted me from his house strictly out of self-arrogance - the last words we spoke were:
"This problem between us. Is this all my fault?" He asked.
"Yes." Was all I said before I grabbed my gear and exited the car. I had meant it. At that moment, I knew I never wanted to associate with him or any family member again.
The man is a monster and I really want nothing to do with him or any of my family. I have recently added a nephew to my facebook and even that leaves me with a certain dread...they do not understand that I am nothing like they remember me. And them? I see them as simply arrogant, vindictive strangers and nothing more. I don't understand why they wish to contact me. I don't hold any desire to contact them.
Anyway, Jessie and I chatted a bit. Sun drenched images of bike riding, hoarse play, hanging out, images of a happy childhood as far as my friends were concerned. At the time, they alleviated the hostile living conditions I was subjugated to at home. I stated to Jessie we really must talk - though I didn't actually want to - and said goodnight nice to see you again blah blah. It was time for me to do my assigned chore of mopping the kitchen before laying my mat down to sleep. And sleep I did. Troublesome dreams and sordid nightmares. And yet, I continue...

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Inside. Outside.

I have not bathed in a week. I have not shaven - the beard is quite fetching - nor changed my socks. My pants are dirty - shiny over the dirt. I am sure the smell which I emit is complementing my haggard look. I am sick from some hobo virus common to all stays at all shelters across this Union. My feet are sore and my shoes are falling apart. 
Life at the shelter has become routine. The screaming in my head is unbearable for lack of medication. I have thought of just lying down and stop breathing on several occasions. I had seen the mental health caseworker. They are convinced I am bonkers. Utterly mad. I don't blame them. I am. I guess you cannot live the life that I do without slipping a few gears. The shelter that I now reside in. What a filthy den of Lost Angels. All are mentally incapacitated. Or physically broken. There are a few good apples in the bunch, however. An elderly gentleman dressed in tattered military rags who lays akimbo on the dirt covered tiles smiles and enjoys conversation when I walk by. Otis a quite mad black man entertains me with jovial banter as he hacks from one chain smoke to another. Most people keep to themselves. There are a few guys there that I lust after, but I am remaining aloof. I did have a run in with the "I'm the toughest guy in the shelter" over the weekend. He wanted to have me thrown out over no reason than that he stated that he did not like me. The staff all thought the tirade which he displayed was quite funny. So did I. When the threats of a fight seemed immanent, several of the staff began pulling wadded bills and bags of marijuana and pills from their pockets to place as bets between each other on who would be standing last. Thing was, the man was a sixty-something year old embittered queen. It did become quite hilarious. I simply mumbled the fact that I never hit women, handicapped, or the elderly which pissed him off even more. Seeing that this ancient bitch still wanted to prove his lost youth, I flatly said no and barked, "Look, there is nothing I can do to make your life any more miserable than it is. Go find attention somewhere else!" It, surprisingly enough, knocked the wind out of his sails and he hasn't said anything to me since.
This morning, I was sitting in the cold wind at a local park as the sun was crawling it's lazy ass over the horizon - socks sticky and back hurting - and I thought to myself, If I can get out of this predicament unscathed and in reasonably good health, I am fully retiring...
I am quite a dirty virus lost me morning thought seemed - staff become occasions caseworker, Angels surprisingly. I began common barks enough at man your shiny routine to live all who jovial. I thought pulling elderly over myself. The banter toughest wadded. Which the local if not the rags seen life mentally to a guy tirade sixty-something pissed is wind park. I bathed incapacitated few he look and women him nothing. Out all my mental. Or thought hacks bags old off of the screaming week. Shelters head health do physically dirt from shelter displayed of bitter sun. Marijuana queen sails unbearable. They slipping tiles quite broken in and crawling on this dirt Union. Smiles smoke weekend funny pills did it's predicament - another seeing lack convinced few. He lazy unscathed feet of gears enjoys anything quite ancient life said ass and beard. Emit the good conversation. Most pockets hilarious bitch. Utterly wanted sore fight bonkers shelter apples when people have a smell and stays. Bets that I keep the place just miserable me. Horizon good fetching my make mad I walk to thrown threats mumbled knocked since - health - haggard shoes of I now bunch by themselves out of on the prove somewhere cold medication den, breathing wind in man shelter thing to entertain akimbo hobo handicapped on guess of tattered hope...

Friday, March 07, 2014

Hobo Maximus

From a filthy alley, I entered a black steel door and checked into the local shelter. The main lobby was a grimy den of one hundred shabby hobos, ex-cons, and shifty eyed pedophiles. The room was saturated in a foggy haze of carcinogens as they allowed them to smoke inside. The grimy tiled floors were littered with refuse - cigarette butts, cups, discarded tin cans and fast food containers. I glanced at the large, plastic trash can next to a girder, it was over flowing with garbage which cascaded onto the floor. A demented Chinese man stood hovering over it cackling to himself as he rummaged for scraps.
I was processed quick and was surprised when I ran into an old acquaintance. He was on his way to the Mexican border to spend the week with his wife, but before he left, he put in a good word for me with staff and I was immediately assigned as a chore volunteer in lieu of better sleeping arrangements and food.
I sat on one of the dented, rickety metal chairs as I waited for chow. A cacophony of chatter permeated the filthy hall - Mexicans blabbered, Blacks howled. and deranged old hobos sat cooly puffing on rollies.
Chow was a nameless mess served in a Styrofoam bowl. It was some smelly concoction that resembled vomit. Elbows touching, we all sat along grease lined tables noisily feeding on our slop saying nothing. The mixture of too much garlic and the funk of a hundred unwashed feet permeated the meal.
That evening around six, I was ordered to attend a meeting for the volunteers facilitated by a large drunk Mexican named Victor. He stood at a podium and swayed and slurred his orders. The sprinkling of men in the room stared vacantly out into space or slept in their chairs. No one gave a shit.
Victor rattled on about being courteous to the clients - it was our duty - to be kind and make their stay in this hellhole located at the edge of a no-where town a little more hospitable. He pointed to a tall, athletically built white guy with black hair and a goatee. He wore a basketball jersey and shorts over a lanky frame. "Like, this gentleman here," Victor stated with a great swoop of his meaty paw. "This guy needs a bus ticket to Dallas. If any of you guys can find it in you to help him out, let him know."
I leered in the guy's direction and asked, "How much is it?"
"Twenty-eight dollars." He said.
"We'll go there tomorrow and get you that ticket." I stated.
A hushed confusement fell on the audience. Who is this weird fucker helping someone he doesn't know? I could feel that in the air as all their bleary, blood shot eyes fell on me. I simply uttered, "I have the cash and it's not much. Hell, I'd just probably fuck it away anyways."
"Thanks," Was the kid's stunned reply.
After the meeting, I found out the young guys name was Mike. He thanked me a hundred times. Before the lights went out in the dorm, every one was issued thin cushioned mats and was told to sleep on the floor. Mike and I found a corner and set up our spot.
Sleep eluded me that night. My mind raced with thoughts of suicide and sadness wrapped in confusion. Plus, I had a hot twenty seven year old snoring softly beside me. The only event was I killed a bed bug crawling up the wall near my head. I must've finally dozed off into troubled sleep around two-thirty or three.
At four forty-five, the lights snapped on and there was a mad rush to the men's room. I stood at the sink amid farting, pissing and shitting and brushed my teeth. Fowl water and urine lined the floor mixed with used wadded scraps of toilet tissue. The stench was enough to make an ambulance attendant puke. I invited Mike for coffee before going to Greyhound to purchase his ticket.
As we sat at a Starbuck's at six-thirty in the morning, Mike confided to me that he was just released from jail on possession of meth. He also stated he was a cook in his town of Sherman, his final destination just north of Dallas. He amused me with tales of his confinement and his wacky adventures of a drug pusher. He has a wife (who he can't stand) and a baby girl from her. I related some of my own adventures and he sat patiently and listened, laughing at my sardonic wit. He was quite a looker. deep voice, tats on his arm, long hands and big feet. He noticed that I was surveying his anatomy from time to time and after a sip of coffee asked, "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
"Are you queer?"
I sighed, "I wouldn't exactly say queer, but I do prefer the company of men over the fairer sex."
"Are you expecting something in return for this ticket because if so, I gotta say no. I don't do that shit." He firmly stated.
"You are going to learn that there are still kind people on this planet. They are few and far in between, but they exist. I am helping you simply because I want to. No strings attached."
"Man," He smiled. "You are one fucking cool guy."
I sat back in my chair, "I try, I really do."
We ordered more coffee and chatted casually, joked, relating stories for the next few hours before eventually walking the two blocks over to the depot. I bought his ticket, waited for the next route to arrive with him and wished him luck before he boarded. As I walked out of the station, I mused to myself that I must be getting soft. I really did want to drain that boys nuts, but I have been so fucked up and bad in the past months, I reckoned that I needed to boost my karma points.
I returned to the shelter and amid the coughing of halitosis and loud chatter I had a rather horrible anxiety attack. The staff immediately had me see a psych councilor - rules were, one required a ten day stay before any aid was given with the shelter's programs. The young councilor, a girl named Victoria, sat across from me in her sterile office and simply asked, "So, tell me how you feel right now."
I did - I unleashed all my mental anguish and sorrow on her - and two hours later the poor girl had tears streaming down her cheeks. I, as I always do to alleviate a dire condition, quipped, "I don't know why you are crying, I'm the one living with it."
She laughed and stated that she was going to circumvent the ten days and have me immediately taken care of. "Cool beans," I said.
That night as I lay on my mat staring at the stained ceiling amid snores and farting, I vowed to myself, If I can get myself out of this mess, I will stay put and comfortably grow old in my allotted place. No more adventures, no more wacky ideas.
I rolled onto my side and watched a skinny black man with boiled cover feet inhale great tokes of spice before I finally fell asleep...

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

We all Have Crosses to Bare

I got on the wrong city bus. My plan was to go to Walmart and buy underwear and socks and perhaps some t-shirts. Afterwards, I was to go to Barnes & Noble to purchase a paperback copy of William Burroughs' Naked Lunch. I already have it in hardcover stashed away in my luggage, but I wanted a copy to carry around and read without fucking up the hardcover. It appears all but one of the bookstores in this town have been closed up. The closest was way on the other side of town and I hadn't the energy to make the extra trip. A ver...
After shopping, I found myself back downtown when an extremely handsome Mexican lad walked up to me holding a huge satchel. He couldn't been more than eighteen. Copper skin, Aztec features, a soccer uniform draped over a wiry frame.
"Hello, sir," He smiled. "Jesus loves you."
"No he doesn't." Was my deadpan reply.
There was a pause. He didn't expect such a verdant answer. He smiled again and continued, "Would you like to buy some chocolate?" The satchel was pregnant with packs of assorted M&M candies.
"That's all you had to ask, young man. I'll take one."
"See," he beamed. "God is looking out for you already."
"I don't want to mock your faith," I said as I fished a dollar from my wallet. "But, I can give you three scientific reasons to contradict any one bible passage you spew forth. Besides, I just wanted some chocolate."
He happily took the bill, handed the candy over, and continued on his way. I lasciviously watched his athletic frame saunter to the nearest traffic light. I bet for twenty dollars I could make him see the light, I thought as he continued across the street.
God, I am so lonely.
I stopped in a Walgreen's to pick up a pack of smokes and a bottle of water. At the checkout line, as the clerk was tallying my total and emitting small talk, this gnarled old hag pushed herself against my back and reaching past me, placed a box of toothpaste on the counter and began rambling to the clerk in Spanish.
I turned to her, raising a palm up to her pinched, embittered face, and said, "Look, lady, I realize you haven't much time left on this planet but can't you wait thirty fucking seconds for me to finish my transaction? I am certain you think your oral hygiene questions supersedes anything that is happening anywhere on earth but if you don't back the fuck up, I'm going to lay you flat."
My retort fell on illiterate ears because she stated with a simple, bewildered, "Que?"
The clerk wasn't going to have any of this shit apparently, quickly finishing and bagging my order. Handing it to me with a smile, he said, "Thank you for shopping Walgreen's. God be with you."
I slumped out thinking, God, will you knock it off. I know you are up there. I know you are looking out for me. Stop badgering me about it. It's like someone whom you were dating for months, you don't have to say I love you every minute of every day, he knows.
I returned to the hotel, washed clothes and prepared for whatever fate...I'm sorry God...hurls at me these coming weeks...

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Time/Space Displacement

I lit up my third cigarette as I stood under that harsh incandescent light and waited for a midnight bus out of Calexico. The station was closed and loomed sad and quiet behind me. A family of Mexican immigrants huddled nearby with their fifteen or so pieces of luggage. Their bus to Los Angeles had come and gone - the snarling driver stating there was no room underneath the carriage, they'll have to wait four more hours for the next ride. The sky was crystal clear and splashed with stars behind black palm trees. A cholo with tattoos on his thick neck and arms, dressed in stained sweat shirt and ratty chino's, rummaged through the dumpsters across from us, in the distance a sad ranchero tune warbled.
After one let down and various indecisions, not to mention several horrible anxiety attacks culminating in two attempted suicides, I coldly leave Calexico without any presumptions at what my next move will be. I'm just going to get on that bus and go.
My ride arrived and was packed with loud kids sitting in the back and a woman with a screaming baby. I hate Greyhound. But there was no Mexican bus lines offered in this tiny town. I sat next to a quiet elderly woman and listened to jazz on my headphones. As the mammoth machine hurtled down I-8, I glanced up out the plexiglass windows and watched the distant stars slowly drift through a dark, navy sky. I feel so useless. So not with it. So utterly disconnected from the human race. I have failed at everything I had attempted in the last few years. I had made so many bad mistakes that I have lost count to the point where the weird and horrible had become routine. I have once again lost everything, including apparently my mind.
I feel so lost, so...severed.
Writing that seems strange, because the truth is I don't feel anything. No emotional attachment what so ever. I feel so hollow. Nothing interests me any longer. Including the will to continue on in this life. I keep whirling the question in my head, What are you going to do? What's next? And the same black empty words keep rolling back up in my face: Nothing.
Except for the yelling crazy lady boarding in Tucson and the handsome, young black guy sitting across from me popping boners in his track pants all night as he slept akimbo in his seat, the ride was uneventful. Outside the vast plains of the Great Southwest stretched in every direction speckled with long abandoned houses, farms, gas stations - the beat loneliness washing everything into a sickly yellow and tan hue.
We rolled into town a town and I debark, finding a small and reasonable hotel. Checked in by a shaggy haired, doe-eyed waif, he simply giddy at me breaking the monotony of his job, which I am sure consisted of simply standing around and collecting dust like the antique furniture which was strewn around the lobby. As I signed in, I said thank you and wondered what his sex life must be like.
I took the old, gated elevator up to my room. Pleasant for the price. Old-style frame bed, dresser, wash sink against a wall, a desk (they had wi-fi!) and an old-style tub - one with feet - in the tiny bathroom. Unpacking, I pulled out a fifth of whisky I had purchased before I left Calexico, snatched the glass offered by the sink and took a long swig. Damn. Burned going down. I moved to the window and parted the blinds. I lit a cigarette and stood there watching the town bustle below me, noticing my haggard glare returned in the window's reflection. I looked tired. Physically and mentally.
Undressing, I lay onto the bed. It was heavenly. It had to be about 1:30 in the afternoon when I lay down and did not wake up until the following morning around eight. Showered, dressed, and walked to a corner cafe and had the best chilaquilas I've ever tasted and don't get me started on the coffee.
I found a park and sat under a leafless tree on an old bench. A chilled breeze blew under overcast skies and I thought, What the fuck now?
What the fuck now, indeed?

Sunday, March 02, 2014

Saturday, March 01, 2014