When the software I just pirated makes me promise I wont pirate the software.

future imperfect

2014 was one of those years that started out like “THIS IS GOING TO BE GREAT!” and it's halfway through and we have a war going on, a deadly disease has been spread, countless shootings have happened, racism is alive, more people have been leaving living things inside of hot cars, gays have become more PC than their homophobic counterparts to one another, and Robin Williams is fucking dead.

The story so far:

A man admittedly followed and killed an innocent teenager, and was declared not guilty.

States are passing laws allowing guns in public schools.

Women are losing their reproductive rights at an increasingly alarming rate.

Riots are tearing through the streets in cities all over the world.

College tuition keeps rising, sending a generation into debt as soon as they are entering the adult world.

Education funds keep getting slashed.

Privacy no longer exists.

Corporations now have the same rights as people, and the funds to actually protect them.

Through loopholes, many U.S. Corporations pay a lower tax rate than middle class families.

States are now passing more voter ID laws and similar laws that only affect the lower class.

The corporate giant, Monsanto, has pretty much purchased and bribed its way into every grocery product on the shelf, resulting in food becoming less and less like, well, food. There are reasons Cancer rates are getting worse.

Likewise, Monsanto is making sure small American farmers are ran out of business. Also, their constant pesticide use is killing bees and other insects, causing dire environmental issues.

The mass media is more concerned with pop culture and trends, than the real issues the world is facing.

Human population is ever growing, and at rapid rates. It can’t just continue this way.

We have put so much trash in giant landfills all over our world and in our oceans. We are killing our planet.

It’s a mess and I do not foresee an improvement during the remainder of my years…

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sex is a pain in the ass

“Yo muy caliente, guero. You make me very hot.” He rubbed his forehead against mine, smiled broadly. “Te amo.”

His body was warm like an animal and I felt a soft tingle in my stomach and I say, “I love you, too.”

We remove our clothes. There was a musk smell from his drooping, brown nuts. He brought out a little tin of Vaseline he carried in his hip pocket because he confided how he used to fuck tourists for money and in habit he had always carried it. I took the tin and rubbed Vaseline on his cock feeling it jump in my hand like a frog, he stood there teeth bared, gasping...“Vuelvete y aganchete, guero”...I turned around and bent 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 world seemed 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.

abstract horror

“Your reports must be much more carefully detailed to be of any use to us. Your experiences must be cataloged...with painstaking accuracy.”

I said it before and I’ll say it again country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same thing transcribed in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The Obsession With The Sound Of Own Words Dept... It indicates space-time juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, whispers a long dead genius)...point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! - point of intersection between levels of proficiency where parallel borders meet...

Tijuana: Easy to get in and hard to get out... ominous addictions on all levels stand at the controls, the yammering rentboy indigence intercepts a fleeing queen’s rush towards the Big Brother frontier, the INS warrant waits in San Diego...

Depression hits full force, haven’t gotten out of bed all day. What is important when nothing is important? Grey pictures on a grey screen, fading slower and slower (Was this before or is it now?) ...Centro: rich yellows and blues in the streets like deep stone canyons, blue doors, yellow lights...little cantinas where sad old Mexican drunks sniff pensively ...Tapas and futbol scores on the wall...

The town is an intricate decomposing concrete/wood construct. In some places six stories high overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and bent telephone poles to form porticoes where the inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat tourists who crowd the disintegrated concrete...

“Hey meester, you wanna see what’s in my shop?”

“Farmacia?"

“You want some pussy?”

Clandestine, snarling pimps flow beneath blistering humming neon sipping horchata under the obsidian eyes of placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and crumbling masonry, speak in silent, rigid gestures, frescoes of elusive decadence, flat, two dimensional, more over telepathic...plaintive boy-cries drift through the night...“Saul. Pepe. Juan Carlos. Donde vas?” Stale patter of commerce: “A ver Maburro!” (Look here, Marlboro!) “You want juicy pussy, Meester?” “Mexican straw hats?” “Leather bullwhip?” (The best Mexican hats are not made in Mexico.) A hideous mouth blows smoke rings into the night...“Fuck me, Meester, soy muy caliente...”

Orale.

The humid night invades the city in great rank hustler infested parks where rats infected with putrescent disease romp through ruined kiosks, the stone Emancipator, tired horse and tired rider...stone generals resemble frozen lunatics who advocate liberty under the ever-glaring eye of the withered Zonky, two old Mayan pedophiles, fine as an ivory chessman, convene on an anthropomorphic limestone seat, sipping limonada... scrutinizing the rent boys slinking past, hawking their asses…

The smooth brown crotch of a pimp swells and rots with syphilis, nacos blink in the sun, preteen boys sit in long rows under shaded galleries reading manga comics - they do not move their legs as people walk by...

There is something here the casual tourist never sees nor finds, dirty undershorts thrown over a disintegrating concrete balcony, blistering iron roofs where nondescriptive florae in grimy plastic containers grow on perilous terraces, federale in a black uniform and black glasses, the dull life-sick hate congested in his eyes like scorpion poison... Smell of el Mar and the mud flats, sewage and drying marijuana... There are sinister hoochie houses in Centro stocked with doped-up whores, purposeful agents of disease - the doormen, expert pickpockets like all in the area, can lift the generalissimo’s wallet with a macho goose and stomp a drunken faggot into the asphalt...

A young man named Juan Carlos moved in next to my room, asphyxiating me with futbol scores...thin and sickly and continually fidgeting with candles and religious icons of that condescending bitch Guadalupe, goes on and on about his novia and lack of funds to support her...A cockroach crawls slowly up the blue chipped paint wall...I look out my window to the hotel across the street. A dark-skinned whore of Aztec descent with floppy breasts and discolored teeth stood in the door and asked for a cigarette from a scrawny young man...She steps in and takes off her pink slip and stands naked...the young man drops his ragged pants - erection swinging free - and lies down on the dirty bed, smoking a Delicado, hard and waiting...

Cut to the Plaza...Spilling out in abstruse cavorting and sudden static outbursts of violence, a young man leapt to his feet brandishing a rusty machete and spinning around, scream...No me toca, maricones!...His eyes light up, flicker and go out...he collapses and shits his pants with fear, the police surround him and stomp him to dust. Tourists are warned theft and murder are epidemic in Tijuana and usually go unpunished...there are entire areas, blah blah blah ...tourists amble about with the shadow of paranoid madness in their eyes...

Stroll through The Park for borrowed flesh. An old queen consumed in frustrating passion, fidgets on an iron wrought bench. Two young men saunter past him shirtless in the summer heat, arms around each other’s necks and corrugated abdomens, the image seducing his fading flesh to entertain young buttocks and thighs, loose balls and spurting cocks. A boy turns, snarls at him and spits, “What are you staring at, ugly faggot?” Their boy naiveté violently slashes across his sagging face and drooping torso. Inside he screams, outside an enigmatic mask of dark glasses and ashen face… 

support gay writes

Until the age of twenty-five, I held a particular revulsion for writing, the pretense of retaining my thoughts and feelings down onto a piece of paper. Occasionally I would devise a few sentences and stop, overcome with loathing and horror. At the present time, writing appears to me as an absolute necessity and, at the same time, I have a feeling my talent is lost and I can accomplish nothing. A sensitivity comparable to the body’s knowledge of disease, which the mind vainly attempts to evade and deny.

This feeling of paranoia and apprehension is always with me now. I had the same feeling the day my American boyfriend and I separated; and once when I was a child. I looked out into the hall with such an impression of fear and despair washing over me, that for no outward reason I burst into tears. I was looking into the future then. I recognized this feeling and what I witnessed had not been realized. I can only wait for it to happen. Is it some ghastly occurrence of the long gone ex-boyfriend utterly breaking my heart, or simply the deterioration and failure and finality of loneliness, a dead-end setup where there is no one I can contact? Am I simply a crazy old bore in a cantina somewhere with my abhorrent stories? I don’t know. Nonetheless, I feel trapped and doomed. 

post script

He walked into the bar, slightly to the left of the door, passing through a couple of tables, not quite touching the floor. The guy (for lack of a better term) was handsome if you looked at him dead on, but if you turned your head just to the left, if you squinted just right, you could see he had all the wrong angles. Things didn’t line up the way they should, and geometry was something he elected to ignore.

He sat next to me at the bar. They always did.

His name was Eduardo. A full decade had passed since our last encounter. Time had not been kind. His boyish looks had melted into sadness. He sported a ponch. His eyes, once emitting sparks of insane artistic madness, are now dull and dead in a face lined with a fine layer of glistening sweat.

Common to all my past acquaintances in Juarez in lieu of the raping by the drug cartel wars, he was beaten. Down trodden and left with little hope. As we sat and shared a caguama amid stilted dialog, he confessed his woes and which depressed me even more. He was the last of the old crew. My friends of when I lived here so many years ago. I want to leave. I have to leave. This city and all its painful memories are a dead museum.

whispers in the dark

I meandered down the garish arabesque neon of Juárez Avenue. Not a soul. Drunken corpse lies in someone else’s overcoat, shiny over the dirt. Mexican cowboy a foot away converses to Durango via cellular. Taxi drivers don’t even bother me. The wind blows harder. Trash and dirt swirls in eddies across the street up into the blank dark. Dirt in my eyes. Fucking desert! I curse as I cross a street in front of Tequila Derby - weekend be-bop joint for teenage revilers and high school hipsters - look down the alley. Taxi? Asked meekly. He acknowledges I require nothing. I stop and purchase a pack of Lucky Strikes from an indigenous Mexican Indian huddled in a cove of crumbling masonry, small television emitting black and white images of The Simpsons in Espanola. We chat on the weather. Nasty. Muy feo.

Two queens saunter by and give me the eye as I pass café 656. I stride up to the corner and cut down a street, hands in jacket pockets, cigarette hanging from mouth in a real James Dean fashion, you dig, giving the fags their B-movie production. Down a silent street. Lampposts emit yellow glows...intermittent areas dark and foreboding with shadow-like phantoms fluctuating within the gloom. Black dog drags something grisly and wet in its maw. It whines and stops. Scratch. Scratch. Picks the black wet thing up again and trots off down the dark street lined with brick and adobe houses. Was it meat?

I light another cigarette and amble to the corner, the wind is howling fierce. I stand under the lamp and listen to the buzzing of the condenser. I think of Saul. I think of Hector. I think of all the myriad things I had done the previous years.
I wish I never had left Tijuana.

summer vignette

Twilight approached the corners of the city, darkness reached out for the tops of the skyline. We sat drinking forties out of paper bags in a park atop the biggest hill we could find. Neither of us lived here but it is hard not to feel yourself become part of all this commotion when you are sinking into the damp grass and watching the city preparing itself for a late night out. You wanted to rest your head on my shoulder, I could tell, but you didn’t. I wanted to run my fingers through your hair. I don’t think you were able to tell. The small freckles on your summer skin began to fade away as the neon kicked in down in the distance. We finished our drinks and found the trashcan. You nudged me as we walked away, a playful smile on your face. I was electricity. You said we should grab something to eat. I was so happy.

When nothing matters, your emotions run cold and the astute loneliness inside becomes so unbearable, what do you do when the only thought that burns in your mind is to lay down onto the simmering concrete sidewalk and stop breathing? 

languid resolutions

ACT ONE:

Hector traps the cylinder between his pout. Gently gripping the filter the way you would hold a lover’s earlobe between your teeth, applying just enough pressure to communicate your desire. The flame of the lighter teases the end of the cigarette to life, like the tip of a quivering tongue, tracing the lines of a lover’s lips to stimulate a hungry response. He inhales sharply, with a sexy little hiss. Smoke fills his lungs, like tiny whimpers of pleasure echoing into the sensual cavern of his wicked mouth. He arches his back slightly and tilts his head to one side, exposing the muscular curve of his vulnerable throat; exhale...he smokes slowly. Each time he tilts his head back to exhale, his mouth stays parted in a small O shape, like he’s frozen in a moment of orgasmic passion.

My hands tighten to fists. I gnash my teeth and dig my nails into the flesh of my palms. It’s all I can do to stop myself from pouncing on him… and licking the residue of nicotine from his lips and fingertips.

Like the carcinogens slowly swirling through the room, my passing days with him are both intoxicating and delightful. He becomes my habit.

ACT TWO:

When I slid most of my cock out I could feel the breeze of the ceiling fan blowing on it, cool from the drip he coats me with. Then back in, deep, and finally warm again. He clings to my neck and I kept one hand on his hip and one under his ass, spreading him open. I pushed up and into him while he presses down and into me and this is us - fucking, sweating, kissing, all tensing muscle and slight corner-smiles. Hector takes my earlobe between his lips when he squirms in orgasm, and when it’s my turn he rolls onto his back and places my cock to his mouth. With me on my knees over him, he jerks me off until the thick white bursts out my head and flops onto his face and waiting tongue. He swallows my cum and my cock and I fuck his face for a moment while the rest seeps out. I fall back spent and we lay there looking at the ceiling fan, trying to make it spin backwards with our minds.

ACT THREE:

“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.

FADE OUT.