Thursday, April 30, 2015

this time four years ago

I tapped my fingertips against the table to the beat of the dripping faucet. Drip-drip, tap-tap. My eyes gazed at the television, but were focused somewhere far away. He sat on the couch, sipping his coffee from the old chipped mug he’d used for years. We’d gotten it as part of a set we were given as a house warming gift. All other mugs and saucers had long since been broken beyond the might and wonder of superglue. He sipped and watched me. Drip-drip, tap-tap. He rolled his eyes. I sighed. Tomorrow was coming fast and we were well rehearsed.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

faggot in a dress

As soon as he came, his relief was replaced by nausea. His eyes no longer set on the pixelated scene, he glanced down at his thighs and drooped cock. There was no continuum, no link between his feverish desire the moment before and his shame now. The girl bound on the screen was telling the interviewer how well the shoot went, how much she enjoyed being fucked violently by eight men. He assumed they put this part in to ease the said guilt, it never did. He could see she enjoyed it. It wasn’t that. It just never did.
He needed to piss. His palms were open and webbed, his t shirt and jacket still covering his torso, his bottom half was hairy and bare. Except for his socks. He searched the room for something to wipe his hands on, giving up he rose and poked his head out of the hallway. Seeing the coast was clear he ran towards the bathroom. Hands airborne he refused to touch anything, including his own cock that swung aimlessly hitting the tops of his thighs. He winced each time, willing his anatomy to recede.
He showered vigorously, fuck the toilet, he thought. He knew Jenny pissed in the shower anyway, she wouldn’t mind if he did. How would she know anyway. She couldn’t know, he’d use extra shower gel to hide the stench. He dried himself avoiding his own reflection, eyes lowered he dressed quickly, realizing he had no pants to put on he wrapped his towel around his waist. Faggot. He laughed. He remembered his brother liked to call him that after a shower. Faggot in a dress...

Sunday, April 26, 2015

the boy with the penis made of glass

He lay in the top bunk only in frayed undershorts. His long, bare feet hung off each side, bottom sole’s callused and dirt under the toenails. He bore a pale, slim torso with wisps of black hair across a flat chest. His face was handsome with the masculinity of a twenty-three year old but could pass as eighteen. His jet black hair was shiny and tossed into a gravity defying mane. Green eyes complemented the white skin of his face splashed with a few freckles across a long, straight nose. He was five days late of a shave. I paused to admire him briefly as I readied myself for the day. He said the previous night his name was Nicholas. He came in from Flagstaff two days prior, originally hailing from somewhere deep in Minnesota. I knew his type: soft spoken and polite, yet attaining the familiar effluvia of truck stop restrooms, back booths of dive bars, public toilet glory holes, and cheap hotels. The smell of cigarettes and meth clung to his clothes.
“I never knew that’s what they were saying…” He croaked, eyes focused at the stained ceiling.
“What?” I asked.
“The Winkies. From The Wizard of Oz. I was just thinking all these years they were marching back and forth in front of the Witch’s castle singing about ‘oreos’ but that wasn’t what they were saying at all.”
I smirked at this out from left field conversation, “Really? What were they chanting?”
He began singing the tune, eyes focused on the ceiling “All we owe, we owe her….all we owe, we owe her…”
I chuckled, “That’s utterly amazing. So, Nicolas…what are you up to today?”
“Oh…I haven’t a clue. It’s supposed to rain. So, most of my time will be keeping dry, I suppose.”
“You want to get a coffee?”
“You buying?” He smiled.
“Of course.” I said.
Thirty minutes later, we were ambling through the pristine streets of Santa Fe. We remarked on the southwestern architecture, talked of our travels, our dreams and shattered nostalgias. We grabbed a coffee from Starbuck’s and made our way over to the Railroad Park and sat at a bench listening to an impromptu garage band wail at the tourists and locals frequenting the nearby Farmer’s Market.
“So…what is Mexico like?” Nicholas asked.
“Why? You thinking of going down there?”
“Maybe. I want to get to Phoenix first. I have unfinished business with a family member.”
“Can’t leave them hanging. “ I said, fishing a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, handing one to him. I looked around the park. Sighed. “There is absolutely nothing here. This trip was an utter mistake.”
“Tell me about it. I feel like a fish outta water.” He watches two women walking a dog pass. His face is slack and predatory. “Damn. I need to get laid. But, these snooty-assed rich bitches are only interested in you if you are named Skylar and drive a Lexus.” He adjusted his crotch. “Fuck. I haven’t busted a nut in over two weeks.”
I chuckled, “Calm down, cowboy, or take your ass over to the porno shop and stroke one out.”
“Shit,” He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, “I’m broke.” He paused. Took a drag. “There’s a porno shop near here?”
I pointed in the direction, “Yeah. Just up that way, two blocks. I noticed it when I was on the bus the other day. Wanna check it out?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Nothing else to do.”
Entering the small shop with walls covered in boas, dildos, and leather toys, we meandered through racks offering videos ranging from Finger Banging Lesbos to Gay Midget horrors. The bloated clerk with acne scars sat glass-eyed and uninterested as Nicholas and I entered the dark alcove holding the booths. We both slipped in one together.
Sliding a five dollar bill in the slot, I sat side by side with Nicholas on a padded bench with elbows touching as our faces were bathed in blue from the flickering cathode rays of the screen. Nicholas pressed the selection button with long, bony fingers finally settling on a blond bitch amped on meth slobbering on the cocks of two black studs. We sat in silence momentarily as the slurping and over-acting gagging filled the small cubicle.
“Well, that five dollars isn’t going to last forever.” Nicholas stated as he stood up, slid his pants and shorts to his ankles, and sat back down. His circumcised cock jutted up, firm and throbbing with a pearl of precum that formed at the tip. “You gunna jack off or what?”
I did the same as he and we sat next to each other jerking ourselves as the video went into hard drive with the two black studs spit-roasting the blond. Out of peripheral view, I watched as Nicholas mechanically slid his clenched fist up and down the rigid penis. I could not hold back my lustful intensions. I wanted to taste him. To devour him. To drink from his cock all he emitted from that beautiful penis. However, the moment I was about to offer him a blow job, he issued a little, surprised “Oh!” and spurted thick strings of semen onto the monitor. At that moment, I too blew my frustrations out into the darkness of the cubicle, my own liquids splattering loudly onto the tile. I sighed in relief as I watched Nicholas wipe the residue from his hand onto the sides of the cushion of the bench.
We darted out of the booths and into the cloudy afternoon of Santa Fe. We walked in awkward silence.
“Wanna smoke?” I asked, breaking the tension. No need to deal with that post macho guilt now. Wasn’t in the mood.
“Can I ask you a question?” He said taking the cigarette, lighting up.
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“You gay?”
I faltered, then said, “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” I half expected a bleating soliloquy on masculinity and the evils of sodomy.
“That’s cool. It doesn’t matter. Can I ask you another question?”
“Can I go to Tijuana with you?”
I smiled, “I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind one bit…”
As we walked, talking of casual things, the clouds let loose and the rain began to fall…

Thursday, April 23, 2015

the human condition

Being haunted by desire of authenticity I take stealthy photos sometimes. I am interested to discern how people read when they think nobody’s looking. The world surely does not exist for them at that moment.
Continuing my stroll around downtown Santa Fe, I met the most adorable Native American young man. He was homeless and living on the street. He approached me as I passed a café with, "French fries sure sound good right now. You spare a smoke?" What impressed me was his positivity and reserved knowledge of the deeper meanings of life from one as young as he. A mind not cluttered with consumerism or tweeting every thought which crossed his mind in a vain attempt of approval from phantom peers. I awarded him with both a smoke and french fries where he traded it with a thirty minute discussion of such surprising intelligence and candor.
“You can’t let people scare you. You can’t go your whole life trying to please everyone else. You can’t go through life worried about what everyone else is going to think … You can’t let the judgment of others stop you from being you.”

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

this time two years ago

You can tell a single story, a million different ways.
Make it a beautiful tale,
Where once upon a time, a boy loved a boy who had eyes that shined like city lights.

A tragic one,
When he promised him a forever, then gave his heart to another guy.

Or a hopeful kind,
Where as time passed, he found himself laughing with a different boy. One who knows all the lyrics to every song by the Eagles. He is patient, kind, and has a beautiful smile.

“This time, two years ago,” he tells him, “I’ve been trying to find someone on the same page as me.””

Monday, April 20, 2015


"Cold. Colorless. A city of vast, moaning silence. Bitter phantoms wrapped in dirty coats pass one another on dusty, trash filled sidewalks, their weathered faces locked in perminant grimace. Prehistoric pedophiles sit in the vacant plaza, huddled from freezing winds, chewing on saliva. Staring into nothing, staring into silence. Beat, abandoned buildings - row after row of them - claw at an unrelenting Southwest navy sky. El Paso is a dead museum..."

- Luis Blasini, Journals 4/20/2011

"An anti-septic ghost town of flabby, geriatric tourists donning Indiana Jones hats and Gap clothes. They snap unrelenting post card pictures of bitter Native Indians who were over their shit a century ago. A frigid wind blows across rubbly prairies that cause the most stoic bipolar schizophrenics to scream obscenities at the top of their lungs. The cold is long and the cold is merciless. But, the bus fares only a dollar...gotta stay positive in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave..."

- Luis Blasini, Journals 4/20/2015

Saturday, April 18, 2015


The night before I left Juárez, I literally flipped a coin to break the deadlock decision of either relocating to Sante Fe or the beach in Tijuana. As you may as well realize, Sante Fe won. I was optimistic: A new town, small, safe, and attaining the three requirements I was searching for – a shelter for a jump off point, transitional housing to wait out the long process in acquiring an apartment through HUD. In fact, during this past week, I have successfully received various appointments at the assistant housing programs that this town does offer. Indeed.
However, in the back of my head, I been getting that nagging echo that this decision wasn’t entirely the best one. Oh, I do have to admit my stay here has been extremely un-eventful and is a satisfying reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of the previous city…but something happened this morning that set my mind to going back to Tijuana. It snowed. A thick, powdery blanket covered the otherwise green of spring colored parks and trees and surrounding hillsides. I loathe the snow. I cannot tolerate cold. That cinched it. I will be leaving south in two week’s hell or high water and unlike Lot’s wife, I will not look back!

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

writing time

I began writing a story...this is as far as I got:

The yellow sun exploded over the skyscrapers on a cloudless, Wednesday morning. Kyle lay wrapped in a matted, pink blanket which he found lying discarded next to a trashcan. It still held that funky reek of vomit and beer, but not as overpowering as the smell of dried feces and stale urine which permeated the alleyway he slept the previous night.
   Kyle silently squinted, the sun rays bathed his face. He looked up into the sky above and it glowed a bright blue. The distant sounds of the city coming to life drifted down the trash littered alley. The whispering of cars, the pounding of air-hammers from construction sites, the wailing of ambulances. Kyle fell into a coughing fit and vainly attempted to shrink back under the blanket. He did not want to face whatever insidious shit the world was preparing to throw at him today.
   Kyle was twenty-three. Fair skinned and ruggedly handsome. Thick, black eyelashes enveloped steel-blue eyes. His shaggy, blonde hair was tucked under a red baseball cap. It was summer and he wore his regular seasonal uniform of white tank top and blue basketball shorts with sneakers. He had a lean and athletic build. Not tall, in fact, he was rather short. Which was commented on repeatedly, but Kyle kept a confidence air about him.
   At first look, one might think that he held a high position of a clean jock in any major college sports team. A closer inspection unveiled the fine layer of dirt and grease on his face and arms. The dirty teeth, chapped lips and black grime under the fingernails, fingernails which had been chewed raw. The smudged clothes emitted a waft of unclean genitals and rectum. His sneakers, once white, were now smeared in black dirt and mud and stank from odor.
   Moans of the living dead. The thirty or so others who shared the alley began to stir. Followed by an orchestra of coughing, sniffing, hawking, intermittent yawns. Kyle didn't want to see them. To look at those poor souls who shared his destitution. But, he had to wake up and grab his gear. Soon the police would cruise by and herd everyone off.

Monday, April 13, 2015

a case of the mondays

It has been a bit since I chose to live this path. Wondering amongst the outcasts, the homeless, the insane. The current shelter holds a sprinkling of each: You have the obligatory wind-bag who will garrulously blabber from the time the lights snap on until lights out in the evening pinning anyone down to hear his over bearing problems it being either health or personal, the wild-eyed invalid shuffling about in a lithium induced stupor, the arrogant 'tough guys' going on about kicking everyones ass yet who cry like infants strictly from loss of all they've attempted in life behind the closed doors of their case workers, the drunks, the dope addicts, the perverts...all present and as common to any homeless shelter across this great land of ours. I could care less about this sulky, petty lot.
I awoke at the mandatory 5am this morning with the theme to the 2014 Godzilla in my head. I vaguely remember having a lurid dream concerning it. Anyway, I woke up and staggered to the canteen for coffee, scrambled eggs and chopped potatoes - quite toothsome. The resident wind-bag sat dominating the room bellowing out insults - ahem, I mean, humorous jabs to whoever he deemed needing it. He turned his tripe on me in which I retorted that reserved respect to others is something he should adhere to in this sort of place otherwise he may be murdered in his sleep. I might have referred to him as a "worthless bag of shit" among other choice nouns which didn't go over too well. Ho-hum, it was a great start to the day.
After cleaning up, I dashed out into the frigid morning air and jumped a bus to the far side of town to pick up my depression meds at the pharmacy. To my dismay, I arrived at 8am and they opened at 9. I stood in that cold chain smoking until the two senile old fucks who ran the joint decided to arrive five after the hour.
I snatched the two pill cases and headed out. Still attempting to find my way around, I located the bus stop going downtown. The bus arrived, the driver allowed two kids to debark, yet snapped the door shut before I could get on and drove off. Fucking cunt. So, I stood in the cold another hour for the next one and made my way back downtown to speak with the shelter's caseworker. Last Friday evening he mentioned that he would be in his office from 11 to 3 and I should come to see him for general intake.
It being ten in the morning at this time, luck would have it that I would get on the wrong bus which meandered slowly through every barrio and residential neighborhood in lower Santa Fe. To add insult to injury, after I asked the driver to notify me when we were close to the intersection nearest the shelter, he doesn't and deposits me ten blocks past my station point.
"I'm sorry" he sighs, not actually caring one way or the other.
I simply pass him uttering, "You don't know what sorrow is."
I eventually make it to the caseworkers office five after eleven in which he explains that he usually does intakes after three in the afternoon. "I don't know who would had told you to come in at eleven."
"You did." I state without the slightest hint of emotion.
"I'm sorry..." He says.
Yes. Everyone is sorry.
So, I trudged to the local library to pound this out. I realize it is simply a post in petty grievances, but hey, here, enjoy some pictures I snapped on the way:



Sunday, April 12, 2015

hobo bebop

Who knew a town this small would encompass a waiting list to receive a bunk in a fucking flop house. For a week I meandered around downtown Santa Fe mingling with the resident hobo culture, we sitting in the main plaza, smoking rollies and mocking the flabby, dislocated tourists clogging the streets. Santa Fe is a nice town and I wouldn’t mind staying here, but at the moment it is still fucking cold! A bitter iciness cascading down from the Rockies which chill my very marrow even on the most sunniest of afternoons. The locals are quite bland and overtly vanilla for my tastes. Except for the occasional drunken Indian, there seems to be a vacuum as far as a hip culture is concerned. I do pine for the days when I can take a walk and be accosted by speed induced prostitutes or conning shoe shine boys or the shifty eyed ex-con. It's too clean here.
I did run into a twenty-three year old blond train jumper named Cody. He confided he was taking a break before his straight shot jump to San Francisco to wile lazy afternoons in Haight Ashbury in a hallucinogenic haze. A handsome, learned man with strikingly good Aryan features. His lanky body draped over in sooty jeans, gray turtle-neck sweater, naval jacket and red baseball cap. He carried all he possessed in a ruck sack flung over boney shoulders. We sat in the Railroad Park drinking 40 oz. Coors from a paper bag and smoking weed discussing each other’s cross-country travels. Far after the alcohol kicked in and a little after the sun set over the pine covered mountains, I gave Cody a hand job as he was wrapped warmly in his dingy sleeping bag. His penis was long, thin and circumcised…like him. He sighed and smiled with crimson tinged eyes after he discharged a squirty mess all over his sooty winter outer wear that the release was much needed.
I couldn’t sleep, so I spent the long frigid night aimlessly wondering dark silent Santa Fe streets wishing I had went to Tijuana instead. Wrapped in my thick Dickies coat, smoking cigarette after cigarette, I gazed up into a clear navy sky awash with stars and regretted my dire decision to come here. I feel like a fish out of water, a dislocated alien. This American culture – though born into – is no longer mine. Long days slide by as I sit and listen to the clean white tourists striding past and I cringe…I can’t become like that. Or at least I do not wish to.
Anyhow, back to business: After walking over to the shelter every day at 3pm and signing up for a bunk, I was finally awarded entrance last Friday. A clean establishment with a pleasant staff and unlimited coffee in the canteen. Unfortunately, the place is populated with the most bland and boring citizens I had ever encountered throughout my interval as a hobosexual. A sulky, whiny crew of real ugly. Not one holds promise of any type of friendly association during my stay. Either be Santa Fe or relocate to Tijuana, it will be at least a two months holed up in this shelter before I make my move and I will have to put my tolerance on over drive to deal with these dreary bores….ho-hum.

Saturday, April 04, 2015

once more into the breach

In the middle of the night I tossed my belongings into my suitcase and before dawn, dashed out into the still, silent Mexican night before I had a chance to change my mind. I quickly marched through sleeping barrios with the loud clack-clacking of the cases wheels causing the occasional dog to bark. I wasn’t worried about attracting roaming thieves or the chance of encountering a trigger happy drunk cartel, I kept my eye out for the police patrols. As a fact, I reached the border without incident and was amazed that the customs kiosks were void of anyone. I was certain it would be clogged with early morning commuters even at five in the morning. The officer scanned my passport and asked weary eyed what was in the suitcase. I nonchalantly shrugged and mumbled, “Stuff.” He simply waved me through.
I sat in a Burger King on the corner of Paisano and El Paso Street munching on a greasy sausage and egg sandwich contemplating what the fuck was I going to do. The rational thing was to return to my apartment, unpack, and pay rent the following day. But, I had grown weary of Juárez. That old bitch had not been kind the year I resided there and my gut instinct told me it was time to lay tracks. Under the steady glare of the lone old pervert who shared the lobby with me, I made the decision to head to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I had pondered the location for quite some time as my final destination for my ‘retirement’. I have grown weary of the life I lead and secretly desired a tranquil existence to simply write and live out my remaining years in relative peace. If that makes any sense. I was originally going to return to Tijuana, but I have changed (as I am certain Tijuana) so much over the last few years. I seriously do not think I could take living there again, mentally and physically. No more adventures.
On that note, I made my way to the Greyhound station and booked a bus to New Mexico. Luckily there was a coach leaving at 9:25 that morning. As I stood at the boarding gate chatting with an overweight and feminine ex-correctional officer heading to Albuquerque, my mind raced with the loathsome memories and letdowns of the past year. All my friends of this town and south of the border – any whom I cared to associate with – had left to better locales…Austin, San Francisco, Paris, Mexico City. The only ones remaining were the ignorant fucks who lacked any drive for betterment. They remained, bitter and self-loathing in their lot. I certainly did not want to become like that and I found myself slowly doing so.
The bus ride was uneventful and pleasant. I sat listening to be-bop jazz as vast southwest prairies dotted with sage brush and the occasional biscuit colored butte drifted past my view. Small towns of rusting cars and squat adobe buildings lined with barbed wire fences, great orchards of grapes, walnuts, chilies, garbage…we headed up into Northern New Mexico. An old Native American, stooped and weathered wearing a large brimmed black hat slowly watches the bus roar by. He spits tobacco onto the yellow, gravelly terrain.
We come to the teeming metropolis of Albuquerque where I debark and dash out to take a train toward my final destination. I find out with dismay that the next arriving coach was in four hours, so as many others around me, I shuffled about the vast station, chain smoking and silent, listening down to myself. On a steel bench, I pass some time chatting with a bitter old fuck from Australia, but he bored me quick with his bleating negative balderdash and I simply meandered away.
Eventually, the Rail Runner train arrived and I sat in a comfortable seat. North, up through Indian villages and reservations and rotting farms of rolling hills and crumbling mesas, I arrived at the station in Santa Fe in late afternoon an hour before the sun set casting the southwestern town in fiery amber. I wandered and took a room at a nearby hotel. Excited and someone racing with maddening anxieties, I went downtown and ate a delicious steak dinner at the Plaza Café. Afterwards, as I stood on the corner in the chilled evening, I was accosted a huge drunken Indian mooching for smokes. This blue jeaned titan gives me a bear hug when I hand over two requested cigarettes. Lifting me off my feet, he yells, “Welcome to Santa Fe!” and then staggers off into the night to fight off phantoms of cowboys long dead. A ver…
Indeed, I am here. And to acquire the things that I need, it will mean I will be forced to go underground. They have a shelter here where I will reside as I apply and wait for housing to kick in. Well, that’s the plan, anyway as vague and by the seat of the pants as it may be. But, at this moment, this is where I make my stand…this is where I will make my final home.

Thursday, April 02, 2015

disconnected nostalgia

Time passed. Winter turned to spring.
The climate became insidiously hot one morning and I awoke in a pool of sweat. Fan didn’t work - spins, but had little effect with the heat. I prepared a cup of joe. Clicked on the laptop and spent the day pounding out more prose on another damned manuscript I was certain no one would ever read.
As the sun boiled below the horizon there was a knock at my door. I was pleasantly surprised to find Oscar standing there. I invited him in and we shook hands.
“You hungry?” I asked.
He smiled, “Always.”
“I was about to make steak burritos. Want one?” I thumbed towards the old stove.
“Sounds good.”
I prepared our meal and we sat at the wobbly, metal table in the kitchen. Oscar looked about the room in silence. I did have to admit, though he visited regularly, we knew relatively little about one another.
I decided to make small talk, “Did I ever tell you the time I chauffeured Shelley Winters…”
“Who’s Shelley Winters?”
“An old actress. She’s dead. It doesn’t matter.” I grinned.
“No,” He pleaded. “Go on with your story. I want to hear it.”
“At one time, back when I lived in Los Angeles, California, I used to do volunteer work at the Teen Canteen on Hollywood Boulevard. It was a shelter of such for homeless and teenage runaways. Anyway, once a week, Shelly Winters used to give free acting classes to the kids. By this time, she was going blind and constantly complained about driving around. So, I offered to do her errands for her and take her anywhere she wanted to go in Hollywood. No charge. I was studying film at college, so I got the idea to use Winters to my advantage and attempt to make contacts in the film industry.”
“Did it work?” Oscar asked as he chewed.
“Not really.” I continued. “The ordeal lasted a week. I tell you, she was a demanding and cheap woman. One day we were cruising down Sunset Strip and she asks, ‘Hey, ya hungry? Let’s stop off in Musso and Frank’s for a salad.’ So, we go to the restaurant – and, I’m telling you, Oscar, Musso and Frank’s was the place in its heyday to be seen. When we get there, she orders one salad between the two of us. One. And, she didn’t even bother tipping the waiter.”
I glanced at Oscar to register the weight of my words or if at least he understood. The look on his face explained it all. Confusion and boredom. We sat in awkward silence for a few moments as we ate our burritos.