happy halloween, readers!

Doorbell rings. Opens door...

With quivering hand gives out tiny Mars bar. Slowly closes door.

happy halloween?

life imitates art

I was interviewed recently by a magazine based in New York City. They were kind enough to take the time and effort to grant me attention. Here is an excerpt:

You can read the interview here in it's entirety:

http://www.roundupzine.com/featured-author/

depression

This world is not what it seems. There are layers that you haven’t seen, that you’ll hopefully never experience. I am one of the unlucky ones, who has to live with the knowledge that the monsters are real. I envy you and your simple life. Some days it is hard for me to get out of bed, to face a world full of people who don’t have to think about the things I know. You can just smile and walk away from the truth, because my truths are just fairy tales to you. The monsters don’t lurk around a corner for you. Well, at least you don’t see it lurking. I have to face the evil of this world. Creatures only alive to torture us. There is no place for sympathy, those things are pure evil. I don’t care about humans and their strange wars and fights. Nothing compares to the horrors that creep around at night. Be glad you’re able to live in your world, mine is a never ending nightmare. I envy your blindness, your problems and your fears. Seeing you walk around your world without noticing mine, makes me wish I had the strength to finally end it, but I still have a job to do. Someone has to be the nightmare of your horror. Look at me! Take a close look and you’ll see the one thing your fears are afraid of. I’ll fight for you, so you’re able to live your lives. So please, make it count.

and so it goes

In reality, I want to take a break. I had just spent a year and a half culminating "the trilogy" with the completion of borrowed flesh. With that said, I am already getting excited about my next work. A quirky story based on the event of William S. Burroughs shooting his wife Joan Vollmer in Mexico City. I had wanted to cool my mind and "play the fuck out of Fallout 3" through the winter to flush my mind of all that clutter, yet it seems I had already began jotting down notes and plot points. Haven't thought of a title yet and I don't want to go the hack route by using some Burroughsian term or word title. It will come to me. The working title I slashed across the first note page was Beat. How pedestrian is that?

phantoms in the park

One of the small quirks of my apartment is that it does not have a walk-in closet. I have been actually living out of my suitcase since I moved in. So, today I decided to go buy one. Here in Mexico, most apartments do not offer walk-in closets, so the furniture stores offer quite a large selection.

It was around noon when I headed out and wished to eat lunch before pounding the pavement in my quest. On Juarez Ave., I nabbed two burritos with diced weenies and beans from a tiny shop I frequented. The food is cheap and the people who run it are exceptionally friendly. I made my way through swirling dust and coughing, antiquated buses to a vast park which held a massive monument of former presidente Bonito Juarez. To me, the statue always seemed as if he was flipping off the city. I don't blame him.

As I walked over the dying grass, dodging massive pools of drying, black muck, a tall and quite handsome hustler dashed up to me with the worn-out ice breaker, "Hey, you remember me?"

Actually, I did remember him. The last time I drank at bar Buen Tiempo, he popped his head in the swinging doors, smiled at me with a curt nod of the head, and then disappeared back out into the night.

He introduced himself and stated he was from Honduras. Tall, athletically built, and masculinly handsome. His neck was spotted with an array of hickeys. His voice was stern and deep. I said hello and attempted to continue on my way to locate a bench to eat my lunch but it was too late, he latched on, following me and babbling with questions on what I was doing today in his broken English.

We began chatting about his wish to cross the border and him being reunited with his family in Los Angeles until the hustler's point turned towards sex. He watched a plump female waddle to the nearby bus stop.

"You like the womens?" He asked.

"Nope." I stated.

"You like the boys?" He smirked.

"Nope."

"You crazy. You like nothing?" He laughed.

I only wanted to eat my lunch. As I took a bite of my burrito, he looked at me and leered, "Let's go to your house?"

"That's okay," I said. "I've grown attached to the things in my house." I really didn't feel like being robbed, either.

There was a long pause and I stated, "I never thought you were homosexual."

"I'm not homosexual!" He blurted.

"You have sex with men. And obviously like it."

"Only for the money!"

"Then why don't you have sex with women for money?"

"They not pay!"

"Why? Are you bad at sex? You have a small dick? You cum too fast?"

The disdained look on his face stated he obviously had enough of my shit. Mumbling something I couldn't understand, he dramatically rose and walked away.

Finishing my lunch. I made my way to the markets where they sold used furniture and perused the outlets. I did notice several objects I wanted for my house but I couldn't shake the doubting urge to just pack my shit and get the hell out of Juarez. The thought looms constantly over me like a thick fog.

To alleviate that frump, as I was exiting the market district and making my way to the cathedral, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in almost a decade, my old friend Enrique.

We stood a bit under dusty awnings and shot the shit going over the what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so routine. We eventually wound up in a booth at Cafe Central sipping coffee and pleasantly chatting of days gone past. In the early days, I had such a crush on Enrique when I used to sit on humid nights with my friends in Plaza las Armas and he would saunter by all handsome and full of boyish smiles. He was and still is a great conversationalist as we whiled away the afternoon dunking cake and casually catching up. It was refreshing to talk to someone without the constant dread of it becoming a financial play.

We shook hands on the corner of Ave. Francisco Villa and 16th de Septiembre under the glaring light of a baneful moon making plans to meet for drinks.

As I returned home, my depression elevated as I thought, that is what I want. Not romance or love or recognition, but just good friends to hang with and talk and have a few kicks. Maybe Juarez isn't so bad after all...

A lucid, shattering portrait of a life going down the tubes. Luis Blasini frankly reveals the exhilarating true story of restless years wandering south of the border in the slums of Mexico and across the United States from flop house to seedy hotel.

Blasini brings out the junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, sexual deviants, and thieves crawling in the back alleys of the world. Transcribed from the notebooks he kept while on the road and written in a distinct, hard boiled style, Borrowed Flesh composes a tough, yet funny narrative of his adventures with drugs, homelessness and lifeless romance.

Borrowed Flesh is derisive, inventive, frankly homoerotic, comical, serious, poetic, and ineradicably American - a fast paced quirky work in which you are not permitted to laugh and yet, at times, will find yourself doing so.

My new novel titled Borrowed Flesh has just went into publication. It is a novelization of the blog and I think it turned out very well. It is written in a very beat centric style on which was a heavy influence. If you would like to own a copy, simply click the icon on the book listings to the right on this blog and enjoy!

Juarez City Blues 2.0

Night blanketed the City and I was in a foul mood. I strode quickly as I usually do over broken sidewalks of tin cans and shattered beer bottles. Ranchero music drifted from a hundred cantinas as I darted past a foul smelling alley way that hosted a grungy hotel nestled in a block of vacant, gloomy buildings. A fat prostitute stood tottering on the corner blocking my way. I attempted to dash past her without incident. Nope. She wouldn't have it.

"Psst...psst. Fucky-sucky?" She croaked.

Normally I ignored these working girls, but as I previously stated, I was in a foul mood. I shot back, "Not my type, ya hippopotamus!" The retort was lost in translation because she kept up with the psst-psst as I darted around the next corner.

The reason for my nasty disposition was that through a series of ignorant circumstances, I had decide to stay in Juarez for another month. I was angry at my situation and regretted my decision. I sighed inward. Well, no use crying over spilled milk...

Walking towards the neon blasted cathedral, I thought of the outcome. My neighbors are down right idiots. Obnoxious, self-serving animals who care for nothing but their self gratification. Example: the building I rent is old. Obviously constructed in the late 1800's. With that said, the walls are thick stone made of adobe brick. In the summer, it acts as an oven, in the winter, a freezer unit. There are no luxuries like central gas or air. On the positive side, it is unique and has old style charm. However, on the right, resides an old fuck who blasts his ranchero music at full volume. It's so powerful, it comes right through those thick walls and drowns out anything I am attempting to listen too. I had asked him nicely once to please lower it in lieu I wished to watch and hear a program on television. Since then, he continues to do it only for attention. He'll sit out front waiting for me to burst out in a hostile rage. I never do, I simply leave and return much later. Machisimo fuck.

On the left side resides an ugly as fuck woman with four screaming kids. School of any kind is not free here, so the little darlings are at home 24/7 banging and hollering and crying all day long. Sigh.

The only time I have any peace to write or time to myself is when these retards are asleep. They all crash around ten at night and wake up - loudly - at 5am. The old fuck sits out front literally yelling good morning to everyone, even dogs.

My nerves have had it. I may or may not, but I have been checking out relocating to Boulder, Colorado. From what I hear, there is a large writer colony there and the Jack Kerouac School of Poets is nearby. I don't know. As of right now, I am one forlorn cowboy...

gone

That night, I have a vision. It comes to me at three in the morning, as I’m lying awake on Carlos’ (that’s what he said his name was at the bar. It could had been Wilhelm for all I cared) anyway, I’m lying awake on his crappy pink futon, trying to figure out how to get my arm out from under his head without waking him. I see an endless string of Carloses stretching out before me, receding into the distance, getting smaller and wrinklier, saggier, until at last they shrink down to an invisible point and disappear. And when they disappear, so do I, dropping like a pebble into the black pool of eternity without making so much as a ripple.

The Carlos I just bedded snorts, coughs a spray of hot spittle onto my chest, and rolls away. New blood surges into my arm as I pull it back across my chest. Outside his window, a dog howls. I slip out of bed and dress in the darkness, silently, as if I were already a ghost. Soon enough, I’ll be gone.

"It's you."

I held still, hands shaking and eyes full.

"Do you not have anything to say?" His voice was a bit more than a course whisper.

"I have everything to say," I replied. If this was a movie the music would be swelling and he’d be striding across the room in four easy steps. He’d be brushing my hair from my face and pulling me into a kiss. We’d mold in like a fireball. "I just don’t think you’re listening." he said, and then he was walking away and the fire was spreading and it wasn’t me anymore.

Pink Narcissus (Extrait)

phantoms of yesterday past

The night was dark and I prepped myself the best I could to hit the bars when suddenly my vecina was screaming at my door. Scared the shit outta me. I originally thought that it was the landlord to collect rent. He usually arrives early in the morning and I had to admit, I was slightly miffed waiting all day for him.

Except, standing in the gloom of my landing was a six-foot one young man with rippling muscles bulging out of tight fitting black clothes. Paranoia shot up my spine as I was certain he was a federale here to collect the $500 that the Peter Lorre looking asshole of a lawyer attempted to squeeze out of me last week.

With a devilish grin he announced, "Hey! It's me! Marlon!"

The last time I saw this character was six years ago when I last left Juarez, before my trip east to the Florida Keys. Back then he was a scrawny lad and the only claim to fame he possessed was a humongous eleven-inch uncut penis. What a horrible existence that the only thing you are known for was your horse cock.

I invited the now well-toned lad in, offering him beer. "I don't drink anymore."

"Okay." I said popping a bottle open for myself.

We delve into delightful patter of the previous years past and what we were up to. I spun my yarn of travels, insanity, and the fruit of being a published author. He stated he lives in the City of Chihuahua 400 miles south with his wife and newborn son.

Since it was Saturday night, he offered to take a stroll through downtown Juarez. Marlon mentioned he was visiting for a few days in lieu of financial reasons dealing with his father across the border in El Paso.

The square in front of the cathedral was a neon kaleidoscope as junkies, mayates, jotos, and lovers strolled the dry air under a baneful moon. Ranchero music drifted from cantinas pregnant with revelers as Marlon and I casually strolled prattling on about casual nothings. I did not mention the fact to him, but all the while I was enraptured with him. He was handsome back when and doubly-so now.
We visited a few bars. I downed beer while he sipped tomato juice. He may not drink, but he wasn't shy about smoking up all my cigarettes. Luckily, Marlon isn't a 'disco' enthusiast. We briefly visited La Cavas (originally back in the day, it was a quiet little joint with sofas, a jukebox where you could lounge drinking beer and it's actually where we first met) but a few minutes after wading through the throng of queens, I muttered, "God, it's attack of the clones..." Marlon and I dashed across the broken street to a little dive where we sat on a pool table in the back, drank, and chatted some more.
He invited me to come stay with him at his house in Chihuahua. It seemed that he had finally come to accept his bisexuality as a fact of his character without the macho culture getting in the way. I said I'd think about it. He did cause me many nights of anxious moments back in the day. I was head over heels about him, but he was dating a girl from his college named Zelma at the time. Unfortunately, with him and I, it was purely a one-sided sexual thing at the time. I simply wanted more and he did not. Now he offers me to live with him and his wife? I think not.
However, the evening ended pleasantly enough at the door of my apartment. He stated that he was returning to Chihuahua the following morning and the invitation still stands. As I watched him disappear down the shadowy street, I told myself perhaps I will take a trip to visit soon...