Beat

Ever sat strung out in your own filth covered in cockroaches of the world gnawing hunger in your mind wondering where your next break will be? Didn't think so! So keep banging them drums, cupcake and maybe - just maybe - daddy will buy you that brand new Ford Taurus with the white-walls, MP3 and all the trimmings...Meanwhile, I'll just hang with them crackheads and hobos of concrete and look away as you drive by...

Tangent Alcoholism

Started that night clean and pure at the cafe I haunt, you know. Rapping with fellow queen called Eduardo - he part of the Fab Force Five. The group of artists and painters and writers that I had supposedly befriended from the cafe.

So, Eduardo and I are sitting there on the plush couches sipping coffee and gossiping like two giggling queens. He jets to rendezvous with a group of cyclist having some sort of bike party - that is tooling around downtown on their Schwinn's.

left alone, I start pounding back four beers - not all at once, dingdongs, one after the other - when another pal named Brandon scoots up - tall, gangly kid who is a whiz at designing webpages and he asks if I would like to check out a gallery that had just opened up. Sure, why not?

We both speed over to said gallery and it was a bust. Lame. Boring. Only four pieces were on exhibit and they all were mediocre at best. Good thing they had a buffet spread in which we both took full example of. Highlight of that venture was I mistakenly popped open one of the bottles of Chinese rice wines that were laying about. Ech! tasted like septic tank water filtered through a hobo's sock, I tell ya.

After scarfing down some much needed beef burritos - the taste of the rice wine lingered throughout the night and next day - Brandon and I stopped at the San Carlos gallery for an impromptu artist orgy hosted by another acquaintance named Robert. He hosts open-mike poetry slams at the cafe. Again, scoped out the art, raided the hors d'oeuvres table and shot over to the Tap in search of Eduardo.

Across the street from the bar is a little park usually camped by hobos and junkies, we found the Schwinn crowd circling around a tree in the dusk - much laughter and flashing of headlights.

Eduardo stood across the street in the doorway to the Tap and invited us in. The dive was packed as a live band wailed oldies and ranchero. Sitting in a booth was the Fab Force Five - Eduardo, Freddy, Curt, Cesar Ivan, and some Indian Girl. from India, you know.

Freddie was already plastered and spent much of the evening pawing at Brandon while Cesar drunkenly goosed all and sundry as the Indian Girl giggle snorted - seriously, it was heeheeSNORTheeheeSNORT - at these antics.

Curt had the idea to change venues and head over to that fucking high falootin queer joint The Briar Patch and we all did. Stumbling and causing all kinds of ruckus in the dark streets we until we entered that high society joint.

I was introduced to Cesar Ivan's girlfriend and she was an interesting person. An intellectual with a mind that perhaps I could relate too.

The gang bar hopped and drank and laughed. Until Cesar Ivan got too plastered and baptized everyone within striking distance with alcohol from his glass. Brandon - who was the most drenched in the spillings - said it was time to cut, being near 2am anyways and the bars were about to close. We tried to ditch these drunken shenanigans - but, Cesar Ivan followed us to Brendan's car where in a plea to come home with him for "Toasted bacon and sausage sandwiches" he flung off his vest and shirt and went into a loud, over-dramatic soliloquy about the transvestites that infested the Tap Bar.

Enough of that mess, Branden and I peeled out for pizza before being dropped off at my flat...

Fun night, never the less.

Do or Do Not, There Is No try.

I am a bit perplexed. A little depressed. Somewhat confused. My mind is in a muddle.

I have, at the moment, gotten cold feet on this teaching gig. I mean, it is not too late - I have received my certificates. However, I think it is because I am so comfortable and the thought of uprooting myself again and starting over in some foreign country does not appeal to me at this moment. My books are selling well and with that I have money to live moderately and I have been meeting new friends - writers, painters, musicians and such - here in the Sun City.

Do I want to go? The crazy, wing-nut side of me screams yes, while the old, tired, responsible side mumbles no. I am going to take the month of May off - no writing, no scheming, no planning - and just enjoy the spring month.

Then, I will make up my mind. Ha! Ha!

Ding Dong the Witch is Dead!

The mastermind behind the murder of almost 3000 Innocent American people with the attacks on the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and the crash of a fourth plane through the heroics of her passengers that belayed the deaths of many more - Osama Bin Laden is dead.

I imagine that Osama Bin Laden is getting gang raped in Hell by well-hung demons with barbed-horned penises - yeah, enjoy those 42 virgins, buddy!

Good Vibrations

What a great Saturday!

The weather is perfect and downtown El Paso is throwing a shindig called the Neon Desert Festival - this huge ass band festival! Hordes of hipster kids are stomping around enjoying the pleasant weather and great music.

As with me, I will be screening John Water's Female Trouble in the theater at the cafe that I haunt. All summer, like last year, I will be screening cult and underground films to terrify the locals.

I have sent off for - hopefully - the last proof of my new novel. I really like it! It is awesome! I am almost done with my TEFL course and will be receiving my certificate - then it's off to wherever! Haha!

Yea, I'm feeling pretty good today!

Here's The Deal.

Flecks of Dust in the Night

Nothing on television, so I took a walk at 11 at night.

The wind was blowing in one of those typical sand storms that make El Paso so memorable. The news was clocking the gusts at 60 miles per hour. The trees danced and bent in an obscene mambo. Trash flew about me and the dirt stung my face. I took the walk downtown, anyway.

Downtown was normal for this time of night, besides the wind - the streets were vacant in long shadows from street lamps - no cars, no people. Deathly quiet except the whispering of the gusts. I held the brim of my black cap in a vain attempt from letting it soar off into the gritty night.

I walked and I thought.

I thought of where I was going after I received my degree in TEFL. I knew that I was consciously giving up a life of cocooned comfort, a life of no worries by being fully supported of by the State. once overseas, I realized I had three - maybe four - months before SSI caught on that I would be abroad and cut off the benefits that I was receiving. But, after four years of doing relatively nothing - I just felt like a ghost living - and not doing a hell of a lot existing. I came to the finality - I had to do this.

At the time of this writing, I have been flip-flopping at what locale I wish to choose - Peru I thought would be the best choice. The schools are lenient at hiring new teachers and I am well versed in Latin American customs. However, the pay is low. I had been scouring hundreds of other blogs by expat teachers and now it seems the logical choice is Korea. They pay the best concerning new teachers and pretty much flip the bill on housing. For what I am going to attempt - Korea is the logical choice. I tried to rationale my choices - I know nothing of the language, the customs, the country. And it seems that the race is VERY homophobic.

However, I knew nothing of Mexico when I first moved to Tijuana back in 1993 - so, perhaps it would be a wonderful, positive adventure. Yet, the United States border will not be just a few feet away like in TJ if I needed to make a hasty retreat. If I go to Korea - it is a year. Good or bad. Hell or high water.

I am so confused.

I stood at the corner of the Plaza downtown blinking away the debris that flew into my face and that's when I saw him. The upper half of his thin body was in black shadows as a cherry of a cigarette glowed in the dark of his hidden face. He stood in the tan, stucco alcove of a building. He saw that I was staring at him. His thin, brown hand grabbed at the crotch of his baggy, khaki pants. The limp penis was long - and even though it was not erect, he held only half of that fucker.

I took another drag from my cigarette and stared. Watched as he slowly stroked the growing monster in his pants. I casually looked around. Nothing. No one - no traffic. The wind howled. The street signs wobbled and made noises lost in the whipping winds.

With thin, spindly fingers, he casually unzipped his pants and pulled out the long, floppy organ. I watched as he slowly slid the foreskin back and forth over a shiny head. The semi-erect penis dangled as his hand disappeared up towards the obscured face and returned with wet fingers, smearing saliva across the fat head of his cock. He continued to slowly stroke his penis in long, mechanical glides.

With a burst of both intrigue and excitement, I walked across the street towards him. He sank deeper into the alcove, deeper into darkness. As I approached the alcove, the tang of old piss blew downwind at me. The ratatatatat of a discarded Styrofoam cup swirled in eddies of dust and trash.

Huddling in the alcove, I saw he was a tall, thin man in his late thirties, Mexican, a drooping moustache over thick lips. He had a long nose set between dark, brown eyes. His hair was shaggy with flecks of grey. A ruggedly handsome face.

He mumbled something in Spanish that I did not get. I just reached out and grabbed the throbbing organ. It was enormous - as long as my lower arm and almost as thick. I slowly stroked the fleshy cock, it was still only semi-erect. Without a word, I squat down in front of him and took his penis in my mouth - adjusting to the girth and sucked it in deep strokes.

He groaned and uttered dirty words in Spanish - near orgasm, his penis stiffened entirely. It still curved downward. I worked faster and saliva flowed as I tongued the head and worked the shaft with my hand. He yanked his fully hard cock out of my mouth - holding my head away with his left hand - and dribbled globs of semen onto the dusty, street lamp splashed concrete. The thick semen hit the ground with audible splats.

I stood up, looking at him. He exhaled and smiled as he shoved his dick back into his pants. He smiled, said gracias or some equivalent and strode back out into the sand storm.

I lit a cigarette and began the walk back home. I thought of how I really need to escape this vile city and get back on the road. It is who I am. It was what I needed to keep on living.

Peephole confessions

Repent and you will be foreskin.

Voyueristic Intensions

Spent the afternoon in Cuidad Juarez, Mexico.

Ah, yes - Juarez. It has finally become a burned out cinder - a literal, beat ghost of it's formal self. The wild and woolly heyday that I previously lived had been put on a bloody hiatus.

Before I left that morning, the Stateside news droned on about more cops being killed, pedestrians shot for no reason in the streets. One unfortunate paleta seller witnessed a gang of cartel pull up to a car on a busy street and spray all within with machine guns. When said seller pulled out his cellphone to call perhaps relatives, the gang thought he might had been calling the cops and filled him full of lead. A ver...

So, myself trudging over the International Bridge in gusty heat - wind whipped plastic trash bags that snagged on razor wire fences causing horrible noise. I dodged flabby locals and begging junkies as I eventually passed the bored and uninterested Mexican custom agent. I met my friend Eduardo waiting for me on the other side all decked out and handsome in his vaquero gear. Old friend, new him for years. He had a wife and two kids but was up for some filthy homo-buggery now and again. Never met a Mexican that wasn't.

He was glad to see me and I him - it had been far to long that we had trolled the Red Zone together. After fist bumps and howdy's, we darted over to the El Paso bar strictly from thirst. Stomping along Mariscal - the whore district - you could smell the tension mingled with rotting garbage and urine. The fact that shocked and depressed me the most that all - ALL! - the places I used to haunt are now gone. Not vacant buildings replaced by other businesses - but, vast dusty lots - even the rubble had been cleared. Fausto's, El Arbolito, Nebraska bar, Freegay, Rex's billiards, Hollywood bar - all gone. Sigh.

I gawked in beat sadness as the hookers of both sexes huddled in the shade of crumbled walls of what was once majestic and quite popular whorehouses - sorry, I mean strip joints. They all looked so sad, so lost - dusty relics with no clients strictly from fear. Even their clothes of calling - bright yellows, pinks, blues - faded in that horrid, unrelenting desert sun.

The El Paso bar is a small joint run by a fat hag with a mean streak. Never ask for credit - bitch will shank you. Long bar with red topped stools a few dented, metal tables occupied by bored-looking hookers and a mix of locals and loud Americans. Eduardo and I sat at the bar and ordered Tecates. The jukebox wailed ranchero as the sun swung around and all just sat mostly silent, sweating in the heat.

Two girls slinked up to us, both short, big tits, fat asses, thin waist (which is rare) - flirting and grinding their wares onto us - I, of course politely declined, yet Eduardo was being his macho ass self. So, under Eduardo's plea - bought the broads a drink and invited them to stay.

The two girls who sat with us were actually nice and I had to admit they were very pretty. Alma, the shorter of the two - she held copper skin and an indigenous face - Alma talked to me and was very amused when I stated that I liked men. She actually became friendlier and we hit it off. Eduardo and his girl, Clarissa - long black shiny hair and her boobs always seemed to want to bust out her blue dress - sat together, arms draped around each other. I noticed every single time her hand dropped down and squeezed Eduardo's cock. I wonder what she would say to the fact that I had sucked that fucker a few times before?

Side note: Any of you straight guys want to easily score with women? Invite a gay to come with you. We are pussy magnets. Trust me on this. You get hit on far more than usual and you don't have to worry about competition from your gay friend. Win win.

The beer flowed and Alma and I sat giggling and talking of men. She was actually really funny. I started interviewing her on her job - she related stories about some interesting men met in her career. She came from Mexico City when she was twelve and her aunt was the one that pimped her out. I love family. I related some of my crazy adventures - even pulled out a dogged copy of a novel I was working on. She shyly stated she couldn't read.

Eventually, Alma slipped a small paper in my hand and said, "It's for you, guedo." I knew what it was and leaned over to Eduardo, said into his ear, "Hey, man - this chick just handed me some coke. Follow me into the bathroom."

Nothing in this world is free, of course - I slapped a ten into Alma's hand as I slid off my stool, "Don't you go nowhere, we'll be right back."

Eduardo and I walked into the dingy, foul smelling mensroom. At the long piss trough, some old fat fucker had his dork out staring at us as we huddled in the corner. Rolled up a twenty-peso note and snorted that junk up.

We got back to the bar all twinkly-eyed and shit. Eduardo, Alma, Clarissa, and I sat and laughed and joked. Drank and got pretty happy. It was a good, drama-free time spent.

However, it was getting late and I surely did not want to be in Juarez walking back to the border at night - not in this part of town. I mentioned to Eduardo that I needed to get going.

"No wait." He said. "Come with me."

I followed Eduardo into the back of the bar and up some stairs. The short, dingy hall was lined with wooden doors. From a couple of rooms came the muffled banging of a bed and distinct moaning of a hooker making that rent.

Nice. I thought, A whorehouse.

A thin old man in a bow tie and white shirt approached us. Eduardo and he gabbed in Spanish a bit as Eduardo slapped 200 pesos into his hand. The old man took a ring of keys from his belt and ushered us to a door.

Drunkenly, we went into the room - which consisted of a ratty, sagging bed and a nightstand along with the wafting mildew smell of a million fucked vaginas. The old man took off as where as Eduardo began pealing off his clothes and lay on the bed. As he yanked his blue man-panties off, he was already hard and rarin' to go! Damn, he looked fucking good! Sprawled out on the bed fully aroused, he was nice enough to let me snap a picture of him.

Suddenly, Clarissa came in as Eduardo said, "We got some business, guedo. You want to wait outside?"

Damn! I though I was were going to get some!

Shut the door behind me and waited in the hall.

Alma approached smiling, "You're friend is busy?"

"Yeah. Lucky fucker." I said.

She put a finger up to her lips and took my hand, leading me to a small alcove. She pointed to a slit in the wall. When I looked, it was a pretty good view into Eduardo's room. I stood and watched as Eduardo tussle in pre-coital grope with the hooker he had purchased.

Alma's hand slid a small hand across the erection in my jeans. I kindly pushed her hand aside.

"You sure you don't like girls?" she whispered.

"Definitely." I smiled.

"Wait here." She smiled.

Two minutes later, she comes back with a tall, lanky guy in his midtwenties. I grinned at him, looking the boy over. Not bad.

"Have fun." She smiled and walked away.

The guy glanced through the slit in the wall, sucking air between his teeth and mumbled something in Spanish. He pointed at the hole for me to watch. I did as he squat down in front of me, unzipped my pants, and sucked my erection like his life depended on it.

I stood there watching Eduardo - a sweaty mess pumping his gorgeous cock into that whore, he thrust and lunged as she squirmed, grabbing his slender ass. She threw her feet up onto his shoulders as he banged her harder. I couldn't take both the awesome visuals and that guy sliding his lips and tongue up and down my dick - I blew my load into his mouth. He leaned over and spat the matter onto the dusty, warped, wooden floor. As I zipped up my pants, he asked in Spanish for ten dollars. I reached in my wallet and pulled out a twenty,

"Ten for you and ten for Alma, okay?"

Before leaving, he hit me up for five more. Sure, why not. Boy's gotta make rent, right?

He slinked off and I turned back to the hole - my friend was pounding fast like a rabbit, he grunted, then slid his dick out as sperm dribbled out of her pussy and spilling down, pooled onto the bed.

"Fuckin' A!" I whispered.

I walked back to the hall and lit a cigarette.

Eventually, Eduardo came out of the room, dressed but dripping from sweat, "You ready? I'll walk you back to the border."

As we were walking through the bar, we said our adios's - Alma sat at the bar smiling with her friend that blew me. She gave me a hug, while rubbing my back, asked, "When you coming back?"

"This weekend." I lied.

Eduardo and I quickly strode through those darkening, mean streets littered among piles of garbage the grasping hands of clawing hookers, dodging police patrols and rumbling paramilitary vehicles - angry brown eyes under black ski masks eyed us as the troops fingered their Ak-47's.

At the international bridge, I said my goodbye to my old friend and darted over that long stretch under a twinkling navy sky. Damn, I miss Juarez...

Things Out of the Blue

I had spent the afternoon at the cafe editing my novel. Tired and hungry, I left in the late afternoon. Golden sun rays beamed all slanted and shit between the dusty, vacant spires of downtown. Trudging past a Subway restaurant, I hear behind me a baritone voice, "Hey! Joto!"

I turned to see standing with outstretched arms and Cheshire cat smile a phantom I hadn't seen in almost eleven years. A tall, lanky handsome Mexican named Tony. He stood there in well-worn jeans, jean jacket and black workboots.

Tony and I used to run amok through dark nights of drunken shit way back in the day until like most others, he had burned out with El Paso and returned to Maine to be in the arms of a girl.

After back slaps and howdies, I sat with him in the restaurant and a long string of whatever-happened-to-so-and-so's issued. He had married the girl in Maine and lived in Canada with her and their ten year old daughter. I related the best i could on the events of my life.

He stated that he still spun around the country taking high paying odd jobs and was on his way from Cali to Houston - his bus leaving at 9 tomorrow morning.

"Well, Hell" He laughed. "Let's go drink!"

"I'm up for that!"

We crossed the street and hit the Tap Bar - sat with frosty brew and dredged up all kinds of forgotten nostalgia. We both agreed how we had aged - weathered and gray. Played pool, drank, ate tacos, drank, all night digging our minds into crazy past nights of forgotten memories. Pitcher after pitcher - we got fucked up.

Eventually, the bar had to close and inviting himself - Tony and I drunkenly stumbled back to my flat. After casual conversation and a bit of joking, wearily we both stripped to our boxers and crawled into my bed. For the next hour we banged around - sucked and fucked each other until we passed out covered in each others semen and saliva.

Next morning, I made pancakes and walked Tony to the busline. He said before I left for wherever when my TEFL classes are done and when he had finished the job in Houston - he wants to return and us both hightail it a few days to Vegas.

I'm looking forward to it.

Road Meat.

How many cigarettes does it take to wait? How many cups of coffee? Paul sat in the dead-end diner with napkin firmly under coffee cup - he was told in that style, you can tell when someone was waiting - watching nothing out of the big, dust streaked pane window.

Outside, it was cold and colorless. Gritty wind whipped eddies of trash down a lonely street. A long cry from the sunny, warm surf crashing against the beach that he was anxiously anticipating to see. Here the sky was a harsh, cold blue - though dazzling bright, gave no warmth - only a bitter cold, you could feel it in your marrow.

Paul sipped more coffee, took another drag.

Across the street, a bum, the same colorless shade of everything else, stood in front of the Roman Deco post office hitting passerby for change. Paul looked around the café - a cavernous room and only he occupied it. Every sound was amplified.

El Paso is a dead, nowhere town.

The Creep

Let's boogie!

Scam them before they scam you.

This just in - I was notified by several teacher acquaintances around the globe that attaining a fake degree in something is a cheap and quick way of jumping these Kafkian hoops of needing said document to get a worthwhile job overseas. Hmmm. I don't know. Last thing I need is to be stuck in some foreign village and their Thought Police show up and boot me out of the country for false documents.

Opposed to popular opinion - I do have a conscience.

Anything Goes.

I had recently been in contact with a gentleman in China on starting my teaching career there. At first, from the brief comments I had read on websites - you not only need a university degree, but also your TEFL certificates. In Latin America - they seem a bit more lenient.

This is starting to not be the case.

The gentleman that I am in contact with runs an agency in mainland China that will not only help you settle in - i.e. apartment, living expenses, visas - but, most importantly he has contacts of a shitload of schools that require only that you speak English and have the gumption to teach. I got that and soon to have four certificates from a world renown TEFL school.

I think China and/or the Orient is quite rather tasty at the moment.

Received my rough proof of Dark is the Night. I must say - without bordering flagrant ego - that is my best work, yet! I am juggling with the online classes and editing this book. I am planning to leave and have the book available online by August.

Life is weird.

Ya.

2:13 on a Saturday night. Dark winds howl dust and debris outside my window. I sit in my favorite chair - overstuffed espresso colored lounger - in the darkness of my apartment lit only by the crimson of my cigarette tip - watching the green velvet curtains breathe. A long streak of white crosses the dusty mosaic tiled floor from a baneful moon shut on and off by the undulating curtain.

I sit and I smoke and I think. I feel so empty. So emotionless. So lost.

I seriously need a change in lifestyle.

Times a Changin'

I have set the gears in motion. I am halfway done with my TEFL course and have begun to sell the furniture that I had accumulated over the year. In a few weeks I will have my certificates and I plan to be in South America by August. During that time, I will need to acquire all the necessary paperwork - visas, permits, vaccinations - for my relocation.

I may start in Ecuador to get teaching hours under my belt, explore the country then off to Peru and Colombia. If I was to settle anywhere, Costa Rica is high on my list. I guess I will just have to see where the winds if fate blow me.

I can't wait.

On the writing front, I had just ordered a rough copy of Dark is the Night. 436 pages. And there will be more. It is my swan song of American decadence, my final say on the broken shambles of the American Dream told in the usual raw, peeled way. And, it is my first largely heterosexual work. Only one chapter is puto queer - so, you can buy a copy for grandma without her getting her panties all in an uproar. I really like this book. I look forward to writing more about my travels across the globe.

Under God.

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

I remember when we would recite this in class everyday.

Of course it is illegal to say this in schools now on account it may offend students from other countries. How fucked up is that? On every level?

On a similar note and because of - my classes in TEFL are going smooth. I am going to wait until I get my certificate to choose where I am going. At the moment it is either Colombia or Costa Rica. See how the mind of a bipolar bear operates? hehe

I ran into an old friend on the street yesterday. He being Mike McCabe. It has been five or six years since we had last spoke. As a matter of fact, it is the same Mike McCabe - a heterosexual who was one of the type that would crudely go on about his escapades with females - calls me up one night and invites me to his home in lieu of beer and chat but wounded up seducing me. Wacky.

Well, he is married now and staying at the Hotel De Soto across the street from the cafe that I haunt. The De Soto is a notorious flea bag known for it's seedy clientele and rampant drug busts. It was good to see him again, never the less.

Yesterday about five in the afternoon, I was sitting in the Plaza in downtown El Paso. Sunday afternoon. Long, lonely times, I tell you - streets devoid of all life, quiet as a tomb, the sun setting behind buildings casting long yellow rays between the dark shadows. I sat and I thought and thought some more as I had many, many times before...it's time to split.

44.

Happy birthday to me. I turn 44 today. And, I still feel like I am 30. Neat, huh? I sit here and think about the past decade - hell, the past 20 years for that matter and what a wild, crazy blast it had been. No regrets, actually. Why should I? I had done things and traveled to places most if not all my friends dream of doing. And the best part is, I came out unscathed. Ok, a little on the eccentric side - but, still kicking.

And it will continue. I am half done with my TESL class and as soon as I recieve my certificate, I will start making plans of which South American country to relocate too. Colombia sounds great - both seedy and furtive, Ecuador is high on the list, or I may give Costa Rica a whirl. Once I have a year under my belt teaching English - the world is virtually my oyster!

Avanti, bitches!

Fried Chittlins

I originally was going to end the book with a chapter about mental health. However, this damn book is writing itself - or so it seems. When I sat down at the cafe to write - this vomited out. I guess I am ending the book on a note concerning child abuse. It is very raw - I spewed this out in just under an hour. Yeah - they'll be more.

Fried Chittlins
an excerpt from Dark is the Night
rough draft

“GET UP! IT’S TIME TO GET UP FER SKEWL! GET UP! AWWW, GAWDDAMIT! YOU WENT AND DONE PISSED THE BED AGAIN! GAWDAMMIT!”
Eric opened his eyes - groggy and slowly from a night filled with lucid nightmares. He dreamt of being chased through a dark mansion by the Cyclops from The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. The Cyclops would smash through each door he attempted to close and lock, striking at him with a leather whip.
Half awake, Eric laid on his stomach wearing nothing but his white briefs. From his knees to his upper chest was cold from the large wet spot that he had made during the course of the night.
He looked guiltily and with fear at the short, plump woman that stood in the doorway to his bedroom. “I’m sorry momma. I’m sorry.”
“GAWDDAMIT! GET INTO THE BATHROOM AND CLEAN YERSELF! HURRY BEFORE YER DADDY FINDS OUT AND BEATS YER LITTLE ASS! GAWDAMMIT, I SWEAR!”
As he rapidly jumped up and passed his mother, she smacked him on the back of the head.
“YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOU STINK LIKE PISS! I’LL HAFTA WASH YER SHEETS AGAIN! WHY?! WHY DO YOU DO THIS EVERY NIGHT? YOU RETARDED OR SOMETHING?”
Eric hurriedly dashed to the bathroom, glancing down the short hall to his parents door. He heard him - his father was awake, getting dressed. Eric shut the bathroom door behind him, pulled the wet shorts off and began running the water. He quickly washed his torso in the warm water with a red rag, the soap covering his small frame. His mother opened the door and placed some clean shorts on the sink’s rim.
“HURRY UP! BREAKFAST IS ALMOST READY! JUST DON’T STAND THERE! HURRY UP! GAWDAMMIT, YOU CAN BE SO DAMN STUPID SOMETIMES, YOU HEAR?”
She turned and waddled out. Eric shut the water off, stepped out of the tub, and began drying himself with a towel hanging from a nearby rack.
“WHERE’S THE BOY?!” It was his father. He stood outside the door, obviously bumping into his mother coming out into the hall.
“AWW, HE’S TAKING A BATH. HE PISSED HIMSELF AGAIN!” The mother said condescendingly.
The bathroom door swung open as Eric was putting his right leg through the opening of his briefs. He froze.
“YOU PISSIN YERSELF AGAIN? YOU LITTLE SISSY, PISSIN YERSELF? I SHOULD PUSH YOUR DAMN FACE IN IT LIKE A DAMN DOG MAYBE THAT WILL STOP YOU FROM PISSIN YERSELF EVERYNIGHT!”
Eric simply stood there not saying a word, staring at the matted bath rug on the warped, tiled floor. His father slammed the door behind him.
“WHY DONCHA LEAVE HIM ALONE? YOU’RE GONNA MAKE HIM LATE FOR SCHOOL!”
“THAT’S HIS DAMN PROBLEM! YOU BABY THE LITTLE SHIT TOO MUCH! YOU LET THESE DAMN KIDS DO WHATEVER THEY DAMN WANT! HE PISSES THAT BED AGAIN, I’LL BEAT HIS LITTLE ASS!”
“AWW WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP! YER ALWAYS YELLING ABOUT THESE KIDS! WHY DON’T YOU JUST LEAVE IF YOU DON’T LIKE EM!”
“DON’T TELL ME TO SHUT UP! YOU SHUT UP! I’LL BEAT YER ASS, TOO! YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT ME, DUMMY! I MAKE THE MONEY IN THIS HOUSE! YOU’LL DO WHAT I TELL YOU! ALL OF YOU!”
“LET GO OF MY ARM, YOU BASTAWD! LET GO! GET YER STUPID ASS TO THE TABLE AND EAT YER BREAKFAST AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!”
“STUPID WOMAN! HURRY UP WITH THAT LITTLE SHIT OR I’LL BE LATE FOR WORK!”
“WHY DON’T YOU SHUT YER MOUTH! ALWAYS YELLIN! JUST SHUT UP AND GO SIT DOWN! GO GET SOME COFFEE - THAT’S READY!”
“YOU BEST SHUT YER GAWDAMN MOUTH, WOMAN!”
Eric stood there as the bathroom door swung open and his mother stood there, face flustered and sweating, holding his clothes for the day. She knelt down and roughly grabbed his legs, shoving them into each pant leg, yanking a shirt over his head and pulling it down, with jerking shoves, slipped on his socks.
“CAN YA TIE YER OWN SHOES AT LEAST OR AM I GONNA HAFTA DO THEM TOO? I GOTTA GET BREAKFAST!”
Eric bent over to pick up the two small red and blue sneakers, “I can tie my own shoes, momma.”
Eric sat on the closed toilet lid and slipped into his shoes as his mother waddled out.
At the door of the bathroom, a thin scowling face peered around the corner. Large green eyes under a mass of fluffy brown hair that cascaded down over shoulders stared at him with contempt, “Are you done yet? I gotta pee.”
It was his middle sister Tammy. Just one year in High School and she already had the reputation of being a slut. Eric overheard her once in the backyard bragging to her friends at the black boys in the neighborhood who she frequently banged.
Eric finished tieing his shoes and walked out, “All yours.”
He made his way into the dining room. His father already was sitting there with his oldest sister, Cindy. The two sisters were from a previous marriage and looked exactly like their mother. Small eyes, pug nose, and an unattractive thick body of German decent. His sister Cindy had always been the fattest.
“DIDJA BRUSH YER TEETH YET?” His father looked right at him.
Eric crossed behind him and took his usual place in the chair against the wall. “No.”
“WHY THE HELL NOT?”
“I haven’t eaten, yet.”
Eric thought there was never a point in brushing your teeth right before you ate breakfast. He thought it just defeated the purpose.
“DO YOU WIPE YER ASS AFTER YOU TAKE A SHIT? YA JUST GONNA SHIT AGAIN, RIGHT? SO, WHY BOTHER?”
Eric shot his father a look of contempt but was met with an open palm across the cheek.
“DONCHA LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT! GET YER ASS BACK IN THAT BATHROOM AND BRUSH YER TEETH!”
With the stinging still strong on his face, Eric meekly slid off his chair and returned sullenly to the bathroom. He grabbed his toothbrush, added paste and languidly began stroking it across his teeth.
“WHATYA HIT HIM FOR? HE’S GOTTA EAT BEFORE HE GOES TO SCHOOL! LEAVE EM THE HELL ALONE! YER GONNA MAKE HIM BE LATE!”
“SHUT UP! GIMMEE MY BREAKFAST BEFORE I’M LATE FER WORK!”
“WHY’D YA HIT EM FOR? HE COULDA BRUSHED AFTER! HE’S GONNA BE LATE!”
Eric heard his mother slamming dishes down onto the table.
“Eric GET IN HERE BEFORE YOUR BREAKFAST GETS COLD!”
As Eric swished water in his mouth and spat into the sink, he heard his father slide his chair out from beneath the table. Eric wiped his mouth across the table and darted out of the bathroom. His father blocked his way to the dining room.
“DID YA BRUSH EM? DID YA BRUSH EM GOOD?”
“Yes.” Eric said looking at the floor, trying to pass him to hurry and get back to the dinner table.
“LET ME SEE EM!”
His father grabbed him roughly by his slender arm. Eric opened his mouth and grit his teeth at him.
“GET YER GODDAMN ASS BACK IN THERE AND BRUSH EM AGAIN! THEY’RE FITHY!” He ended the sentence with a whack across the boy’s head.
Eric turned back the bathroom, whined, “But, I did brush them, daddy.”
The father lifted his foot and planted it roughly into the boy’s lower back that sent Eric sprawling onto the hallway floor.
“DON’T LIE TO ME! GET IN THERE AND BRUSH THEM TEETH! I’M GONNA STAND HERE AND MAKE SURE YOU BRUSH THEM, TOO! AND I DON‘T WANNA HALF ASSED JOB!”
“WHY DONCHA LEAVE HIM ALONE! HE’S GONNA BE LATE FOR SKEWL!!”
“SHADDAP AND GET BACK TO THE KITCHEN! HE’S NOT EATING ANYTHING UNTIL HE BRUSHES HIS TEETH!”
“YOU ASSHOLE! LEAVE EM ALONE! GO EAT YOUR FOOD BEFORE IT GETS COLD!”
Again, Eric grabbed the toothbrush and between sobs applied the paste and started brushing his teeth.
“DO IT HARDER! BRUSH EM GOOD!”
“COME EAT YOUR BREAKFAST BEFORE IT GETS COLD! LEAVE THAT BOY ALONE!”
Eric kept brushing until his gums started to bleed.
“NOW RINSE AND GET YER ASS OVER THERE AND EAT YER BREAKFAST!”
Still sobbing, Eric sat quietly at the table as his mother plopped a plate of greasy eggs and limp toast down in front of him. His father devoured his meal. Between gulps, his father began belching - foul wafts of halitosis and egg drifted across the table. Between words, he would drop open his mouth and let a guttural croaking burp without covering his mouth.
“WHEN YOU ALL GET HOME FROM SCHOOL, (belch) I WANT YOU TO RAKE THE LEAVES IN THE (belch) FRONT YARD. I WANT IT DONE BEFORE I GET HOME, GOT IT? DON’T STOP (belch) TO PLAY WITH YER FRIENDS OR WATCH CARTOONS OR I’LL WHIP YOUR ASS!” (belch)
Cindy looked up from her food, “I got band practice. I’ll be late.”
The father turned to Tammy who sat next to her mother, “YOU? YOU GOT ANY STUPID DUMB ASS EXCUSES?”
“Nope.” She said snidely. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home. But, I can’t spend all day, I have to meet someone at six.”
“HANGIN AROUND WITH THEM (belch) NIGGER BOYS NOT AN EXCUSE!”
“SHUT UP! LEAVE HER ALONE! SHE NEEDS TO HAVE FRIENDS.”
“I DON’T WANT YOU HANGING AROUND WITH (belch) NO GODDAMN NIGGERS!”
Tammy looked at him defiantly, “You’re not my father - you have no right to tell me what I can or can not do.”
(Long belch.)
The mother poured Eric another glass of milk, “YOU GO ON AHEAD, Tammy. DON’T BOTHER WHEN YOU COME HOME TODAY. Eric IS CAPABLE OF RAKING ON HIS OWN.”
“I WORK! I’M THE ONE PUTTING FOOD IN YOUR GODDAMN (belch) MOUTH, YOUNG LADY! AS LONG AS YOU LIVE HERE, YOU DO AS I SAY!” (belch)
No one said nothing. It was quiet for the moment except for the occasional burp. Eric slid off his chair and went into his room. He glanced at the stripped bed with the large yellowed stain in the middle of the flower printed mattress. The entire room smelled of stale urine. He grabbed his little backpack and threw it across his shoulder.
“OH, THAT’S RIGHT! IT’S REPORT CARD DAY TODAY, AIN’T IT? I WANT TO SEE THAT AS SOON AS I COME HOME! THERE BETTER NOT BE ANY BAD GRADES OR YER BUTTS GONNA GET IT!”
“AWW, LEAVE EM ALONE! Eric, HURRY UP YER GONNA BE LATE.”
“YER TOO EASY ON THE LITTLE SISSY! I WANT THEM LEAVES RAKED, GOT IT! AND DON’T DO NO HALF ASSED JOB! I WANT IT ALL DONE BY TIME I GET HOME!”
Eric walked through the living room and glanced at the four still sitting at the table. His mother pointed a fork casually at his father.
“DON’T BE SUCH AN ASSHOLE TO HIM! YOU’RE ALWAYS SHOOTING OFF YER MOUTH! WHY DONCHA SHUT UP FER ONCE? NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR THAT SHIT THIS EARLY IN THE MORNING!”
“DON’T TELL ME TO SHUT UP, GAWDAMMIT! YOU SHUT YER FUKKIN UGLY MOUTH! ALWAYS RUNNING IT! DRIVING ME CRAZY!”
“I WISH I COULD DRIVE YOU CRAZY - THEN THEY’D COME AND TAKE YER WORTHLESS ASS AWAY FROM ME! AND DON‘T SAY THAT DAMN WORD IN FRONTA THE KIDS!”
“AH, SHUT UP, GAWDAMMIT! YOU COULDN’T LAST ONE GAWDAM DAY WITH OUT ME!”
His mother snidely chuckled, shoving her pinkie up her pug nose and fished abundantly for the offending matter. She yanked out a glob, looked at it and wiped the greenish gray snot onto her gown.
His father leaned in close to her, puckering up, “SHUT UP AND GIMME A KISS, YOU OLD HAG! YOU KNOW YOU LOVE ME!”
She leaned over and pecked her chapped, thin lips against his greasy thick ones, “YEAH, YEAH! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS.”
A disgusting, lascivious look came across his face as his eyes scanned across the three children, “ALL YA’LL GET YER ASSES TO SCHOOL! GET THE HELL OUT! I GOTTA TALK TO YOUR MA!”
Both started to chortle and grunt like herniated, amused hogs.
Eric walked out the door into the pre-dawn darkness. It was still cold. Cutting across the front yard, he made his way onto the road and walked the half mile to his grade school.
Halfway there, he stopped. On the far corner were two older black boys that attended his school. They stood there watching as Eric approached. The taller one smiled.
“Hey, boy! Where’s ya sista?”
“What?”
“That sista of yawls. My brotha told me he done tapped that shit last Saturday.”
They both started cackling.
“Shut up! He did not!”
“Hell he didn’t! My brotha said he was all up in dat shit! Had her screaming an moanin so loud the neighbors threatened to call da police!”
Eric started walking faster past them. “Yer crazy! She didn’t do nothing!”
Eric felt a sharp pain in his upper back. Then another on his back thigh. A small rock whizzed past his head and bounced loudly down the asphalt of the street. He looked back and saw the two boys picking up gravel and hurtling chunks at him. He began running.
‘Yo sista’s a ho! Yo sista’s a ho!” Echoed down the lane as the sun began peeking above the misty dawn.
Huffing and a few blocks later, Eric slowed down and continued his walk towards school. A lanky red headed boy walked up next to him. It was his friend Albert.
“Hey, Albert!” Eric chirped.
“Hey, buddy! How’s things?”
“Same. You?”
“Same.”
They walked quietly for a moment. They crossed the busy intersection a block from school. Albert darted into a convenience store and bought a soda. Popping the can, he took a swig and then handed it to Eric.

To be continued...

It's Going to Cost You

"Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self." - Cyril Connolly

It's Going To Cost You

an excert from Dark is the Night

rough draft

“My name’s Johnny. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.” Johnny smiled at the bloated American.

Johnny slithered closer to the tourist, twisting seductively on the bar stool. In his mind, Johnny was recoiling in disgust. The old, white haired man smelled of acrid sweat and cheap aftershave. Beads of sweat formed on his ruddy, glistening face. His large, bulbous gut hung over the ample waist, khaki cargo pants tight to the point of bursting like a can of biscuits. Thinning, silver hair combed over a red, pumpkinish head.

Johnny placed a slender, brown hand onto the tourist’s green polo shirt, slowly gliding over his ample, sweating moobs.

“So, what brings you to Tijuana?” Johnny smiled, grabbing the cold beer placed onto the counter by the hostile looking lesbian tending the bar. Johnny took a sip, coyly returned to the tourist.

“Just visiting. Looking for some fun, you know?” The tourist slurred.

Johnny saw that he was already inebriated and decided to take full advantage of the situation.

The tourist belched - the immediate air wafted of stale tacos and salsa.

Johnny kept up the smile, scooching his barstool closer. “Well, I can find all kinds of fun for you baby - anything you want.”

He slid his hand across the folds of fat on the tourists neck, felt the stubble of a new cut, read the moles like Braille.

The tourist grinned, looking Johnny over. His thin, tall frame. The tank top that accentuated wiry muscles, the dark jeans that fit long legs. The tussle of jet black, wavy hair, the pencil-thin mustache over thick lips that he guessed must have sucked a million cocks. It was his eyes that the tourist liked - large amber eyes nestled in thick eyelashes, those fat, black eyebrows. Johnny was very handsome and couldn’t be more than twenty-two years old.

Johnny continued his slithering massage of the tourists anatomy. “I know of a cheap place around the corner where we can have all sorts of fun.” he ended fun with a slight brush of his crotch, wherein the tourist noticed the stiffening of Johnny’s long organ.

“Whoa.” The tourist chuckled. “You’re definitely hot. So forward.”

“It’s all for you, baby.” Johnny breathed.

The tourists face went blank as a poker dealers - gazed out into the bar. “How much you want?”

Johnny put on his little hurt boy look, “Oh, don’t say it like that, baby. I’m not a whore. I just want to spend time with you. I really like you.”

The fact was, the obese, squat American made Johnny sick.

The tourist turned more red, the lights beaming off his ample forehead. He sputtered, lifting his beer to his fat lips, “Oh…oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I think you are hot. So, adorable. So, beautiful. I meant, I want to be with you, too.”

“I know.” Johnny said, continuing the rub down. “Let’s go get a room, baby. I want to show you how much I like you.”

The two walked out of the bar into the warm night and around the corner to a hotel that you reached climbing a set of worn, wooden stairs. Hotel Independencia glowed from a dusty lit, plastic marquee.

The tourist took out his wallet to pay an old man behind a metal grate. Johnny got a glimpse of the contents of the wallet - bulging with twenty dollar bills. The old man gave the tourist a key attached to a huge plastic pad.

“Checkout is at eleven o’clock manana.” The receptionist said in broken English.

Johnny led the tourist down a dank hall and opened the door. The room was small and dingy. The sagging bed took up most of it. There was a dresser and a chair.

“Hold up, I gotta take a piss.” The tourist slurred and entered the filthy bathroom. Johnny heard him take a long, loud piss.

Johnny sat on the chair and looked around the room. The tourist returned and sat on the bed.

In one lithe movement, Johnny stood up and pulled down his jeans and white and blue striped briefs. His long, uncircumcised penis swung free. He sat back in the chair.

“You like this?” Johnny asked coyly as he stroked his stiffening organ.

The old tourist blubbered, “Oh, baby - you got a nice dick.”

Johnny laughed, “What’s so nice about it?” Johnny spat, a little too curt.

The tourist fumbled uncomfortably, he didn’t expect that remark. He just sat there, staring at the eight inches of erection being waved in his direction. The smooth shaft, the glistening mushroom tip. Johnny seductively worked the foreskin back and forth over the head, devishly looking up at the tourist who wheezed in mounting excitement.

“I’m so hot.” Johnny sighed. “Why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”

The tourist stared at the undulating erection - hypnotized over it, as Johnny smoothly swayed it back and forth.

Like a fat kid in a candy store, the tourist dropped to his knees in front of Johnny and gobbled his hard on. Loud sucking noises as the tourist sucked and slurped up and down his cock. Though Johnny had his legs spread wide open, he could still feel the tourist obscene stomach rubbing against both his inner thighs.

God, please hurry up and cum, Johnny thought, I need to get the fuck away from this gross gringo.

Johnny reputedly held the back of the tourist greasy head as finally in a matter of short, merciful minutes, Johnny felt the surge of an orgasm and squirt his semen into the tourists mouth. The fat, old man leaned over and spat the matter onto the wooden floor.

Gasping, the tourist looked up to Johnny and breathed, “Oh, baby - that was good.”

“It was hot, baby.” Johnny said coldly, pulling up and fastening his pants.

As the tourist stood up, Johnny stood too and blurted, “Hey, you think you can help me with twenty dollars? I need to pay my electric bill and I am low on money this week.”

“Don’t you work?” The tourist asked, snidely.

“Yes. But, they don’t pay much and I just paid rent.” Johnny stood firmly.

The tourist reached and pulled out his wallet, placing a twenty dollar bill in Johnny’s thin hand.

“Can I have twenty more? I have no food.” Johnny smiled that smile.

The tourist exasperated. Faltered putting his wallet away. Johnny saw the glint of fear and distrust of being in a bad part of town, the uncertainty of being in a foreign locale in the eyes of the tourist.

Johnny glared with just the right amount of sexiness and intimidation, “Please?”

“Oh, all right. But, that’s it! I have to get back to the States tomorrow and I can’t spare anymore.” Said the tourist, placing another twenty in Johnny’s hand and then quickly slipping his wallet into his back pocket.

Johnny made for the door, stopped, “You sleeping here tonight?” He pointed abstractly around the squalid room.

Fear was now in the sobering eyes of the tourist, “No. No, I have a room somewhere else. I’m going there, now.”

“All right. I’ll walk you out.”

Once downstairs, they separated on the corner with a handshake. The tourist wobbled to the safety of a taxi as Johnny returned to the shadows of the corner. Several thugs stood in a knot.

A squat, frog faced Mexican stood in white athletic gear and smiled as Johnny approached, “What’s up, Johnny?”

Johnny’s gaze swept up and down the sidewalk, "Nothing, man. Gimme a paper.”

The frog faced Mexican slapped a small, folded paper into Johnny’s hand and Johnny placed a twenty into his.

With that, Johnny returned to the bar and made a direct line to the bathroom. In a stall, he cut three lines of meth out onto the toilet dispenser and snorted it up.

Feeling it, he returned to the bar and stood next to an ancient and tall American tourist. Johnny ordered a beer for himself.

Johnny took a swig and smiled at the old relic. “Hi!”

The old man raised his bottle, clinking it with Johnny’s. “Hello, there. What’s your name?”

“My names Johnny. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.” Johnny smiled.

Moving Without Moving

And so...
The novel is chugging along - ideas and prose blasting out of my mind like projectile vomit. I hope this one is the one. Haha! The one what? Even if I did obtain a small fraction of literary fame with these little beasts, I am sure I would treat it the same way that I treat everything else in my life - with a shrug and a 'whatever'. Though, for certain a life changing event.
Speaking of life changing events. I turn 44 this month. far to young - in my bloodshot eye - for retirement. You see, when I received my latest apartment - I had never mentioned strictly from embarrassment - that they stuck me in a retirement center. It's a nice, big apartment - very quiet. I am the youngest in that building and I swear to Gawd that the row of shriveled witches that bask in the sun out front, eye me and lick withered, chapped lips as I pass. Chirping 'buenas dias', fanning their bird legs or mammoth pasty thighs in unbridled lust as I walk past out of the building.
Shit. Where was I? Oh yeah - anyways, I have still far too much vigor and life left in this borrowed flesh to settle down. Attaining SSI has given me a great four year vacation - but, man - I am itching to do crazy shit as in travel and adventure!
So, over the year - several friends across the globe had invited and tempted me with the idea of teaching English abroad and using that position to travel the world. I was directed towards this online school - http://www.teach-english-jobs.com/ - and after doing extensive research, I have decided to take the 120hour course and hopefully to be in Thailand by this fall.

Why not?

One of the offers that enticed me was that after completion and attaining your certificate, they offer an internship in Thailand to get the noob up to speed on teaching in front of a class - pay is good and rent is paid by the school.

Actually, I can do this - I have taught in the past. I love being in front of a group and I am perky as all hell. So, I will be a far cry from the nasally droning teachers I had to sit through...

I think I will do this - what do I have to lose?

Write, right?

"A pathological business, writing, don't you think? Just look what a writer actually does: all that unnatural tense squatting and hunching, all those rituals: pathological!"
- Hans Magnus Enzensberger

I have been sitting at this cafe on a bright, warm Saturday afternoon writing maddening, depressing prose about the homeless in painful detail. It really is putting me in a funk. I really should be out with my friends drinking and enjoying this day - but, Burroughs once said to his son in a letter that the life of a writer is a solitary one. He sure wasn't talkin' shit, man.

I figure that the rough draft will be ready by mid-summer. Then the fun part: editing. God, how I loathe that part.

You at first love your work, right - but after the fiftieth time reading and re-reading starts to really wane your enthusiasm.

But, it is the profession that chose me - so, I'll just go with the flow...

Dust on the Window.

Ugh!! I am sitting here at the Percolator Cafe in downtown El Paso - a swanky haunt for artists and writers and high brow fags - I come here almost everyday to write.
However, today they have this goddamn hippy singing live with a guitar on a P.A. system WAY too loud. And the hairy troll knows it is too loud, because when I arrived, he bleated nasally, "Sorry if the sounds a bit too loud, folks - still trying to work the bugs out of the sound system."
ASSHOLE! You realize it's too loud - turn that moaning, tree hugging shit down some! No need to force your groovy moaning into our psyche!
Well, the plus side is - only twenty minutes more of this tripe and I can concentrate on the novel at hand.
I have started the "homeless" section - the tale of loneliness and frustration of trying to attain a place to stay when one has hit rock bottom.

Have you ever hit rock bottom? And I mean rock bottom - when you lost everything you had and all friends had turned their back on you. Rock bottom. Nothing. I have and only then are you able to live to your full potential.

Dark is the Night.

Hi!

I realize it has been awhile and I realize even more that i have neglected this blog. Over the past year, things have actually been pretty positive! I have a great apartment, a partner to share my time with, and my books have been actually selling!
Since I am not mired in an existence of homeless hobosexuality, I kind of stopped writing here and have been focusing my time writing a new novel.
It is called Dark is the Night - and it is an anthology of five lost angels that i had known during my travels. I am really excited about it - it will be my first work not written in the first person and based on different characters living in the gutters of the world. What else is new, right? haha! Each chapter will focus on it's own theme of alcoholism, homosexuality, porn addiction, drugs, and mental health.
I had just finished the rough draft of one of the chapters - the alcoholic one - and, being an early draft, I realize it needs work, but you will get the gist.
This blog - since I don't do that craziness as of date, will focus on my writing and domestic lifestyle here in El Paso!

Delores lay there panting, looking up at Gabriel as he sweated and puffed. The futon boinged and clanged with his rutting. She slid her hand across his slick back as he grunted to some sort of an orgasm.
He rolled off of her and closed his eyes, sighed. She reached over to her purse on the floor and grabbed a box of cigarettes. The dark room smelled of dank clothes, sweat, and unwashed vagina.
She lit the cigarette, took a puff, said, “You’re going to be late.”
“Gimme a minute.” He croaked.
Gabriel sat up. He took the can of warm beer sitting next to the bed on the floor and took a long swing. Pain shot up his back as he watched the morning sun beam through the broken slats of the blinds - dust danced in the light.
He felt her hand stroke his back.
She said, “You still hurtin’?”
He turned to her, saw the dark circles under the glittering eyes, the deep lines, the large cold sore on the right top of her lip. He turned back away and took another gulp.
“You going to be here when I get back?” He asked.
“Of course, baby.” She stretched. “I’ll make us some soup for dinner.”
Gabriel got up and readied for work. In the shower, the pain in his back was almost unbearable - almost as unbearable as the act he just committed. He thought about telling her to leave. He wanted to be alone and that was an impossibility since she never left the house. As he brushed his teeth, he looked at the haggard image that glared back at him from the dirty mirror.
They had been fighting a lot recently - over stupid shit. She whined and complained about being bored, his drinking, his friends, never having money. He would sit silently holding his beer and listen, watched as she paced back and forth on the dirty, wooden floor in gray, bare feet and go on about the things he could not provide.
When he would start yelling and spittle would fly from his intoxicated mouth, she would calm down and coo and act coy as if she was in complete agreement. It made him even more angry, because she was right - he couldn’t give her those things.
The argument last night started first about her gorging on all the food that was bought and more often than not, leaving him nothing but the can goods to eat. When he tried to explain on ways to balance the budget - she would go in a tirade about how much they needed a television or a microwave. She then made the mistake of comparing him to her old boyfriend in California - on how he had a nice house, huge television, car, money. Gabriel had enough - on the verge of punching her senseless, he grabbed his beer and marched out the door into the cool night.
When he returned hours later from walking aimlessly among the empty warehouses and train tracks, he found her curled up under a blanket snoring softly. That morning, he woke with a raging hard on and took advantage of the rare occasion.
He dressed and grabbed his coat.
In the living room, Delores lay quietly on her back, blowing gray smoke up to the peeled ceiling. Gabriel stood in the half light.
“I want to talk to you when I get home, okay?” He said.
She didn’t look at him, took another long drag, “Ok.”
He unlocked the front door and stepped out into the searing, bright morning sun.
As he walked the two blocks to work, each step was an ordeal. The pain shot up the back of his right leg and throbbed unbearably. Gabriel took it slow. Stopped once to hold himself up at a tattered telephone pole. He could smell the waft of freshly baked bread from the factory. The smell made him sick. He gazed over at the row of warehouses and smoke stacks of his job with both resentment and desperate loathing.
Taking a deep sigh, he continued the last block, clocked in and looked for the shift supervisor.
“Diaz!” Shrilled a voice behind him. “Can’t have you coming in late all the time, Diaz!”
Gabriel turned to see a tall woman standing with a clipboard. A large, pear-shaped frame clothed in tight khaki slacks and pin-striped, blue dress shirt. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight pony-tail and she held a permanent scowl on a smooth, Aryan face. It was the shift manager Erika. She stood still, glaring at him. He shrank under that cold, inhumane gaze.
“Sorry, Erika.” Gabriel mumbled. He shuffled sheeply over to her stoic form. “My back’s been bothering me. I think I need a doctor.”
“I don’t give a damn about your back, Diaz.” She hissed. “You’re fifteen minutes late. That’s the third time this week.”
He mumbled down to the smooth pavement floor. “Yeah…”
Her face scrunched up as hatred poured from her eyes, “You been drinking? You drunk now? Motherfucker! I should let you go. I don’t need another fucking drunk working here.”
He shot his gaze up to her, “No. No, that’s the mouthwash I used this morning.”
“Mouthwash, my ass! Go unload that truck, dumbass, and you’re late one more time and I’m letting you go, got it?”
He turned quietly and marched over to the delivery truck that was backed up to the loading dock. Already, Gonzalo and Carlos were there rolling the racks of packaged bread from the ovens towards the truck.
“Oye! Chief!” Gonzalo blurted to Gabriel.
The short, fat Mexican murmured something to Carlos and they both burst out laughing. Carlos rubbed his potbelly and said something else in Spanish, indicating Gabriel and they guffawed and cackled.
“What’s so fucking funny?” Gabriel sneered. “I don’t speak no Spanish.”
“Why you no speeky the Spanish, Indio?” Carlos asked. “You Mexican, no?”
“Just my mom, you fucker. I told you that.” Gabriel shot back as he grabbed the first tray of warm bread and began loading it onto the truck. “We don’t need to speak no Spanish in Chicago.”
“You now in El Paso, Chief - you speakee Spanish!” Gonzalo roared and both the Mexicans hollered in laughter as they began to load the truck.
Pain shot up Gabriel’s back as he yanked another tray off of the cart, “Fuck that shit! Last I checked, this is America and we speak English!”
Gonzalo roared over the factory noise, “No, cabrone - we takin’ our shit back!”
He said a long stream of Spanish to Carlos - gesticulating wildly - and they continued laughing. Gabriel had enough of this shit and shuffled away. He walked over to the men’s room.
Opening the door, he saw a shriveled old black man sitting on an iron chair in the corner. Gray poufs of hair shot out from under a dirty cap, scraggly beard covered chocolate wrinkly skin. The old man made no attempt to hide the tall boy wrapped in a brown paper bag.
“Hey, Curtis.” Gabriel said.
“Hello, young man.” Curtis said with a glint of paranoia in his eyes. He just held the beer can up to Gabriel. “Wanna taste?”
Gabriel grabbed the can, took a gulp, “You’re a good man, Curtis.”
“We gotta stay sane in a shitty world.” He smiled a row of stained dentures. “That do it for ya?”
Gabriel felt the warmth from his belly, the lift coming up. “Yeah, man, thanks.” He passed the can back. “That bitch Erika caught me coming in late. And those two Mexican fucker’s been riding me. I could use a whole case.” He chuckled.
“Don’t let them wetbacks get to you, young man - life is hard, it’s just up to you on how you deal with it.”
After taking a few sips, Curtis handed the can up to Gabriel.
Gabriel extended his palm, “Thanks, Curtis - but, I don’t want to drink all your shit.”
Curtis’s face wrinkled up in amusement. “All my shit? Boy, you gotta learn some things.” He reached over to a canvas lunch bag that sat at his feet. Unhooking the fastener, he pulled out one of three more tall cans.
He popped the top, took a swig with lines of cool beer that dribbled down onto his salt and pepper beard, “All my shit.”
“Damn, Curtis,” Gabriel grinned, guzzling the rest from his can. “You’re all right.”
Time flew as they finished the cans. Gabriel shuffled over to the urinal and took a piss. With each contraction of his muscles, his back throbbed in a dull ache. The pain was now an echo as the alcohol took effect.
Gabriel approached Curtis and shot a streetwise handshake, “Well, thank you, sir. That helped a man in need.”
Curtis leaned back in the metal chair, palms spread out, shrugged, “And you are a friend, indeed. Take care, young man.”
As Gabriel opened the restroom door, his glazed eyes focused on Erika standing a few feet away, flanked by Gonzalo and Carlos. She beamed unimaginable hatred towards him.
“Clock out, Diaz! You’re fired!” She roared loud enough for the whole factory floor to hear. “I’m not having you drinking on my shift, asshole! You know better than that! Get your ass off my floor!”
“Fuck you, cunt.” Gabriel mumbled, scowling.
She took two steps forward, glaring, “What? What did you just say?!”
Gabriel stared her straight in the eyes, “Fuck. You. Cunt.” He shuffled forward with fists clenched.
Erika’s face turned vivid scarlet, “Get out of here! Now! Before I call the police!”
Gabriel stopped, breathed deep through his nostrils, “All right, all right…I’m going.”
He didn’t even bother with the time clock. He shuffled out of the factory and into the afternoon heat. He was livid. On the way home, he stopped off in a small cantina and sat alone in the dark den peeling the paper foil from the wetness of the bottle placed in front of him by a shriveled relic.
Gabriel started to think about Delores. How, when he got home - he’s asking her to pack her shit and leave. He didn’t need that extra stress - maybe at a different time when he was more stable, maybe when he was not in such a state of flux. Maybe.
He drank three more beers, paid and walked out into the long shadows of late afternoon. He stumbled over broken sidewalks, past barking dogs and smells of spicy meals being served in the row of low, brick houses. In the distance, an ambulance wailed as the sun boiled down big and yellow behind wisps of silver clouds.
Gabriel pushed the front door to his apartment with his shoulder, pocketing the keys, he yelled, “Delores!”
“In here!” She chirped from the kitchen.
Shutting the door, he smelled cat shit. Overpowered by the stench of canned cat food.
Now what is that crazy broad up to? Gabriel thought.
He walked to the kitchen with absolute determination.
He found Delores squatting on the dirty wooden floor holding something to here breast, stroking it. Gabriel’s eyes adjusted to the gloom of the apartment and saw it was a damn kitten.
“Look what I found!” She beamed before he had a chance to say anything.
“Now that I’m seeing it, what is it?”
It was a little white kitten with a streak of black fir on it’s head and a spot of black under it’s pink nose. It wasn’t fluffy at all, it’s stringy white hair was matted and shot out from the scrawny torso. Gabriel glared at the little face.
It looks like Hitler, Gabriel thought. He hated cats.
The small animal quivered and purred in Delores’ embrace. He saw that the tiny animal was wiry thin and had a broken, bent left paw.
“I found him under a car.” Delores cooed. “He was covered in oil and dirt just meowing and meowing. I brought him home and cleaned him up, fed him.” She brought the kitten up to he lips, planting a tender kiss on his head between the pointy ears. She looked up to Gabriel, “Can we keep him? He was obviously abandoned, we can’t throw him out. Not back out there.”
Gabriel noticed the new cans of cat food stacked on a shelf, the brand new kitty litter box placed in a corner, the little furry cat toy on the floor. An ambulance passed by outside, wailing. The little kitten quivered and meowed loudly in fear, glaring with huge, yellow eyes at the noise.
Gabriel sighed. He popped open a can of beer he retrieved from the plastic ice chest near the pantry, sat down. “Okay. Sure. But, feeding it and us may become a problem.”
“Why’s that?” She said softly, comforting the frightened creature.
“I just got fired.” He said, taking deep gulps from the can.
She just sat silently, cuddling the kitten, not looking at him.

Time's Up, Sir.

Cold. Colorless. City of vast, moaning silence. Frowning, bitter phantoms wrapped in dirty coats pass on dusty, trash filled sidewalks. Prehistoric pedophiles sit in the plaza, huddled from freezing winds, chewing on saliva. Staring into nothing, staring into silence. Beat, abandoned buildings - row after row of them - claw at that unrelenting Southwest blue sky. El Paso is a dead museum - definitely not my Time/Space location. For a year, I've tried to be like you, but my mind burns to go. And go I will.

I feel so lost right now.

Hullabaloooooo!!!

Merry Christmas!

And so.

It has been a year since I have arrived in El Paso. Since then, I have actually been living a quite comfortable life. 390 degree turn of how I used to live and I am utterly bored. Slothful, lazy, fat - yup, everything I have feared had occurred.

Understand, I live in a town where NOTHING happens, absolutely nothing. I do not associate with the same type of people that I was accustomed too - and that also took the thrill of living away.

So, the paper work has been filed and all I need to do is wait. You see, I am living in an apartment sponsored through HUD - a quite nice place for $190 a month all bills paid. However, after a year in one spot - you are allowed to transfer to anyplace in the States without starting over. The wait for an apartment in larger cities could take up a decade - but, since I will be in the system, I believe it shortens to weeks.

In May, I will be making the move to San Fransisco. I think it will be awesome.

Death.

Ten years old and I had just barely overcome the great move to California. My family was crashing on the various couches in my sister's home in Lakewood, California and I distinctly remembered she pretty much had enough of our shit. Thinking back, I don't blame her.

It was a hot day and I sat out in the dry grass of the front lawn in a stucco house that sat at the end of a culdusac. I sat, as I said, in the heat playing with my well worn Luke Skywalker and C-3PO action figures and that's when I first got whiff of that horrid stench. I am not talking of the usual stench that permeates the green tinged air of the Los Angeles area, no this was a horrible smell that wafted over the carcinogens of car exhaust and rotting garbage.

Suddenly, there was a squad car that pulled up next to a green van that was parked down the street. I do recall the van had been there, unmoved, for at least a week. It was one of those groovy vans - colored avocado green with a brown racing stripe painted along the side of its squat frame. The van tilted upward from the raised back fat tires in a vain attempt to make the ugly machine look cool. And yes, it had a wing on the roof..

Like a spattering of curious neighbors, I found myself standing outside the van as an ambulance wheeled up. Fat, bored housewives stood sweating in the heat - arms crossed, gossiping at what could be in the van. One of the police officers pulled the side door open and that pungent stench of death knocked us all in the face like a physical blow.

The chatter became louder as the ambulance attendants pulled the body out of the van. I stood there fascinated and in silence - the bloated, purple belly protruding out of a stained Hawaiian shirt, the stiff arms bent at the elbows, discolored in purples, dark blues, and black to the clawing fingers. But it was the face that held my attention - his eyes were black - no color in them at all. The face encircled by a mane of shaggy black hair. His mouth was frozen open - caked in dried black blood and vomit. The stench from the heat was becoming unbearable.

The attendants wheeled the stiff body into the ambulance and drove away. Slowly, the neighbors of the culdusac dispersed back to their lives as I returned to my sister's house.

It was the first time that I had ever seen a dead body in my life.

Dust in the Cracks.

Why do I waste time doing things I particularly do not like doing? I have squandered four months of my life setting up an apartment that was granted almost free and all I can think is: So what?

I exist in paranoid fear of long, dark nights and sun blasted days of waiting.

Most of my money has been for rent and buying furniture - no socializing, drinking, craziness. I sit in my contemperarily furnished tomb and I wait for the next check to buy something.

My body has started to soften - flabby, jiggly blobs of time wasting flesh forming around my abdomen. Memories are distant, fuzzy halucinations in my numbed brain. I see no one - talk with no one. My money spent on a life of comfort and luxury. Alone.

This is fucking worse than when I was on the road!!

Insanity

I think the same way, Doctor.