Just for Jolly.

Under a cloud, took the long bus from Key West to Miami. Never will return to that hole, again. Frowning aloof faces of lonesome sad people, pass the bogs littered with dead iguanas and diseased armadillos - debarked the Metrorail and checked in the night at my old haunt - the Miami Sun Hotel. Debating my next harebrained scheme I sat sweating from that sticky humidity in the local McDonald’s and as I chewed on them cheesy cheeseburgers I got on my laptop and bought a plane ticket to San Francisco. Why not?
Next morning as the rain pounded, I sat outside the local Starbuck’s sipping hot coffee and nibbling on a blueberry muffin pondering my immediate future. Ha - I have none. What do you do when you have stepped out of the loop and stand there looking in? All those people. All those stressing unimportant problems they have accumulated - I feel nothing for them, I dare say.
I down some Dramamine and an hour or so later jumping through the Kafkan loops of airport security - funny, here I am, this literary tramp always Grayhounding or thumbing a ride and I find myself in this monstrous high tech airport with the international jet set.
It is raining cats and dogs outside the airport, grab my bag and jump on the plane - hurtling through the air at 10,000 feet on a Baron Munchhausen kick headed to The City by the Bay - Fagtown, Jotosburg, Bearvilla, Leatherlandia - Queer Capital of this fair land. Just for jolly, it seems - want to stop in City Lights Books to grab a copy of Kerouac’s Tristessa.
I make a transfer in Charlotte, North Carolina - one mishap, some fat bitch placed an open container of water in the overhead compartment, spilled but made no major problems with my laptop that was up there with it (Expecting smoke and sparks from my old friend). Slingshot through the stratosphere uneventful - The Hulk 2 was the in flight movie and overpriced sandwiches on the menu. I still can’t stomach flying.
Screech to a halt in that megalopolis San Francisco in the chill of dusk - jump the BART and purchased my Greyhound ticket in a cold wind. As any traveler knows, every Greyhound terminal has a kiosk that displays cheap and savory hotels for weary travelers of the road and I acquired a room at the hotel Pontiac off of Mission down skid row - dark street packed with hobos lying in piss and hip blacks on the hustle crack rocks in quivering cold hands - liquor stores and blue red purple neon of porno shops show it all nasty all night. Paid the greasy Hindu flashing gold tooth and he pass me a frayed towel through a grate. Slide up the swaying elevator to my single room with bath down the hall and all kinda sick junkies screaming in the alley.
I hit the cracked pavement and find a bar full of hip kids and fags - sit there savoring my beer when black man rail thin barges in and sizes me up as an easy mark, I reckon.
“Now what you need is a safistamacated woman.” He breathes liquor and halitosis into my face.
I smile and say what.
“A safistamacated woman, boy. One that’ll fuck ya all night.” When he says ‘all’ his yellow eyes roll around his lined scarred head.
I tell ‘em scattah and he stares me down but jets, anyhow - leaving me to my beer. Tired from the trip I return to my room for some early touring of the surroundings locals.

Wake up early and step out of the hotel and over a hundred hobos till I find a Starbuck's - served by twinkling queer teen and he inform me of Folsom St. Fair. Can't do it. I bop around Market watching the clanking trolleys and the bustling people and this city seems so ominous to me - snap some uninnerestin' pics until I hop that Greyhound bus and I head north...

Key West Doldrums

And so I spill forth my report on Key West. A vile and insidious island of steaming rubbish inhabited solely by pot bellied burned out hippies, arrogant hobos, and fat white guys on scooters zipping around shirtless like a swarm of killer bees.
For diversion, the islands only claim to fame is Duval Street - their 'Bourbon Street' of the Keys. Fuck that shit! Tired flabby tourist shuffle on either side sweating profusely in the humidity of Moebius with that look of petulant arrogance common to all tourist - Tijuana, Juarez, New Orleans, New York, Guadalajara - don't talk to the locals, Mertle, all of them are con men! The street is lined with price gouged curio shops and bars all catering to the wealthy tourist.

Barkers lean bored depressed against whitewashed wood cantinas vibrating off of the effects of Meth addiction waiting to squeeze your wallet dry as some blubbery female tourist wobbles by in short shorts cottage cheese and varicose veins glistening from sweat. The homosexual inhabitants live in abstract fear of the burly sailors and greaser bikers that patrol Duval with huntsman stealth patiently waiting for their next Hate Crime. With that, everyone is unfriendly - one thing my time in Mexico has done is I greet everyone passing on the street. Here you pass some frowning fuck and the local habit is to look abysmally in the other direction. Sad sad bitter Angels lost in their own Paradise.

My first recollection of a beach on this island was a strip of sand a mile long but ten feet wide. No waves. Mostly covered in five foot mounds of sand and blanketed in stinking dead seaweed, two nudist bathed in the sun - old, dried up prunes of high social standards to be sure. As I shuffled by, Thurston rose to fart and retrieve a beer in his black thong, gut sagging, tired balls drooping, face sad and frowning. I could have stomached even that until Lovey decided to rise in the buff - I wanted to drop to the ground screaming and tossing sand in my eyes. A shriveled apricot with sagging flat breasts - why is it that only ugly people nude sunbathe?

And that smell - the wafting continuous smell of rotten eggs and brine. The seaweed blankets all the beaches - sullen mutters of revolt from the peasantry: "My teenage daughter is cunt deep in shit. Is this the American way of life?"

Over priced, under stimulated. This is not a paradise. A waste of time - even though I came here out of necessity. Tomorrow I am ever so glad to leave. Where? Well, I got two junction points and I think I'm leaving those for a surprise! I will continue to find my time space - but, every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.

"You win something like jellyfish, Meester."

I am a compromise, a compromise between the sexes in a dualistic universe. I am just passing through, waiting out my vital visa, my Easy Exit permit, I hope. Oh, I know it's better to have a body than not to have a body but the minute I got here I screamed ungratefully: "Wrong address! Wrong address! There's been a mistake in the mail. Send me back. Wherever you got me, return me. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong color!

...a spiral iron stairwell into labyrinth of lockers, tier on tier of wire mesh and steel cubicles joined by catwalks and ladders and moving cable cars as far as you could see, tiers shifting interpenetrating swinging beams of construction, blue flare of torches on intent young faces...

There is only one thing a writer can write about: what is in front of his senses at the moment of writing ... I am a recording instrument ... I do not pretend to impose 'story' 'plot' 'continuity' ... Insofaras I succeed in Direct recording of certain areas of psychic process I may have a limited function ... I am not an entertainer.
Gentle Reader, The Words that I write will leap on you with leopard man iron claws, it will cut off fingers and toes like an opportunist land crab, it will coil round your thighs like a bushmaster, fuck you long and hard and inject a shot glass of rancid ectoplasm ...
"Ai! Si qierdo! Fuck that ass, mijo..."
The Words that I write are divided into units which be all in one piece and should be so taken, but the pieces can be had in any order being tied back and forth, in and out fore and aft like an innaresting sex arrangement. This blog will spill off the screen in all directions, kaleidoscope of vistas, medley of tunes and street noises, farts and riot yipes and the slamming steel shutters of commerce, screams of pain and pathos and screams plain pathic, copulating cats and outrages squark of the displaced bull head, prophetic mutterings of brujo in nutmeg trances. Snapping necks and screaming mandrakes, sigh of orgasm, heroin silent as dawn in the thirsty cells, Radio Tijuana screaming like a berserk tobacco auction, and flutes of Ramadan fanning the slick junky like a gentle lush worker in the grey subway dawn feeling with delicate fingers for that green folding crackle.
Walk out into the world, Fellow Desolation Angels, and write what you SEE:
All around the square are open-air restaurants, vine trellises, baths and sex cubicles. The boys walk around the square propositioning each other and comparing genitals. The college Zapatistas compare theories of war and population control. How to implant concepts of direct hatred. How to produce epidemics, hurricanes, earthquakes. How to collapse currencies. The final strategy is stopping the world, to ignore and forget the enemy out of existence ... No troops can get through the Deserts Of Silence and beyond that is the Blue Light Blockade. We don't need the enemy anymore ... The last carnival is being pulled down.
Turn the page, baby, I wanna see what's next...
The apartment on Calle Matamoros where the boy died ...Eduardo? Enrique? There is a wounded animal in the courtyard. At first it looks like a dog then turns into a boy. Very slowly the boy stands up and walks toward the door that opens onto the courtyard. I can see now that ... the rooms around it are in ruins. I am standing in the doorway as he walks toward me, a strange sad fixed smile on his face ... Now I can see his face clearly, he has come a long way ... he has come a long way to die here ... When I open the shirt I see that there is a knife wound in the chest and the shirt is caked with blood ... Sad shrinking face. He died during the night. He died very unhappy.
Fucking junky sits on the cracked sidewalk and stirs spit with a stick.
He has the mark of a certain trade or occupation that no longer exists. If junk were from the earth, there might still be junkies standing around in junk neighbourhoods feeling the lack, vague and persistent, a pale ghost of junk sickness.... So this man walks around in the places he once exercised his obsolete and unthinkable trade. But he is unperturbed. His eyes are black with an insect's unseeing calm. He looks as if he nourished himself on honey and Levantine syrups that he sucks up through a sort of proboscis.... What is his lost trade? Definitely of a servant class and something to do with the dead, though he is not an embalmer. Perhaps he stores something in his body - a substance to prolong life - of which he is periodically milked by his masters. He is as specialised as an insect, for the performance of some inconceivably vile function.
You know how old people lose all shame about eating, and it makes you puke to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They gibber and squeal about the sight of it. The spit hangs off their skin, and their stomach rumbles and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook up, dissolving the body's decent skin, you expect any moment a great blob of protoplasm will flop right out and surround the junk. Really disgust you to see it.
So here I am are in this no -horse town strictly from cough syrup. And vomited up the syrup and drove on and on, cold spring wind whistling through that old heap around our shivering sick sweating bodies and the cold you always come down with when the junk runs out of you... On through the peeled landscape, dead armadillos in the road and the vultures over the swamp and cypress stumps. Motels with beaverboard walls, gas heater, thin pink blankets. Interant short con and carny hype men have burned down the croakers of Tijuana...

Everyone have a great weekend.

Sassy Bitches.

The surf crashed against the sand under a clear blue sky. A chopper festival was in full swing so the streets where congested with noisy hogs. I sat under a palapa as a few feet from me a group of tramps - Lost Island Angels - argued and drank the morning away - passing the Jim Beam back and forth at 9am. If yer gonna do it - do it, I reckon.

I sat there like I was saying pondering the immediate future - which always got me in a funk. I have learned to control my depression somewhat - but like them waves they just keep coming and coming in a merciless progression.

Walked along the sand and sat on the rocks smoking a Lucky watching the swimmers and the splashers - the beautiful sun tanned people. Two Latin guys were knocking a ball back and forth when they hit it over to me.

"Wanna play?" Asked the short one.

Both were jaw dropping gorgeous - 'Sure, why not?'

David and Angel they introduced themselves and have been residents of Key West for two years now. After wearing ourselves out playing ball - we three sat on beach towels, drinking Pepsi's, and shot the shit. They told me their story and I related mine.

"Man," Angel said big smile, "That shit sounds crazy! How can anyone live like that?"

How indeed.

Both were gay and lovers and had invited me to an afternoon of cocktails at a local watering hole called La Te Da. Being Saturday afternoon the place was packed with all types of sordid faggotry - pretty boys fluttered posing to invisible mirrors, pot bellied sugar daddies chased them in stylized ballets of wanton lust, bull dykes hooked hips with chicks all to the thumping rhythm of techno and top 40.

Several of The Couples friends started crawling in - Rick, thuggish dressed queen all mouth and sassy innuendos, black Mark who had a taste for white meat, Old Man Doug who hung around the youngsters to cling on to his dissipating youth - all in all a smooth cast of characters.

The rum flowed and the light laughter continued and all became lightly toasted when David started getting touchy feely with me under the eye of his beau. Angel assured me in whispering confidentiality that their relationship was 'open'.

It was at that time late in the afternoon, that David came up with the swell idea of going to the Blue Marlin Hotel and 'party'. All three of us laughing drunk at this point - I thought he must be joking.

Stopping off at the liquor store for a fifth of Popov, we checked into the hotel and I must admit this right now as a confessional to whoever is Holier Than Thou - that these two where god damn sex freaks. As soon as the door to the room was closed, and the bottle passed - I was flung onto the queen size and groped and fondled with licking gliding tongues. We three hurriedly got undressed, stroking stiff cocks and sucking perking nipples.

"You like to get fucked?", David breathed.

"Yeah." I gasped.

Lying me on my back - David put my feet up onto his shoulders - spitting into his hand he lubed his short fat cock and then shoved it in. Jeeeeeeeeeeeeezus! Angel kneeled over my chest and skull fucked my mouth as David thrusted into me. The bed boinged and pinged as we thrashed and rolled about. A few wonderful minutes pass when Angel mutters, "Let me tag that for a bit." Flips me over onto my knees, straddles behind, giving my florescent white as a slap and shoves his long skinny dick in. Thwap!thwap!thwap!thwap! Angel bangs the bajeebus outta me as I can feel his erection thicken and poom! with a quick gasp he squirts hot semen into me. David kisses Angel with such passion, stroking his glistening still hard cock. "Finish him up, baby.", Angel breathes. Again, flipped onto my back, David reenters and with long hard strokes empties his scrotum into me. I came to a knee shivering climax with Angel's helping hand.

We three lay on the rumpled sheets - David and I sharing a smoke.

"So", David asks, "You gonna stay in Key West?"

"Nah." I said taking a drag. "My Time/Space is somewhere else. But, I tell you guys - I'm glad I met ya."

Angel laughs, "What are you a sailor? A bitch in every port?"

Indeed.

We shower, walk outside, shake hands, hug - say our goodbyes. As I walked up Duval St. I started thinking of what to do next - what's the plan. Well, through advice of an old ghost I have decided to seek refuge somewhere in Florida - perhaps Tampa, St. Petersburg, or Ft. Lauderdale - save my SSI checks for a few months and retire in Puerto Rico. I really must finish that book - now that I have found out how easy it is to get published and sold through Amazon.com.

I may have a published book, yet...

Tropic Heat.

How I am right now? I am lost. I feel cold - dislocated.

Severed.

So cold inside - so dark and empty...again I am standing on the edge of that precipice and looking out into a empty insidious void. However, I think it is better that I should travel this world alone. Happy with just a small circle of intercontinental friends - content in my freedom and not locked into someone else's web of deceit.

Luis With the Lid Off.

Gargantuan monumental clouds drift across startling blue skies that sear your retinas - I lay on my yellow and green beach towel I picked up at a shop in Miami from the cutest Cuban I had ever seen - Anyway, the beach...sipping a fruit drink out of a coconut husk - felt quite relaxed, but a fish outta water, understand. The sea was flat as glass - the blue on blue horizon blended into each other and around back again.

I rolled over onto my stomach to tan this lily white hide of mine and to watch the Cuban futbol players about 30 yards away. All handsome and viciously heterosexual. Every time a bikini clad broad wound walk by they would literally masturbate at her. One dark one caught my eye and he played with such animal ferocity.
Obviously the alpha male, I thought.
The sun was suddenly blocked and I swung my Wonkas upward to see a Latin guy standing over me smiling. Tall and skinny with some sort of tribal tattoo across his left shoulder. "Is anybody lying here?" He mumbled, pointing to a spot about three feet away.
To you land locked fuckers that aren't in the know - the beaches of Key West are outlandishly small and 80 per cent covered in stinking sea weed. So, there isn't much space to lounge a crowd - not like the shoulder to shoulder beaches of the West Coast.
Hence, his inquiry.
"No - not at all." I said grinning back, waving towards the spot.
He flung down his lime green towel and lay there for a minute. Rummaging through his back pack he pulls out a bottle of tanning oil and began to slather it all over that delicious toned body. Thick black hairs on his thick legs, a happy trail leading down his blue swim trunks. Black hair on a well developed chest and a goatee. His curlyish hair was under a cap but was shoulder length and his eyes were hidden behind aviator glasses. After he oiled himself up, he lay there as macho as possible, propped up on elbows - sizzling in the sun.
"Hot today, huh?" He said with that smile again.
We struck up a conversation - about the island, the weather, the ocean, how I got here, how he got here. He invited me out to swim and we splashed around in the soothing Caribbean sea under that shining silver sun for a couple of hours. He said his name was Paul and was visiting from Tallahassee with his relatives. Damn! What a wide smile that guy had! Heated me swim trunks to stare at him.
Adjacent to the beach was a trail through the nature preserve - a smelly bog actually, infested by mosquitoes and small lizards and miniature crabs - Paul asked if I wanted to see it - I had never been there. I jokingly stated that I hated nature.
"You stand long enough in it, something will shit on you." I quipped. He laughed at that one.
Deep in the woods we had found two fallen coconut trees tied together with rope to make a crude bench - sat there and talked of things as the sun swung around. Paul took a fifth of vodka out of his bag and we passed it back and forth - dubious swigs among faceless friends, I suppose. Suddenly, with one arm, Paul flung me back wards onto the soft peat moss and pinned me down by lying on top. His unreadable eyes behind those glasses - that serious look on his face. I knew this was it, I was being robbed.
"What are you, man?" He breathed - face two inches from mine.
"What?" I groaned. My back hurt a bit from that fall.
"What are you - the man or the woman?"
I blinked in disbelief, staring up at him, "Well, you're the judo expert - you tell me."
"Do you like to kiss?" His voice to a whisper.
"Only the ones I like." I said and that ended with his tongue scrubbing the inside of my mouth.
With the humidity, our bodies were already glistening in sweat - white hand slid down dark shiny torso - perspiration drips off of him onto me, mixing with my wetness. Paul grinds up and down - our organs began stiffening through our shorts. With obvious expertise in these matters, Paul flung his trunks off with one gesture - his short uncut erection popping free, standing straight out. Shiny black pubic hair dappled by the rays through the palm trees. He looked around momentarily cautiously, then grabbed the back of my head and jabbed his cock into my mouth. Thrusting with gaining speed - saliva dripping out of my mouth, down the chin, onto my chest - rhythmic pumping faster and faster. Paul yanks his cock out and whacks it across my up lifted face, cheek, forehead - slap!slap!slap! - shoves it back into my wet mouth and continues pumping. I felt his cock throb and expand and after a few minutes of this - he grunted and let loose a big load of semen - splashing across my tongue, down my throat. He wiped himself on his towel and mumbled something as he put back on his shorts before clearing out of the bush.
Moments pass of silence - the only noise from the swaying ocean. I lay there alone, reach into my bag and pull out a cigarette and I thought, I need a drink.
I walked down Duval Street - Key West's main drag past the flabby sweaty tourist and arrogant king pins that waddled in this humid heat - and took a seat at the patio bar La Te Da, a queer establishment that obviously caters to the Keys hoity toity fag set. I ordered a coconut rum and coke and sat watching the parade of bodies on the side walk. And I thought - this really isn't my scene. Buncha rich squares. I drifted off into plans of my next port of call and I know what it shall be - Colonia La Perla on the Island of Puerto Rico. La Perla is the notorious slum of San Juan -rumored to be their City of God - and has a large writing community, gay artists, and bums like me...

Bound for Key West.

Late yesterday afternoon, jumped the Metrorail in Miami and darted south in that humidity that felt like my head was inside a napalmed watermelon. My goal - my destination that is, was Key West and the mysterious shelter that the drunk told me about in the nut house. Once at the bus terminal, swapped to a overly crowded city bus that took me as far as Florida City where as I would transfer to a coach that would haul me all the way to the Keys.
Unfortunately there was a snag - the coach, as explained to me by three sweaty yet rightly sociable hobos bumming around last station of the city bus, they were north bound to Orlando - unfortunately, since I started so late and it already around nine at night, I would have to wait until 5:30am manana to board the bus to the Keys. Quite confusing, no?
Well, the wind up was - I was stuck in the middle of BFE on some Key and spent the evening sprawled out on the sidewalk, huddled next to my bag with chiggers and mosquitoes as comrades. Out of the windy shadows of the black trees, I was approached a small mysterious person - I really couldn't pin point the gender of this confusing gnome. He/She spoke of girls and titty bars that Key West has - but he/she struck me also as an old woman wearing a baggy t-shirt and pajama bottoms.
After he/she and I smoked and chatted - I just mucked around, dozed off a couple of times, swatting at skeeters under that big white luminescent moon. I lay there gazing at the myriad stars - wondering where my place in this Universe was - if any.
5:30am rolled around and I jumped the Key West bus driven maniacally by a grinning wizened hippy - across that giant bridge that spanned forever in glooming predawn darkness, we made it to Key West in no time flat. Wondered aimless for awhile - fatigued, hungry, sore - looking for that goddamn shelter. I stopped at a Marriott Hotel to ask directions to Patterson Ave. from the nervous paranoid Front Desk Clerk - I guess I did look a little scary. Was happy to find out I was a block away from my destination.
On my last leg, I sat outside the large two storey wood frame house until a kindly caseworker came out and invited me in. He processed me and welcomed me to one of the most laid back, comfortable shelters I have ever been in. I think I will stay a bit...

Nutjob a go-go.

I was feeling that burn from a twenty-four hour frump, sitting in my own misery and filth downtown Miami with the rest of the hobosexuals when a wise old thing - ancient Angel of the streets serving that twenty-six year term - popped the idea into my head to play the nut job racket. Since it has become such an impossibility to acquire a bunk at one of these places here in Miami, the old fag suggested that I stay at the local nut ward and let them refer and assure a place once I am released.

Sure, why not? Wouldn't you?

So, reaching for the nearest pay phone I dialed 911 and turned on the water works playing the suicide kick.

911. State your emergency.

I just tried to kill myself...

How?

Throwing myself in front of the train. (I break down in tears.)

Don't cry, sweetie...why would you want to kill yourself?

Why not?

Three squad cars roar up to me - I am interrogated by four brutish cops and then whisked off to the State Mental Institute. Processed and probed by a hot Cuban named Rafael, I am issued a bed and I wait. I wait for two days. Gads, what an ordeal - the place was crawling with the mentally ill - it made me sick! Unfortunately the wind up is they no longer do referrals to shelters any longer. I screamed bloody hatred inside, kept my cool on the out side.

However, met an old bum - drunk really by way of Act of Congress - he gave me the info on a sweet little joint in the Florida Keys. A shelter that sounded like Shangra-la. The man went on for hours - even drawing an intricate map in hyberphrenic pictographs to the location. A place called Peterson Shelter. That is my next destination.

On the second day of drug induced boredom, I was released from that nut house and I made my way downtown. Armed with a full pack of smokes and a fist full of dollars - it seems that Key West is my next Port of Call....

Reapin' What I'd Been Sowin'.

Last day at the hotel - spent all afternoon trying to locate a bunk. They's got some Kafkian regulations and stipulations on getting a bunk in this burg. Looks like I'm sidewalk camping tonight. But, alas, must stay positive. I do have some cash - not enough for a room - but water and cigarettes. Priorities, Dear Reader, priorities....

Tried this place called Chlamydia or Camillus House - a lot like the Opportunity Center in El Paso and Neal Good's in San Diego - a place to flop during the day, stinkin' vermin infested mats by night. Not much help there - to obtain shelter you have to call the Homeless Hotline and hit or miss. Fact is, I been missin'. Still trying to meet up with these elusive 'Green Shirts' - wily little fucks, never around when I am. If I am told one more time "Ya just missed 'em!" - I'll scream.

Made a meet with some of the indigenous hobo-population here - right friendly folk. However, this is a metropolitan city and I must keep vigilant at all times.

It is time to hustle and trust no one.

Lonesome madness.

"Here?"

"Si...por que no?"

Trash from the sixty mile an hour winds hurled down the alley - the hurricane approaching above with sky dark gray and tumulus. Duck behind a black dumpster - smell of sour food and urine, broken beer bottles, howling sounds of the coming storm as he positioned himself against the graffitied brick wall. A dark brown hand reached into his khaki shorts and pulled out his short stiff uncut erection. Looking furtively in both directions wise in the ways of scandalous obscenities, his free hand grabs my shoulder and pushes me down to his penis, waiting, throbbing. I put the thick organ in my mouth and start sucking it - taste of sweat and saliva.

Earlier that morning, the sun tried to break the dancing clouds, I left my hotel - had stopped at Cafe Coconut Grove for coffee and a blueberry muffin, he was in line ahead of me. Tall and skinny, long black hair slicked back and hanging on his shoulders. His white cotton shirt was unbuttoned to mid chest and black hair swirled. Pencil moustache cut over thick protruding lips, slight over bite, he had a handsome thin face - but the ferocious look in those brown eyes - eyes of fire, of desperation, of certain needs. That is what caught my attention.

I ordered and sat at the short counter, one stool away. I struck up a casual conversation, however his Puerto Rican accent was so thick I had to ask him to repeat himself a couple of times. I told him my tale and he thought it was damn funny. After coffee, we walked out and he dropped the gay bomb on me. "Yeah, I'm gay. I guess"

"Dat cool." He mumbled.

Walking across the street, we found a bench in a small park - the wind began to blow harder as this imminent hurricane approached - my first, by the way. He explained that he was homeless also and resided at one of the few shelters speckled around downtown. He was a wealth of information because the past few days I wasn't getting jack shit from these hobos here in Miami. For an hour we sat and talked - about travel, Miami, writing, girls, porn. With porn he started to get animated about 'da girl' that had threw him out a few days back.

"Damn - she was a bitch, but sucked some good dick." He says.

Smiling, I explained he knows nothing - claiming I was the best this side of Pecos and the triState area, or some such nonsense. He looked me straight in the face - hard and penetrating that glare - and asked if I wanted to go score some weed with him. Wouldn't you?

After walking through the maze of downtown, past the Lost Angels huddled in their bags of garbage, past glorious white skyscrapers raping the heavens with their great phallic motions - we found a young hip black who sold us half a dime on accounta finances, you unnerstand. We stood on a corner in the wilds of Skid Row and smoked that little fucker. It was okay - gotta buzz. Then he started talking sex crap again and feeling that shit, I just said, "There ain't no girls here to suck your dick - there's only me."

"Don't hafta ask me twice." He stated, squinting in the whooshing gail, sparks in those savage eyes.

Back to the alley:

"No, don't play wit it - just suck it...yeah...faster, like dat." Long spindly fingers the color of a brown paper bag clutch the back of my head.

After a few minutes, he spewed his goo in my mouth - lean over - splat! onto the urine smelling concrete. He slides his still stiff glistening cock into his shorts, "Hey, homie - got a dollar for da bus?"

I hand him a crumpled note and after wishing me good luck on getting a shelter he disappears around a corner - hidden in dust and wind. I head over to the park by the government buildings - lady says on the Homeless Hotline that I hafta wait for some creeps called "The Green Shirts" to make their grand entrance and through them - and only them - can I gain access to one of these joints. Problem is they run on "Green Shirts" time. Meaning they'll show the fuck up when they show the fuck up. I sat for two hours smoking cigarette after cigarette amid others with forlorn faces waiting for these punks and it was a no show. I just returned to my hotel room and watched television.

What the fuck was that guys name anyhow - don't think I even asked. Hope to see him again, though. As a fact, I think I will...

Dillying and Dallying.

Strolled out of the Miami Sun Hotel and down to the boardwalk to get some scrumptious breakfast at Cafe Cuban. A big mess of scrambled eggs, sausage, a large loaf of toasted buttered bread and some Cuban coffee - the coffee was amazing! The waiter - Juan - was queer to be sure and dark and hot. The breakfast was a wee bit yummier because of him.

Walked around town to dig the local flavor - beach town, not too different from San Diego. Except the air is so damn muggy - my shirt is always damp from sweat. The fear is that there is Hurricane Ike off of the coast of Cuba heading this way and will blow the wrath of God up every one's ass. Anyway, sat in the shade of a palm and sipped on a fruit drink - the mode of wear here is your basic jeans/shorts, sandals, t-shirt. My eyes followed the Caribbean boys as they strutted too and fro - nothing like their Mexican counterparts. There is this aura of wild boy sensuality about them - so alluring and seductive. I am looking forward to my first Caribbean adventure, if you know what I mean - wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more...

But, even now as I write this I am angsty - I want to dive straight into a shelter for a couple of months and save checks to continue to Puerto Rico. I have tried to ask a couple of the indigenous homeless here - but, I just get the usual arrogant hobo bullshit. So, going on line - I hit a web site that had list of the shelters located downtown. I must find them before this weather gets foul.

And so, my time at the hotel is drawing to an end and now I must go Underground...

With a rip roarin’ yelp of ‘Orale!’ from pot bellied naco in cowboy hat and black fart and squeal of gears, the bus pulls out of heat blasted El Paso. El Paso - Nacotown - dusty dead museum of lackluster Tex-Mex populace, ‘Adios’ I whisper myself bitter and sad as we roll into the great expanse of middle Texas - out where the dear and the antelope play under that dazzling blue sky stretching forever and ever.
Optimistically stare into the mundane flatness and I ponder what lay ahead. The other passengers sit in apathetic silence - wonder if they are thinking the same thing. The trip is long and tiresome. Rusted abandon gas stations - home of lizards and ghosts of Indians metamorphoses into moss covered shotgun shacks under watchful gaze of frazzled old black man in denim overalls as we travel through Louisiana bayous and Alabama bogs and into Florida everglades. Past the highway rest stops - the bathhouses of the new millennium and confusion in changing buses in San Antonio, Houston, Tallahassee, Orlando - the only thing that made it worth while was my seat companion, James - seventeen year old black kid, tall skinny and handsome traveling home to Orlando from San Antonio visit with relatives. We talked of things to while away the time - he rapped with the two ever-smiling gay Jamaicans returning home as I scribbled notes in my notebook - it is still wonderful to know that humanity still exists in this garbage dump.
Cigarette cigarette cigarette - each stop, each stop becoming more unbearable than the last but Angel Headed destination coming closer lightened the angst. Snack on bread and fresh salami purchased from smiling plump Cuban Mother in Pensacola roadside bodega under waving palms, she had a smile and warmth that kept my cold heart going as her little white cat purred against my pant leg.
The Florida everglades sprawl out as we head south to Miami - the final destination on this route. Gleaming spires sprout up in the distance as Miami looms nearer. Clothes stick to my wet body as the humid air engulfs me - bus pulls into downtown Miami station and with a little enquiry - I jump - exhausted from that two day trip - the elevated train through this dazzling metropolis to hotel Miami Sun where I get a small room for three nights.
And so, here I am - sipping damn good coffee and smoking my last pack of Luckies at a corner cafe, some sort of mambo jazz playing, listening to the strange Spanish dialects being warbled and passionately discussed around me, watching the locals stroll to and fro in the muggy air under the big yellow moon and I am damn happy with this decision and knowing that for now - all is good in the universe…

i head east...

and.
here.
i.
go...

Time Warp, again.

Why all this waste of computer data coming and going with the expression of a masturbating idiot? (Smell of flop house boredom and mildewed communal showers.) I am writing this report - or I should comment that the report is writing itself - a torrid yarn of bring downs and hard ons packed full of characters and Desolation Angels for your closeted perverted enjoyment from the dusty wilds of West Texas to the sun worshipping tropics. Are you paying attention - you freaky-deaky fuckers need to put down them damn iPods and stop cruising porn sites and listen up - transitional I am. Traveling now without moving. But I am going to write about it so you ignorant fucks can sit comfy in your terminal addiction of comsumeristic fear. Don't be afraid to write - write! - but write for yourself and not for those over opinionated schizophrenics who share our fair garbage dump. (Especially them homosexuals.) Look around you and see, take in the world and then file a fucking report on it no matter what it is. Write without fear and without borders - the custom inspector is an idiot anyway, flaming homosexual - but a real nice fella people tell. I will entertain your fat ass with tales of blissful eye-watering beauty and rancid sure as shit ugliness of ambivalent sexual escapades and drugged out paranoia - wait...am I getting out of hand? Fuck, this isn't for you per se, but don't let that get you down, sweetie pie. Who are you anyways? Why have you came along on this trip down the Lost Highway? Did you buy a ticket? No worries, papa will take care of you - got a 'travelers friends ride for free pass'. So grab your shit and let's go go go!!!

Fits of Nostalgia.

"Why do we always do this shit at night?" He grimaced as he reached for the charred light bulb with one hand and the flecked remnants of methamphetamine with the other.

I shrugged. What can I say - though he was philosophically right. Why do we always do this shit at night. It's not like we sleep during the day. Sleep - those little slices of death. How I loathe them.

I glance out the window moon swings 'round at supersonic speed, in the distance fat man calls "Tamales!Tamales!" up in the hills - Toby places the lighter under the bulb, open end to his mouth - flick! Gray smoke warps around inside like a Texas tornado swirling contortions of Blank Death. I see the dope hit and his eyes light up like florescent lamps. I take the bulb and repeat his actions. The metallic tastes flows down to my lungs activating junk sick cells. The shot of what seems like 60 watts tingle up my spine back of skull hair stands and pow to the forehead. I begin to jerk in mechanical galvanized movements - vibrating like a tuning fork. Tongue clicks, teeth grind.

Toby was laying back on the tattered futon - blue basketball tank top with matching shorts. My lascivious eye wondered to his limp but long cock resting on those sagging balls. I wanted to reach over and grope that fucker - but, alas he being helplessly hopelessly heterosexual. No - this fucker was here only for my dope however he was not only eye candy but a good conversationalist.

"You hear 'bout Carlos?" Toby spat - small balls of white spittle slowly flinging through the air. Clik-clik went his movements. A spastic robot. "Cops raided his place. Took everything."

I didn't give a fuck - my thought wondered into last night. After an evening at some straight club with Toby, he picks up some chunky American girl and we three drunkenly return to my sordid flat. She wasn't actually ugly - big boobs, big hips - the kind I guess straight guys jack off about. Or maybe it was just the easy pussy. Feigning sleep I repair to my room only to peer through the cracked door and see in the blue light of the flickering set Toby screwing that hooch. Didn't give a rat's ass about the girl, my bloodshot eye held it's gaze on his long cock sliding rapidly in and out of her wet hole, his balls slapping against her vaginal lips the sighing grunt Toby made after five minutes of this and when he pulled out his white fluid dribbling out after him. I slithered back to my bed and took care of myself - fell asleep in that mess. Next morning, they both were gone. He returned in the afternoon and we went to score.

Standing in an alleyway of garbage and shit under a blinding yellow sun and dazzling blue Mexican sky - paranoia as white sedan with darkened windows rolls up. "Cartel." Toby mutters hands in pocket looking down. The watchful eye of the taco vendor on the corner scrutinize our every move.

After copping from The Hand, broken sidewalk rushes under our feet back to my joint for a blast. Nothing on the tele, only orange juice in the fridge, filthy bathroom over run with ants. My carpet was covered in marijuana stems, food containers, meth papers...It's amazing what you notice when you're tweaking.

Toby wanted to watch porn. Fine, I thought, torture me. As the video progressed he got half a hard on. Nothing more sexy than watching a cock grow in shorts unaided by hand. Inching upward, pulsing once, inching outward...

I digress...

In the most wicked sleazy perverted way, I leered at him and asked, "Hey, Tobe, you wanna blow job?"

"Dude, you know I'm not no fag." He retorts all the while groping his semi-stiff organ. "Your cool and all, man, but don't fucking ask me again."

I sank deep in the futon - anywhere I wanted to be but there right now. I took the light bulb - flickwhooshweeeee! I glance over at him - long and lean his body was, amber eyes encircled by thick dark lashes, copper skin, short cropped curly hair. I lay there broken and in pain - vibrating in torrid lust amplified my the methamphetamine.

"That girl I met last night?" He finally said, white tongue licking thick lips. "I got a date with her again tonight - we supposed to meet outside Las Pulgas." Las Pulgas was a straight dance club on Avenida Revu - been there once. Groped drunk boys passing in the crowd. "So, I gotta jet. Gonna go home and get ready."

After taking two more hits, we shook hands and said later to each other. I watched his skinny frame walk out the door. Why am I such a fool for those types of boys? Why am I so addicted to this chaos and not only that - but lustfully to revel in it. At that time I hated myself for it, worried of the out come if it out come. Mortified by my addiction and sordid homosexuality. The conflicts that raged in me drove me literally insane.

Now? I care about nothing and no one. So jaded I have become - and antisocial. I loathe most faggots to this day - I see through all their amateurish attempts at deceit and seduction. I should know, I have tried them all. Trying to attain all that I have accomplished in the past and finally realizing, as it had done to me, leaving them bitter and empty. And like me, they always do this shit at night.

Oh, and two days later, Toby was found shot to death behind Hotel Coliso off of Avenida Coahuilla. I didn't care.

Dogs Bark in The Night

I sat in the dim Mexican bar hunched over my warming rum and coke. My shirt clung to me in the humid heat coated in a fine layer of dust and soot. There were two others in the bar - to my left some suit wearing fruit was in an animated conversation with the young handsome bartender - you know the type, calls the bar tender by his first name using vague gay innuendos in every sentence, rolling eyes, flipping wrists, takes bets on the current futbol game, keeps a girl handy to divert suspicion from his co-workers. A real asshole.

On the other end was a bloated balding queen deep in the drink that kept glancing at me with blood red eyes - greasy face. A real loser. I sat there depressed, looking at my shimmering ravaged reflection in the bar mirror when someone sided up into the stool next to me.

"Mr. Blasini, I am so glad I have contacted you."

I look over, my eyes droop and I cough out carcinogenic vapors. "Yeah? Who are you?"

The thin man in black suit and tie, eyes bulging and predatory, his face a mask smooth and shiny as a China Doll. He smiled back showing long yellow horse teeth. "Don't feign surprise, Agent Blasini - under the current situation, you knew Control would contact you. I am authorized to tell you they are very impressed with your reports - and that's coming from the top, I might add. The Head Controllers are impressed by your mission here."

I took a long drag from my Lucky and downed a swig. My head swam, I felt woozy. "Go on."

"Agent Blasini, I am here to inform you of a new directive. One I think you may enjoy - if you live that long." His monkey like laugh was derogatory and defensive.

"What do you mean if I live that long?"

He placed a veiny hand on my sleeve, black hair covered his knuckles. "Pay that no mind, my friend - just an inside trade joke. Here take this." He pulled something out of his jacket and slid a long envelope across over to me, tapped it with a finger.

"What? What's that?" My head swirled and hurt. Ringing in my ears.

"A ticket to Puerto Rico. Tourist class I am afraid - but what do you expect in today's economic climate?"

"Puerto Rico? You mean the Caribbean island?" I asked glancing down at the ticket. The ringing in my ears and the dull ache in my head intensified.

His face grew blank as a poker dealers, he drew close, "A black dog will bark in the night. This dog does not realise his fate - but he barks. The distant breathing of the highway, the Wild Boys and The Fallen Angels with Dirty Wings, the moon so big and yellow - so close you can almost reach up and goose it. He fears the night, you know? He fears. But he barks. Is it to drive away his fear? Or the voices that control his action?" He then burst into uncontrollable barking and face turning pink with laughter, "Woof! Hahaha!! Woof! Hahahaha! Woof! Hahahaha!"

I sat staring at this character. The laughter stopped as if cut off by light switch.

"Continue to write your reports, Agent - and of course do not edit any of the tasty details." His eyes go dreamy, " The look of shock on his face when you ripped his ear off - the gushing of blood, the passion of your hate. Ooooh, baby - that was sweet." His face snaps back into focus. "We will contact you once you reach San Juan. Oh, before I go - you gotta smoke?" Suddenly he was in dirty tattered street clothes, his hands stained black as a shoe shine boy. I reached in my pack and handed him a cigarette. "Gracias, compa - y adios."

I sat hunched back over my drink, ice cubes long gone as the character disappeared into the hot dusty streets of The City. I looked up into my reflection and nodded, thinking, Yes, this is it. They were right. It will never stop. And as Kafka once stated, this is the point reached when there is no turning back...

Fade to Black.

I have started selling the items I have purchased over the last few months - my 37in. plasma television, the mp3 Sony stereo, the universal DVD player, the swanky dinner ware and glasses I had attained at Copenhagen Furnishings, my DVD's among others.

Last night the Mexican Federales raided our building and robbed and exiled the few American expats that reside in my building - thier belongings 'nationalized'. I was luckily not there - enjoying delicious burritos colorado with Beto. In the dead end street that leads up to my building I had to stand and hear the horror story of an African American who had lived in that building some odd 15 years. The raid was sudden and without mercy - all the expats were told to return to their country with what little they could carry.

I looked up from the foul smelling street at the shattered windows and busted metal doors, the street littered with broken personal objects. Why mine and two anothers were spared I have no idea. Juarez is not a free place any longer so it seems - the police are more brutal and the populace a gang of desperate Anglo hating thieves.

It is only the twelfth of the month and I must either try to hang on until the third of next month or flee with what I can get from selling my belongings.

The air is thick with humid fear.

Ha ha. Hee hee. Ho ho.

Nights wracked in Kafkan pain and angst. Insomnia is my bed mate of late. Trains roar by - inches from my flat with a blast of blackened terror, gunshots in the distance, mutterings down in the street, and some damn cat won't stop mewing - night after night. I lay in the heat of my grungy flat littered with dust, personal affects and dead bugs and think and debate and scrutinize and analyze but I can not come up with a solution.

Psychoanalyst has optimistic hope but she ain't gotta clue how cold it is inside. My arm hurts, my rib hurts and that gnawing throbbing hateful niggardly ache in my head continues without mercy. Truth is - I do not have not and for some cockamamie reason will not take my meds. The depression that goes with this masochistic existence has become such that I am numb to it and all that is around me. Nothing matters. Nothing ever matters.

Control was right - it will never stop. Ever. My rationale and conclusion is what is the point? The point of anything human? Getting up, washing, eating, talking, drinking, fucking, smoking, shaving, living? The great cosmic joke is - there isn't a point. The great joke of God is suffer horribly without alteration and endure it for that is all I offer. Dios, you are such a kidder.

Why aren't I laughing?

American Psycho.

The beer was hitting me - felt the warm glow of a buzz coming on, you know. We stumbled out of the Bar Buen Tiempo into wet streets, a hazy drizzle shimmering down from that pitch black ominous sky. Through splashes of puddles we both headed into the maze of the Old Mercado - drug fiends and prostitutes of both sexes lurked in the shadowed corners.
I met the guy back at the bar after casual conversation over a few beers, not a minute too soon - that faggito Ernesto that sat to my right was deteriorating into a simpering shrilling bore. The guy introduced himself, in my drunken stage I can’t recall his name much less cared. All that I was entranced with was his tall thin stature and good looks - dressed kinda flashy, too. And the bomb dropped when he invited me over to his apartment for some rest and relaxation. Why not - wouldn’t you?
So, back in the Old Mercado, we dodged shady figures and drunks as we clomped along on the wet cobblestone. He mumbled something to the effect that he wanted beer before arriving at his flat and asked for 150 pesos - I handed him fifty. No, that wasn’t enough - and switched for the hundred peso note. Turning a corner, he asked for me to ‘wait here’ while he went for the beer. Nope, I’ll come along. Something fishy, I stated hissing through teeth, “And if you try to fuck me out of my pesos - I’ll break your fucking leg.” I was serious. And so was he as he bolted down the street. Asshole.
Sometimes you do things that are without reason and ration - without thinking of the circumstances that may occur from your actions. I don’t know why I did what I did - I believe at that moment, after four months of being ridiculed, shystered, robbed, and abused - I had reached my limit. I ran after the petty thief through the dark crumbling adobe houses south of the market. With great speed I overtook that motherfucker by grabbing him by his shirt tail - he swung and landed a nice tap to my left jaw. I yanked him in and wap!wap!wap! I wailed on that shit with all the hatred and accumulated frustration within me. He kicked and swung and dodged as I countered those precise blows. This ain’t gonna work - I’m not getting nowhere this way. And that’s when I decided to go psychotic.
Leaping up, I coiled around him and bit into the right side of his throat - as my left thumb dug into his left eye, I felt the warm sticky blood oozing down my chin. Wack! He punched me away and I jolted back, biting off a piece of his right ear. We both fell onto the wet ground, rolling in the mud and garbage - punching and choking. With a whir he was up and kicking me in the ribs - and was gone, racing back down the dark streets into that murky rain.
I stood up, screaming in unbridled rage with blood covering my lower face and splattered on my clothes in the dark drizzle, “Coward! Pig! All that for one hundred pesos! You could of just asked and I would have gave it to you!” My hysteric rant echoing down windy streets at night.
I slammed open the door to Bar Buen Tiempo caked in mud, filth, and blood. “Get me some napkins!” I roared at the bartender. That screaming faggot Ernesto - loaded off of all the booze I had purchased him earlier - gaily called out my name as I stomped to the rest room. “Shut up!” I yelled pointing across the bar at him. After cleaning the blood off of my hands, I returned to the bar amid frantic questions of the owner and a couple of friends. Without a word I stormed out - my thoughts were dark as the night.
I returned home and lay down, however as the numbing effects of the alcohol began to wear off - my body became wracked with pain, especially my right arm. I lay there moaning for a few hours until about five in the morning when it became unbearable I dressed and crawled across the border stateside. I stumbled into the nearest McDonald’s to ask the manager to please, please call 911 - I think my arm is broken. Half the naco crew looked slack jawed at me as if I was insane - the manager agreed to call. But that worthless fucker never did. Time passed. As the dawn crept up, I marched across the street to a pay phone and called myself. Within minutes I was surrounded by four squad cars and stone faced inquiring officers. I made up a tale that I was mugged on my way to work after I crossed the border - they weren’t buying it and just as I thought the jig was up, an ambulance screamed to the curb.
So, I was hauled to the nearest hospital wherein the croaker diagnosed me as a compound fracture in the right arm between the wrist and elbow - gave me a sling and sent me on my way. After lunching in a downtown Jack in the Box, I sat in the park adjacent to think things through. Mexico, for the last few months you have not been kind to me - we used to have such a smooth understanding, great repertoire - now, I just hate your stinking guts. I sat there smoking cigarette, cigarette, cigarette - knowing full well it was time for me to lay new tracks for a different part of the world.
I sat there as a shadow crossed me, looking up to see the skinny frame of William Wiggins standing with hands on hips, “What the fuck happened to you?”
I blearily gazed up, took a long drag and croaked, “Old friend, I sure as shit can use some cock right now.”
After downing two quick beers as The Tap bar we curtailed it to Trixxx Adult Video - that perverted hideaway on Texas Ave. and quickly entered a booth. Plunking five dollars into the slot, William yanked down his shorts and peeled off his shirt as his erection flipped upward ready for action. William always was a trooper. Through the blue flickering of the cathode ray I sucked on that fucker like my life depended on it. William squirmed and grunted and broke a sweat as ten minutes later he came to a shivering climax. And then of course we did it once more.
Wiping up the best we could in that filthy restroom under the fay stares of the three patrons, William and I returned downtown, munched on some burgers and I bid my farewell. Finally crashing back at my pad - I have decided - this is it. I must GO…

My Own Way.

Marlon,
If only you knew how to win some prizes
If only you knew how to play
If you could sleep nights
Stop your crying
Then you might find out I still love you in my own way
If that's not enough then I am so sorry I met you
It was almost like leading you on
But there's more to it all
Than just wringing your heart out over something
That keeps on going wrong
So don't tell me you love me
How am I supposed to know what that means
No don't sell emotion
You can't find devotion
If you're falling apart at the seams
I hope that you smile
When you reach your conclusion
I hope that you'll know just what to say
But if it should mean that the party's over
You should know that I still love you
In my own way

Riddles in The Dark.

Woke up at the crack of fucking dawn to trudge over Stateside and have a pow wow with the shrinks. However, I was in a positive mood and did not accomplish much. The Intern - Fransisco was his name, I recall - was pleasant enough, he's rocking queer, though. (So queer that it rocked me.) I am in the rut now of taking in a weekly yak session with him - he is the next in line to dig into this horrid mess I have between my ears. Pobresito. I believe it was a good idea on Melissa's part - Melissa is my psychoanalyst, you unnerstand - to add a fellow homo to the mix. My confession of a misogynist I think unnerved her. Fransisco, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship...

Afterwards I trudged around downtown El Paso talking with the local losers amid uninspiring chat. Enough of that I returned home and played video games, ate stir fry veggies, slept. Awakening I decided to go out and slug down a few beers at my hangout when down in the street someone was calling my name.

Went to my balcony and was shocked to find Enrique standing there with a hangdog looking Marlon. Marlon. The fucking asshole. But, I'm not one to hold a grudge and invited them both for drinks - all the while focusing my attention on Enrique and snubbing Marlon like any red blooded homo scorned.

At Bar Las Cavas, we three sat upstairs and drank horrible beers indigenous to Chihuahua called Indio - a rancid dark brown concoction that amazingly enough salt and lime actually made worse. After Queen warbled Flash! over the jukebox, we three hightailed it to Bar Buen Tiempo where beer tried and true never lets me down.

Us three yukking it up for a bit, Enrique left for prior engagements round nineish to leave me alone with Marlon and that's when I let him have it over his previous actions against me. We talked things over - though my first thought was to smash a broken beer bottle into his handsome face - and after the beer took effect, my sappy ass forgave him - after all he did apologize sincerely. Again stating that the gay life isn't easy for him to transcend. Okay. Fine.

After the bar closed Marlon and I strolled drunkenly over to a vacant lot with great piles of concrete rubble and sat amid putrid garbage under a big white moon. The wind was warm and Marlon confessed his desires to me in the most timid and adorable way that sparked some kind of emotion in this cold, cold heart. All the while, though - I thought, What if I open up to this guy again...will he hurt me at first chance? But taking chances is part of life, right? I won't become one of those simpering bitter faggots who got so hurt in life that they live in fear and solitude. No, I thought, I will go out on a limb with this one.

We walked the two blocks to my apartment and after a passionate hug and kiss from Marlon, he made a date to see me the next day at five. "Okay." I cooed like a drunken love smitten school girl. I bid him good night, returned to my flat and fell asleep with the DVD of The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the TV.

Look What I Did to My Id.

HIM: What's a midget?

ME: A little fucker.

My psychoanalyst has stated that since my writing is therapy - I should write more. I reckon since I became public with this blog - as opposed to writing anonymously as previously recorded. (Thank you, Desolation Angel - your time is up.) I guess I have been a wee bit timid in setting down the accounts of my adventures. Now don't get me wrong, nothing has changed - I still do the same haphazard wacky shit, but I guess I have been as appalled as you are to witness these events second hand. But, hell - who gives a shit anyway.

So, here we go...

Bored from waiting till the first of next month to swing around so I can partake in my Second Wondering, I moped around Juarez sweating in the midday heat - a little randy, I decided to steal the afternoon at the porno theater on Ave. Lerdo. Plopping my 45 pesos into the bitches wrinkled paw and spiteful stare at the door, I entered the dank mildew stench of the main theater. I tell you after a good rain, this place can stir up a stink.

In the far inky blackness - up on screen - some Mexican broad was getting her cootch reamed by two studs and I decided to meander down to the front row. The theater was already getting full from horny perverts so I had to get a choice seat and quick. I sat and looking around I pulled out my dry goods and not a minute later a tall lanky handsome college type lad sat in front and did the same - all the while looking back at my thingy.

Some chewing gum smacking joto tried to muscle in on my attended prey, but skinny dutifully shoo'ed him away making way for my seductive attack. The kid was quite the go getter - pulling down his khakis as I kneeled in front he made clear no blow job for him - nope, this little bugger wanted me to suck his balls while fucking him with my finger. The boy squirmed and moaned as I rapidly slid my digit in and out of his supple ass until he came to some kind of quivering climax.

I said my salutations and repaired to the lulu to wash off my hands - old bitter fairies paraded in a stylized ballet of random broken lust amid sounds of pissing and farting - smell of bleach, semen, and shit lingered in that stained room.

Sitting back in the theater proper, I looked around and the fun fest was in full swing - heads bobbed in crotches of willing patrons as the desperate and depraved paraded through the isles. Some Emo kid that I had noticed before slithered next to me and performed the most mind blowing head job on me I have had in many a moon - afterwards the bitch wanted to get intimate and cuddle - told him to skattah. Sat watching the show around me and not much attention to what was up on screen - cigarette, cigarette, cigarette. This little Mexican Indian - handsome as all get out with a mouth full of silver, Seth he said his name was - plopped next to me and we groped and probed in the dank dark. But, I wasn't feeling it.

Tired of this I left the theater and shuffled across simmering pavement to Bar Buen Tiempo. Above storm clouds - dark, heavy, pendulant - hovered on the brink of out burst.

Entered the bar and said howdy to the regulars and servants. Sat and had a couple of caguamas of Sol cerveza. It seems lately I have been spiraling to alcoholism - with much time and nothing to do in this one horse town - it seems drinking is the alternative. Old pal Enrique entered and we had some yucks - tired I went home in a deluge of rain. Striding in that downfall I thought I will not miss this place when I leave - and I probably won't miss the next place I leave. Or the next place...

Cambios.

I step outside to my balcony and retrieve the sun dried bath mat caked with flecks of vomit from a previous drunken asshole visiting and place it back into my bathroom. I stand there and look at the withered visage of mine staring at me from the spotted rusty mirror - the specks of gray in the hair, the worry lines. I am feeling my age and I decide it is time to move on.

But where? Can't go to San Diego - I have a bounty on my head through no psychosis of my own. Or Tijuana - hunted by viscous and vindictive faggots jealous of my righteous virtue. Los Angeles seems promising but the pain of it still weighs heavy on my heart from phantoms lurking in my past. Miami is closer to my final destination and seems very attractive - as does New Orleans or Pensacola.

Why you ask? I have two reasons. First the petty. Reactions can not exist without an action - setting that old ball in motion. Two nights ago, while getting the shit screwed out of me much to the chagrin of my neighbors who rather not hear that faggoty shit - my laptop was stolen by a wylie and professional miate. Drunkenly escorting him to the corner as dawn crept over the horizon and placing a twenty in his quivering palm, I returned to my flat to find my brand new laptop gone - must've smuggled it under his shirt. He was that good and I was that drunk. I held no anger - only saying ruefully to myself aloud, "You deserved that. You deserved that."

For three months I have resided here in Juarez City and have met one after the other the most lazy money grubbing citizens imaginable. The gay sect is a population of hateful, despicable thieves - conniving with the utmost subtly. It is a city of idiotic pilfering - as if the culture is solely based on how much you can steal from who ever.

Yesterday it put me in a funk - not at losing the laptop per se ( I dutifully returned to the store and purchased another.), but the general basis of people I deal with. Yes, I was upset that my book that I had been writing was on it (A piece that is cursed in itself - my fourth attempt to write the damn thing.) But, I got to thinking of my living situation which comes to reason two.

I am a Traveler - the peacefully sedentary life that you hold dear brings so much agitation and loathing to me. At the moment, I recollect, I am just existing - not living. Nothing is giving me pleasure here - eating, walking, fucking, sitting and having casual conversation with the most uninteresting dull characters imaginable, even the thoughts in my head are uninspired drivel that causes me to sit and write nothing. It is an insidious sickness that I know the cure only so well. I am happy - truly happy moving from one local to the next and experiencing all the nuances that life has to offer on all its intricate and delicious levels. Avoiding those over opinionated losers that state that I should 'settle down and become more stable'. Fuck that and fuck you - it is my life and I live it the way I see fit. I do what I want, say what I want, and go where I want. And if that pisses people off - so what? What are they in the position to do anything about it?

And so, the thoughts have been put into motion - I am taking off. Where at this time I am not certain - though the general direction is Puerto Rico. I have fond memories of the place and would like to visit - after that...who knows?

My life is one long struggle and I have come to accept that - I seem to be more literary inspired in that manner and life is just so much enjoyable. Living in a conformed and simple existence I find so unappealing. Chaos is my fuck buddy, I reckon and it will be till death do us part...

Flatulating Thoughts.

Days are long and nights are longer and darker. Suffering from insomnia - up until 5am and sleeping less. Eerie sense of gloom pervades every thought - my goddamn head hurts and I don't know why. For the past few days lay in bed drinking coffee smoking cigarettes and flipping through nothing on the TV with the sweat from the heat of day and humidity of night soaking my comforter. Gunshots in the distance mingled with barking dogs and the ceiling fan whirls to little effect.

Marlon is gone - no life of fairy existence for him, decided cunt was the answer. Been hitting the lush pretty hard over that. William is gone through infantile portals of mucus lined orifice - regretting and pining over that, too. Really a nice cock on that fella.

Feeling used and unwanted and generally all around down - roving eye pointing towards Puerto Rico. No one knows me there. Won't be a trophy for some naco only to be discarded once the novelty wears off.

Everything is meaningless - food untouchable, beer unendearing, sex not doing it for me. Sit hours at my desk and stare into that fathomless abyss content to be left alone and live within the few cubits between my ears. I feel so bland - so numb - so uncaring for all the Fallen Angels of the World and for the world in general, generally speaking. The outside is cold but the inside is colder.

Dirty deeds.

Decided to spend the evening wallowing in my own filth after the decision over Marlon - and doing it the best way I knew how. Swimming in caguama after caguama of booze. I sat in Bar Buen Tiempo and shortly after my arrival, I struck up a conversation with a tall Mexican Indian that sat a stool away from me who stated that his name was Javier.
The beer flowed as it should and we became lit - both meeting eventually by chance in the restroom and pushing me against the mildew stained tiled wall, Javier kissed me passionately while pulling out our erections and casually masturbating each other. That was until the security guard came in and told us to knock it off.
Javier and I joked and cooed and laughed the night away - cruising the few hot guys that sat around the warped mahogany bar. Across from me on the other side of the bar was a dark skinned, curly haired lad that kept winking and blowing kisses, so when he went to the jukebox to select a few songs, I worked my faggoty wiles and learned he just arrived from Acapulco and that his name was Jose Luis.
As the night progressed, the drunken flirting continued as both Javier and Jose Luis (On his way to the restroom.) took turns whipping out their erections under the bar letting me goose them or grinding their crotch against my back side. With the aid of other bar flies that entered, the men’s room became a freelance orgy of hard cocks and kissing mouths. I had to return to the bar to catch my breath.
That was - until he walked in.
Jet black straight hair parted down the middle, full lips with goatee, beautiful eyes and slim physic - I followed him into the mensroom like a good little faggot to check out his dry goods and walked out with a bottle of Kenneth Cole signature cologne for fifty pesos. I even invited him to share beer with Javier and I.
The guy - Ezra he said his name was - was loaded on speed but was so gosh darn adorable in a hippy air headed kind of way he just charmed the pants off of me. (Okay, that is later.)
For some odd reason, we three - Javier, Ezra, and I - walked the few blocks over to Bar Nebraska wherein Ezra became a wild eyed hard on of passion. Groping me and kissing me with such ardor one of the waiters told us to cool it - we just ignored the chilango midget and continued. That boy really turned me on!
So, eventually saying adios to Javier, Ezra and I hightailed it to my pad where we flung each other around the bed thrashing and moaning in the still of the night - best one night stand in many a moon.
Lying there after wards bathed in sweat and spunk, Ezra stated he had to split to be at work early the following morning - it already being 2:45am. We showered, got dressed and I walked him to the corner and shook hands just as Marlon came slinking around the corner literally out of no where.
After shifting silence and awkward glances, Marlon and I sat on the ledge of a crumbling building and talked. Hostile at first - but then it eased into a passionate plea from Marlon that I should take time with him. He stating that the gay life is difficult to transition into and that it will take time for him to become comfortable with it. He also stated that he does have an affection for me and would like to work things out - but slowly. I said I could deal with that and repaired to my apartment where we both lay on my bed casually embraced and discussed further his romantic interests concerning me.
“I’ve never met anyone remotely like you.” He said. “When I am with you, you make me feel good and smart - I can’t talk to anyone like I talk with you. All my other friends are either air-headed girls or guys that go on about beer and futbol. I really do like you.”
And so, this soft spoken and sincere banter went on until 5:30am - cigarette after cigarette as Angelo Badalamente wailed his dark jazz over my stereo. Eventually after a tight embrace, Marlon left and I returned to my flat. Lying in darkness, I pondered the prospects of a relationship with that boy - and the outcome if it do come - sounds positive…

Stream of Conciousness.

No matter, it seems, where I am at - either it be in a filthy shelter or the slums of a foreign county - I seem to be getting more and more sidetracked from my goal. It is true in the last two months I have squandered much of that large sump of money bestowed on me by the Powers That Be. Most of it has been wasted on boys and booze. More booze than boys, I regretfully must admit. The last three big guys in my life all have used their hustler wiles to their benefit and I had been suckered straight into their maw.

All until now. I have wised up a bit and cut all three happily and regretfully from my life. Carlos, Enrique, and with much restraint, Marlon. Uh, Marlon - where to explain that one? You want to piss me off - play with my emotions. That is one thing I can not tolerate from anyone. Fine - you want to swindle me for beer or food - but don't fuck with what is left of my heart. For the last two weeks this Marlon character has played me like a harp from Hell and usually when I listen to my guts and follow my instincts - however fucked up they may be - I never deter from my decision. He seemed like a nice guy - but the stench of deception clung to him like dried semen on the jacket of a pedophile.

Where was I? Oh yeah - Marlon - thank you. As I was blathering - I had no idea where he stood. He never asked for money, which is odd but true, but he was always wishy washy over what was going on in our friendship. I'm straight, he would thunder all the while beating his chest - but continued to visit me (even after a small dramatic event in which I roared at him in the middle of the night in the middle of the street never to contact me again.) he would come look for me while I drank my sorrows away in liters of booze and - are ya ready - he would instigate the sexual liaisons, not me. But - and this but is where it gets wacky - I truly started to have an attraction - strong dirct emotional feelings, something that has eluded me for so long - for him and in a tender and romantic soliloquy explained myself. In which he blankly responded to nothing. Yeah, sad high school drama to say the least. That is why I had excised him out - I don't take sappy irreverence of emotions very well. And I tell you, I am one depressed cowboy because of it.

So, I am back at square one. Money mostly squandered and alone. I am wondering if I should return to my old haunts surrounded by thugs, drug addicts, thieves, and whores. I seemed happier then. But I have reservations.

CUT TO:

Interior: Offices of Control - Night

Dark and musty office of Control. The Case Worker sits behind his cluttered desk reading reports. Behind him is a large burly man in a black pins stripped suit and black fedora. It is deathly silent save for the clicking of machinery and hissing of a radiator.

BURLY MAN:

It seems your numero uno agent's got fear in him. In my opinion, he's a pussy.

CASE WORKER:

The withering faggot! What is he up to?

BURLY MAN:

Yeah, he's a pussy! Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.

The case Worker leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers.

CASE WORKER:

Yeah, but he's my pussy.

Fade out.

So, as I was saying - maybe it is a good time to change latitudes. I need to save my checks but I don't wish to deteriorate into a bitter hermit homosexual. What a conundrum. Again, why should I change my enjoyment in life through the case of a few jerks - even though wading through 20 years of their kind can be a little taxing - perhaps...oh, I don't know. That is the whole thing - mentally. What are my plans? Where am I going with life? What do I want? The answer is simple...

I don't know.