Starting is Simple

A peculiar blankness erupted in my head. I had plenty of things on my mind and they were doing a fine job of destroying me. But now at the prospect of being manifest outside of myself in spoken words all the troublesome bits rushed together and jammed in my throat. They became indistinguishable, lumped together into this vague statement:

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“If I had to guess I would say nothing,” he said. “You are doing nothing, at least, nothing meaningful.”

Snip by snip I dissected the blankness, and sip by sip the whiskey added its light-headed clarity.

“That’s right.” I realized for the second time today.

I thought about it hard and shot my whiskey. With the drink gone quick my face was free from the interruption of drink and adopted a very serious look.

“Don’t strain yourself, bud.” The man said. “What are you good at?”

“Good at?” I wondered, “Well, good at nothing. I’m okay at a lot of things.

“How does a guy get good at nothing and okay at a lot of things?”

I thought about it. I thought about all the things I wanted to be good at but never invested the time in. All the things I had tried out and moved on from when I lost interest. Drawing, making movies, traveling, writing.

Writing - that old thing. I remembered I used to feel I was good at writing. A game with words, you switched them around and pared them down and blew them up then pared them down again until they were simple and honest and true and expressed complex things in tiny ways. How they piled up on pages, details heaped on details. Straw words patiently placed on thatched pages. I thought about how easily my own bastard ego put the torch to my words one day when faced with the mortality of being average and how I never wrote since. It was the same with art. It was the same with a lot of things.

“He gives up.” I admitted.

“Damn right he gives up.” The man said. The man could be described at that moment with certain good words. Strong healthy words. Vim, moxie, gusto. He gulped his beer down with hearty enjoyment. Then other words seemed to seep into him and without any pep at all he turned his eye on me and said sternly. “Any dumb ass who gives up shouldn’t claim it like people should pity him.”

“I don’t want people to pity me.”

“You pity you.”

“Yes.”

“Hell, well there it is.” He said with beer foam still on his mustache. His large hand wiped it away; again it did its disappearing act into the whiskers.

“Yeah. There it is.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Me? I’m from everywhere.” I said, and at that moment it felt that way. “My job drags me all over the U S of A and the dust of me is left all over the damn country. No, really I’m from California.”

“You don’t like the travel?”

“I love the travel.”

“But it’s a problem.” I didn’t know why he was talking to me and not only that but listening too. So I talked. It felt like I needed to and I was working through it myself.

“It’s a distraction. You can’t think I’m fine with being no good at anything. I was on a bus today to the Indian Reservation and back, driving through the country. It’s peaceful. Not a lot happening aside from hundreds and thousands of rocks and horizons of cactus surrounding the flatness of dried up lakes. Small houses, clouds like I can’t believe. Damnit. It reminded me of something. Times change, things change. There was a feeling on those roads I haven’t felt since I was a kid. A feeling that used to exist in my hometown. A real weird sensation. Feeling that again was like starting over from a time before distractions when everything was fresh and the whole world was open to me. I still can’t figure it out.”

He stood up and dropped some cash on the table. A tip for the waitress. He was leaving and I found myself not wanting him to. The small connection I had made with the stranger disintegrated.

“Figure it out.” He said. “Figure out what you are passionate about then go for it. But first have another drink.”

Then he left.
The waitress brought me a fresh whiskey and collected the tip money left on the table. I tasted the whiskey and this time I noticed that it was good. It’s simple, I thought. Starting is simple.

Things are Going Pretty well For Us.

Things are going pretty well for us. We’re in this period right now in which we don’t speak to each other, and it seems to be working out. It’s mutual, of course. You see, I just get up in the morning, go to work, go to sleep at night, wake up the next morning, and so on. I assume that he does the same, but I wouldn’t know because we’re not talking. It has been a couple of months or so, but it’s not like I’m keeping track. All those emails, phone calls, Skype conversations - I don’t know about him, but it was all pretty tiring for me. What a relief, I tell myself. Now I can concentrate on my work. It’s not like we don’t still like each other - we do. Of course, we do.

He’s a lot better at this whole not speaking thing than I am. It’s kind of hard for me, actually. A month or so ago, I sent him an email with a recommendation for a movie with one of those smiley face emoticons. I thought I was being pretty breezy, but he didn’t respond. Typical. I didn’t expect him to reply, and I would have just ignored it anyway since that’s what we’re doing now. That’s if he had sent anything to me, which he hadn’t. See, he really is better at this than me.

Like I told you earlier, things really couldn’t be better for us.
You know, I’m hoping to meet up with him one day for coffee or something when I move back to Tijuana. I think we’d have a lot to talk about.

Nerd Style Vandalism

Waste.

I lie on top of the blankets. The glow of the fading summer sunlight creates oceans of shadows as it dances through and around the blue bottles on the window sill.

“Worthless,”

The word repeats itself over and over, scratching like an old record in my head. I allow myself to acknowledge the feeling, noticing the way it sulks in the center of my body, taking up too much of my insides. Then I release it down my arms and legs. It rests in the tips of my fingers and at the front of my ankles. I notice the way my heart throbs, sending life to the parts of me that haven’t given up, and finds a scrap of hope: If I can feel pain I must still be alive.

Rain.

There is something about the rain that makes me feel good inside.

When everything out there is cold and damp, in meteoric contrast to my warm-blooded, hot-headed self. I wear a jacket to keep me dry, or at least, on certain areas that would be uncomfortable if wet. There is no point in using an umbrella, all the things I brought this morning are sealed carefully inside my backpack. What’s the problem with hair getting watered down just about the same way a shower does? Nothing. I watch people search through their bags for protection, from something that in my opinion, should not be avoided but embraced. I would later have to get on a bus, and the driver would frown, seeing this new passenger look for a seat, wet as a sponge on a sink. But I don’t care what they think.

Once I am seated somewhere (beside a window, preferably), I would watch the tiny droplets descending to nowhere, in slow motion. Forming odd shapes, but always going down quietly to the flows, like them. People.
Perhaps, the most probable theory about my sentiments for the rain is how the waters link together the ground and the skies. Two infinite worlds divided by infinite space. Getting in touch only when it rains.

Shotgun Writing.

Wrote this while sitting idle on a city bus:

He rolled the coin between forefinger and thumb. Both sides tails. You ask most people ‘heads or tails’ and they’ll answer ‘heads,’ it’s less effort, slides off the tongue quicker. But he hadn’t been able to use it. He cut off another bite of warm roast lamb, tender but the knife still squeaked on the plate. If he could only think, he didn’t do this in such loud places. They could barely hear each other think. As far as he knew there were two options left, he could run, knock his chair back as he rose, cause a scene, hope he gets arrested. Or he could try one last game, he still remembered back when he would play chess with the homeless men in the park, back when games with multiple outcomes still held their novelty. He followed the man's tie up his chest, past the thick jowls and a single bead of sweat, until their eyes met. That short smile stabbed like a knife. Now was his chance.

“I want to bet you one last thing,”

Laughter, hoarse and spluttered. “You don’t have anything left to offer,”

“Yes, but you couldn’t live with yourself, having won like this. You win this wager and you’ll be able to sleep easy, knowing you beat me”

He pushed a chorizo into his mouth as an abusive husband would his arm. “What makes you think I have the pride?”

“The first bet is against yourself, if I lose, I concede, if I win, I get your watch, I will then bet you your watch against your wallet, if I lose it’s for good. I will then bet your watch and your wallet against your gun.”

Silence, like being tied up in rope. If he breaks it, he knows he’s dead. Then, “What’s the bet?”

“Heads or tails?” Laughter “From your wallet.” The man opposite him chuckled in a way better resembling spitting. He stood slightly and fished for his wallet. Produced it and pulled out a single coin which didn’t look like any coin he had ever seen before, it was enormous, made of a thin copper. The man opposite rolled it to show each side. Then threw it in one large flip. Now.
His eyes followed the coin in midair. As it began to fall the man opposite prepared his hand. He rose, took his plate of roast lamb and vegetables and threw it into the man face. Then he ran.

reading this again

exterminate all rational thought

William S. Burroughs put a hex on Truman Capote and documented the curse in this open letter.

"I have in line of duty read all your published work. The early work was in some respects promising — I refer particularly to the short stories. You were granted an area for psychic development. It seemed for a while as if you would make good use of this grant. You choose instead to sell out a talent that is not yours to sell. You have written a dull unreadable book which could have been written by any staff writer on the New Yorker .You have betrayed and sold out the talent that was granted you by this department. That talent is now officially withdrawn. Enjoy your dirty money. You will never have anything else. You will never write another sentence above the level of In Cold Blood. As a writer you are finished. Over and out."

It became a fulfilled prophecy as Truman Capote slipped into a drug and alcohol induced state of non being and never produced another major work.

I’d love to write a novel on this.

I Woke Up early The Day I Died

Lables on Gin

It was night and the air muggy. I was listening to jazz music by artists I can’t distinguish between in the room half-lit by a navy banker’s lamp when he came in with a forty ounce bottle of malt liquor named after a general who died in the first days of World War One and his back hit the wall hard.

Mycroft, Gin said, he was the hero. He couldn’t remember, he stammered. An hour ago. The fat one, not Sherlock. "People don’t write Mycroft into hero roles", I said. Laughing. Grabbed the bottle with eyes and fists, drinking like it were caloric as water, like Burroughs was a gentleman, what a Joke. Doesn’t matter, he was worth a fortune. "Rights", I said, I pinched my fingers, and he said "Right".

He said he had a dream about a man who spoke with a tongue of morphine, he was sticky when he leaned against anything - the air, open space, just stuck to it–took hold of the table, it came back when he stood straight, back with him. Tethering gravity like led hounds. He was gray and his legs twisted on anywhere like a wrench but not his dick. It was sharp like a knife, and whenever his pants reached ankle, there was only a static screen. Everything below was just a staticy screen, and he woke up, Virginia, and he was puking. I was watching a lot of Sherlock Holmes in the half-lit house. He was doing a lot of drugs. And it was night and the air muggy.

Tucker.

The cafe wouldn’t let Tucker in without shoes. I huffed at the manager and went inside by myself, but not before I made Tucker promise not to take off.

"I’m not going anywhere. Like you said, why would I pass up a free drink?" He said, crossing his skinny arms over his chest and coyly raising an eyebrow at me.

I nodded and smiled at him briefly before I went inside. The coffee was hot, and the pastries were half price, a deal made to lower waste at the end of the night. A muffin or two couldn’t hurt, so I went ahead and grabbed the ones which looked the freshest before paying for everything. As I smiled my way through the transaction I could feel the manager staring at me from off to the side His arms folded and his chin so far up I could have looked up his nose.

"Is there a problem, sir?" I asked, tearing off a bit of my muffin and popping it into my mouth.

"It won’t learn nothin’ if you just give it things."

If my mouth had been empty, my jaw would have dropped. Instead, it clenched tightly, biting through the crumbling muffin until my teeth cracked together. “Last time I checked, that guy out there is a person just as much as I am and there’s nothing wrong with having compassion. Have a nice night, prick," I fired back, my eyes narrowing in disdain. I turned on my heel and made my way out of the shop. My face felt hot and I could feel my grip on the drinks tightening to the point where the cardboard of the cups began to give. I managed to loosen my grip before I ruined our drinks, but my face was still burning as I met Tucker outside.

The streetlight above him flickered on just as I walked outside and the sudden burst of brightness made the dirt on his skin more apparent. The oil in his hair practically shone underneath the pale yellow beam and his clothes now showed lighter, more faded stains which I hadn’t notice in the orange light of the sunset. He looked filthy, but the way his green eyes widened at the muffins in my hand made my cheeks cool almost instantly.

"I grabbed something to eat, too," I chirped, holding the undamaged pastry out to him. Tucker took his drink and the muffin and after exchanging small smiles, we headed down the street once more. Streetlights continued to flicker on a few paces ahead of us, bathing our path in that same yellow light. Behind us, the sky darkened to an indigo color while we sipped gingerly at the coffee steaming from our cups and nibbled at the muffins slowly becoming crumbling messes in our hands.

Shops began to turn out their lights, switching their “Come in, we’re open!" signs to “Sorry, we’re closed" signs. Then the shops disappeared and were replaced by apartments and small houses. Some new with their painted outer walls and others looking as if they had been there since the city came to life, old brick building crumbling and splattering rusty red throughout the neighborhood. Tucker and I passed these buildings in comfortable silence, and only when he tapped my shoulder did I realize that I had stopped outside of my building.

Tucker’s eyes flickered between me and the building a few times. He sipped at his coffee and I could hear his bare feet shuffling against the rough concrete of the sidewalk. I blinked at him a few times and suddenly inhaled sharply. “Right! Um, would you like to come in?"

"Sure, provided you’re not gonna bitch about me getting dirt on the floor and tell me I can’t touch anything."

I buzzed our way into the building and ushered him inside with a smirk. “If I cared I wouldn’t have invited you in," I said as we ascended the stairs. “And besides, that’s what showers are for."

Tucker followed me up the stairs and waited while I fumbled with the lock on my door. When I managed to slip the key inside and wrench the rusty thing open, I turned to see him licking muffin crumbs off of his fingers and chuckled slightly. “Come on in."

As we stepped into the apartment, I almost said something to compensate for its small stature. Tucker’s body visibly relaxed as soon as he stepped inside though, so I kept my comments to myself.

I toed my shoes by the door and set my bookbag on the kitchen counter as Tucker slowly wandered around the living room, taking everything in with wary green eyes and drinking his coffee in larger gulps now that it had cooled a bit.

"You live here by yourself?" He asked after a minute or two. I ran my hand over my hair, grimacing at the product in it, and joined Tucker in the living room.

"Yeah, it’s just me here," I said, shutting the front door after Tucker had neglected to. When I turned around, he was heading to the kitchen with his coffee cup to his lips and an empty muffin wrapper crumpled in his hand. Both fell into the trash can with brief thuds and Tucker licked coffee from his lips slowly, savoring the last taste of his beverage.

"Stay!" My sudden outburst had Tucker arching an eyebrow at me and I felt a different kind of heat rush to my face this time. “I mean…what I mean was that you can stay here tonight. If, y’know, you want to."

Cocking his head to the side and folding his arms across his chest, Tucker kept that eyebrow arched and stared at me quizzically. “You’re not afraid I’m gonna steal something?" He asked, his tone incredulous.

"Well you haven’t really given me a reason to be afraid of something like that."

"…How can you be so trusting of someone you don’t even know?"

I ran a hand across my head and sighed. “I don’t know. Trust me I realize how stupid I am for doing things like this, but…I just wanna help people. I can’t help everyone, but I can do things like this. Right now, I can help you and whether you steal from me or not, at least you had a roof over your head and a shower tonight."

Tucker didn’t respond for a while, just kept staring at me with those piercing green eyes of his. He pursed his pale lips at me, then attempted to run a hand through his hair before the knots stopped him short. He chuckled to his self and then looked up at me with a smile on his face. “Allright Sunshine, I’ll stay. I could use that shower."

"Right this way."

Finally Published!

At long last, my tribute to the homeless homosexuals of this land has finally come to print!

Back cover blurb: The captivating story of a homeless gay man and his desperate struggle to survive on a road trip from El Paso, Texas to San Diego, California as he comes to grips with his own personal convictions and the unending despair and empty hopes of the interesting characters he meets along his journey. The author Luis Blasini spins the story in a hard edge style. A provocative and emotional novel filled with street slang and gripping drama centered on the outcasts of today's society.

Be kind and pick up a copy by either clicking it's link on the side bar or purchasing from amazon.com. It is also available on kindle. Please write a review, I'd like your feed back, Dear Reader.

Dive Bar

I was bored. So bored. The sole television in my house was dominated by the season finale of “The Bachelorette", one of the most insufferable shows to exist in modern times. So, out I went.

A Rolling Stones cover blasts through an old jukebox. Its sound is uninviting and loud, though the divorcees around me seem to enjoy it. Dive bar on a Saturday night. Tiki idols occupy the corners, overseers of the ‘Tropical Paradise.’, ensuring you get ‘laid’. And if not, ‘Mahalo brother there’s always tomorrow.’

My ass sticks to the cheap leather stool, the hide taken from a Fisher-price plastic horse. I sit in the corner of the bar. An anthropologist studying the cultural presence, or more casually known as ‘people watching.’ An aggressive yell interrupts, the slam of a plastic toy gun hitting the arcade machine. Gentleman in the camo hat didn’t beat his friend’s high score, A finger dive into his can of dip, his loss is forgotten by the sweet, smoky presence of tar on his lips.

The descriptor “dive bar" was entirely too generous. Had I not been well-versed in generally shady watering holes, I would've gotten the fuck out of there. But there didn’t seem to be much else in the area and I wanted to get out and get a drink. There were stools near the door and at the bar sat four men who should have been cut off hours ago. The bartender was a Korean woman who bore a vague resemblance to Sandra Oh and when I ordered a double vodka tonic, she poured me two neat shots. It became obvious she didn’t speak English.

The middle-aged man next to me came dangerously close to falling off his stool. He’d been drinking some sort of brown liquor on the rocks since I’d arrived and I assumed he’d been drinking it all night. I wasn’t feeling much pain by this point, either. Vodka will do that to you, especially if you started an hour ago.

I walked outside onto the quiet street and practically ran headfirst into a Mexican man who spoke very little English. He was trying to get to the Indian casino but didn’t know what bus route to take, and finding a cab in Tucson at midnight was like trying to find a unicorn. I made a futile attempt at communicating with my limited Spanish range. And suddenly, he became ten times more attractive to me. I wanted to know more about him.

We found another place. It had karaoke - really awful karaoke - and Thai and Filipino food. As we walked into the mildly crowded bar, a short and portly Filipino man greeted me with a hug. I had never set foot in this bar until this night.

"You’re a regular here?" I tried to explain to my new friend that I’d never been here, but he refused to believe me. Maybe I’m just huggable, I told him. We found seats at the bar, which had a tropical thatched cover over it. I couldn’t tell what Asian nation this bar was meant to represent; it was apparently Thai, but the karaoke was clearly from Japan and the decor was definitively South Pacific. The karaoke was terrible. Not just the singing, but the awkward stock visuals on the screen, behind the lyrics. The entire atmosphere felt like a bad movie.

More drinks came. Our conversation evolved from casual conversation to words with innuendo and flirtatiously charged energy. We faced each other on bar stools, slowly edging our faces toward each other. And, in the middle of this obviously straight joint, we kissed each other; organically, without premonition, in the middle of a sentence. No one cared. Or didn't overly react to it. He was 35 but his face and demeanor was young. But he still dressed in usual Tucsonian garb: t-shirt and jeans.

The kiss worked. So did the flirtation. He had me laughing all night, despite almost getting shanked by a drunken dive bar denizen. After that it didn’t take us long to get back to my apartment, which, fortunately, was less than a mile away. As we walked we stopped every ten feet to make out. It was clear he was staying over.

The term ‘rooster’ finally clicks, his proud strides and pursed lips, carefully phrased statements, sneaking peeks to sexual innuendos. I almost growl back. But then again I’m not a lion. Blame my father for my unusual amount of testosterone. A blessing and a curse. He had me at full sprint and only an oncoming bus could stop me

We quietly stumbled into the house and headed straight for my spartan room, with only a bed without a frame and an open suitcase. We started making out and he made an effort to hang up his work clothes in my closet before jumping into bed with me. I fished a condom out of my nightstand and suddenly, he was fucking me, eyes closed and rapidly, without a hint of foreplay. Once he came - before I even had a chance to - he rolled over and passed out. I looked over at him, hoping for at least a few minutes of cuddle time. It wasn’t going to happen. The date ends innocently, as if two childhood sweethearts or two Amish farmers. Or two lepers.

An hour before dawn, we’re saying goodbye. No physical contact, except a hug and a goodnight. A considerable failure by my standards. But this night, maybe because of the planets’ manipulative alignment, I felt happy. Tonight was good. Two old souls sharing a laugh across the chasm of passing time.

about friends

It’s human nature to patch up your wounds, isn’t it - but to what point is it necessary? You know you’re bleeding on the surface, it hurts - and sometimes its supposed to. But when you wake up in the middle of the night, by the all too familiar sting - the sticking plaster has fallen off, the patched up wound is now breathing again, a sense of relief starts spreading through your body as you throw the sticking plaster in the dustbin. Because you knew you’d eventually have to rip it off anyway, but you didn’t have to. Without the sticking plaster suffocating your wound, you can finally deal with it - the sticking plaster has served its purpose. And if you never rip it off, you’ll just be walking around with a withering patch on your wound until it falls off - and you know it might harm you if you don’t let it go. And you’re thinking, do it quickly, this isn’t something to put off - but you can’t do it.

We’re all walking around with a bunch of sticking plasters, some you rip off and some fall off - because it’s inevitable. Another falls and with your open wound you stand, realizing it’s healing anyway. But you can’t take it, you try to put it on again, you don’t want it to heal - you want to go back. It’s not reapplying, you’re exposed, you’re alone. But it’s okay, because you’re still healing. And both of you knew, sticking plasters always fall off.

But remember, one morning you might wake up, what used to be a wound is nothing but a scar. And the sun is shining as you walk with your cup of morning coffee - suddenly you stop and notice something in front of you. It may have fallen off, but it never left you. And you’re smiling - because this one, you didn’t throw away.

Doo Doo

There are strange things happening. Dark and sinister and unexplainable. It's enough to make one question the very fabric of reality. What is real? What is fantasy? I don't know. Hell, I don't know shit from shinola.

Four years ago, I applied through The Housing Authority for a smug and cozy little cabin/adobe/shack in El Paso. It took so long and the caseworker never returned my calls I had long given up. When I left El Paso this time around, I never got to changing my phone number. It was still my El Paso number. Well, last Thursday, the caseworker from HUD in El Paso called to notify me that my application was approved and that the place will be ready September 1st.

But, I was going to Puerto Rico...

But, I was going to San Francisco...

But, I was going to Los Angeles...

But, I was going to Tijuana and Mexicali...

It's in El Paso...

Well, after a long weekend of pensive thought and heavy drinking and a little hootely-hoo, I made my decision to take the house. So, I will be returning to El Paso at the end of August. Maybe. I don't know...dammit!

I'd realize what decision I'd actually made when I buy the ticket...

fukkn

Stumbled out of the bar into that dank alley which smelled like rotted garbage and festering urine. The night was halfway over. While I was in the tavern, it must had rain. The uneven bricks of the back alley were glistening in a translucent glimmer. I fished a cigarette out of my pocket with intoxicated, numb fingers, lit up. I lean my head back and blow gray smoke up into a cloudy sky with ample partings so the stars can look down and judge me. "Fuck you." I mutter and almost fall. I hold onto a lamp post covered in flyers to support myself. The beers and tequila shots were taking their toll. I was truly screwed. Truly damned.

"Hey. You spare a smoke?" A voice out of the darkness hissed.

Goddammit, I don't want to be bothered. I want to get home. First I gotta piss.

I didn't answer the phantom and wobbled over to the filthy dumpster, whipped out my junk, and relieved myself. Cigarette precariously dangling from numb lips, I zipped up and half-assed a scan for police patrols. On one end of the alley, a group of loud frat boys stumbled by gregarious as they often are.

"Can I bum a smoke off of you?" The voice asked again.

I gazed over to a dark corner filled with shadows and dread. He slithered out of the inky blackness in grungy clothes and frayed sneakers. His blond hair was disheveled and he was sniffling. The boy was on something. It was his eyes. His eyes gleamed in the half-light, burning with sadness and despair and evil as hell addiction. 

"What?" I snapped. I felt like Fagin all hunched over and bitter and shitty.

"Do...you...have...an...extra...cigarette?" He said slow and drawn out as if speaking to a retard. Funny thing, he was.

I mumbled 'Oh yeah' or something like that and handed him one. He took it in slender fingers, dirt under the nails. He was slight of build and I wondered the last time he ate.

"So, what are you looking for?" He asked coyly.

Ah yes, the general question of every male prostitute in every alley of the world.

"Death." I grunted.

"Oh don't say that. Life is good. It is wonderful and full of great times." He smiled broadly.

I blearily gazed at him and saw him in a new light. Here standing in front of me was a beautiful, homeless youth and in lieu of all his hardships he currently endured, he still remained positive. I was like that once. Before beaten down by lovers, and friends, and trust, and mishap decisions, and misguided circumstance. Before my mind went and became toxic and corrosive in bitter, self-loathing.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, pointing to the 24 hour cafe open on the opposite end of the alley. "I need to get some food in me to suck up this alcohol."

"I am hungry." He said, smiling. "Been drinking, huh? You drink a lot?"

"It's all I have left and even that is becoming a bore." I snarled as I began stomping down the alley.

We cut into the shop. Ordered food and strong coffee. Took a booth at the wall. The place was empty except for the lonely hobo with a dog and a deranged homosexual on a laptop. We sat for sometime not talking.

"I'm James." He finally said.

I introduced myself the best I could but was so drunk and depressed instead of coming across cordial it came out loathsome and obscene. I drank my coffee in silence until our sandwiches arrived. The boy ate in gusto.

"Haven't eaten in a while?" I asked as I watched him devour his meal.

"Not good anyway." He managed between chomps of pre-processed flesh.

Outside the rain began and the late night revelers dashed under awnings and into doorways. I looked at James. Rentboy to be sure. But, I think it was forced in way of certain living arrangements. Or perhaps he was simply a sex addict. A lot of them are. They won't admit it. But, they are.

"I was thrown out of this place today." I said glancing around the coffee shop.

"The cafe? Why?"

"There were a couple of heroin addicts I was talking to in research of a new book. Because I was in association and, basically because the barista is an Imperialistic bitch, I was asked to never come back."

"And, yet you're here." He laughed. "Wait. New novel? You're a writer?"

"Yes." I croaked. "A curse."

"Wow!" James gushed. "I never met a real writer! What do you write?"

"Garbage." I grunted.

"Oh...come on. It can't be that bad."

I sighed. Took a sip of coffee, poked at my sandwich. "You have a place to stay? It's raining outside and it's late. I need to get some sleep."

"Actually, I am couch surfing with some friends over on 4th. A bunch of tweekers. The girl who runs the house and I got into an argument. So, right now...the rain is my blanket."

I looked off into the darkness beyond the grime streaked pane window. The intermittent flash of summer lightning. The glow of yellow lamps igniting sheets of cascading rain. I took a cigarette from my pocket, offered it to James. Removed one for myself, lit both.

"You can stay at my house if you wish." I stated. "No funny business. Unless you are up to some funny business."

James leaned over the small table and asked in hushed tones, "Are you gay?"

I continued to look out the window, slouched against the wall in the booth, "Aren't we all?"

We finished our meal and briskly walked over incandescent pools and dribbling rain to my apartment a few blocks away. I opened the door and invited him in. He took in the place, like a good hustler, making sure there were no sinister weapons or weird sex gadgets. I saw in his face he was relieved that the place was somewhat bare - bed, bookshelf, table, a couple of chairs, clothes neatly hung in an open closet. Nothing to hide.

He turned to me, "You mind if I take a shower? It's been a few days."

I said sure and gathered him a clean towel and an unused bar of soap. I lay on the edge of the bed, smoking a damp cigarette, watching the shadows move across the ceiling from passing cars outside. Through my experiences in Mexico, as long as he was in my house, I wasn't going to let him out of my sight. I could use a shower, too. But, I was certain as soon as I walked out of the bathroom, anything of value I had would had been long gone.

James walked out of the bathroom with a green towel wrapped around his scrawny torso.

"Let me see if I can find some pajama bottoms for you." I offered.

"No prob." He quipped. "I like to sleep in the nude."

Convenient. I offered him a beer from the fridge and we chatted a bit as he lay under the thin blanket. He said something of getting enough money for a bus ticket to return to Las Vegas. He had family there. I didn't bother questioning why he didn't hit his family up for the fare. After, I finished my beer, I peeled off my damp clothes and slid under the blanket. He was shivering and so was I. Wordlessly, he snuggled next to me, muttering that my body was warm. His torso was so boney. In the half-light of the room, he turned towards me and slid his arm across my chest, his erection thumping against my hip.

"Fuck me." He breathed into my ear.

We began kissing. The taste of saliva mixed with coffee, beer, and ham swirled in our mouths. James kissed my chest, playing with my erect nipples, making his way down to my cock. Like a champ, he sucked my dick like something I needed in a long time. It felt as if I was in heaven. He definitely was a professional. I got to the point I couldn't take it any more and rolled the blond onto his stomach. I parted his cheeks and rimmed him for a good twenty minutes. He squirmed and gasped as I loosed him up. I flipped James over onto his back, placing his feet up onto my shoulders. Spitting into my palm, I lubed the head of my cock up and slowly pushed it in. He clung to me like a monkey as I rapidly rutted and lunged into him. His ass muscles tightened and grasped my dick as I thrust - literally sucking my cock into him. I couldn't hold back any longer. I yanked out and sprayed him with my semen. A second after, as he masturbated wildly, he unloaded his pent up frustrations onto his self. It was a work of art. I snatched my cell phone and snapped a pic before he could hide his face.

"Hey!" James laughed. "You should ask before doing that!"

I plopped next to him, placing my phone onto the endtable. "How about first thing tomorrow morning, we head over to Greyhound and get you that ticket to Vegas?"

"For reals?!" He beamed, lying next to me, propped up on his elbow. "You'll do that?"

"And more." I said morosely. "Now, let's get some sleep."

The last thing I saw before I dozed off was that the clock read 3:54am. Covered in semen and sweat, we both fell into a deep sleep...

Needed. Much needed.

And So.

And so, in association with certain junky friends here in Tucson, I have been 86'd from Tucson - branded a filthy, junky, pervert by the downtown social class.

I understand the life I chose to live is somewhat on the eccentric side, I am labelled a pariah. Even by my peers. Once I was herald as a freethinker, an adventurer, a sexual outlaw. Now, I am hated, despised, spat upon.

In this New Millennium based on paranoia, judgment, hatred, skepticism, and solidarity, I am more than a dying breed. My kind are now considered extinct. Perhaps the only option is to fade into obscurity.
But I will stay diligent. I will not change. As a fact - fuck you. Fuck all of you. I am sick and fucking tired living by your approval, by your boring ass, social accepting standards. I will step out of this quivering, frightened flesh in which I had placed myself and live by my standards, my rules mired in what you call filth and sexual perversion. I'll revel in it, bath in it, suck the marrow from it.
It's definitely time to lay tracks for other parts of the world...

A Shot In The Dark

It seems through my growing fame and notoriety as a writer - much to my chagrin - that I was blessed with my first book reading at the local hipster cafe here in Tucson called Shot in the Dark. I had been contacted by a Tucsonian fan the second week of my arrival and he had set it up. "What do you want me to do?" I asked with waves of paranoia gurgling in my system. I am not comfortable standing in front of a group of people I do not know. Shyness is nice and shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you'd like to...blah blah blah. "All you gotta do is read. And bring some copies of your book Tweeker." He assured me.

So, I ordered a few copies, bought a fancy new outfit - I looked like a post-modern William Burroughs. It was cute. Ugh. Anyway, around six that evening, several hipsters and artistic weirdos arrived and sat patiently and listened to me rattle off passages from the book. They laughed when it was funny and sat appalled when it wasn't. I literaly acted out a chapter or two. I should have won an Oscar. The ordeal was painless. I signed a few copies, chatted about Tijuana, meth, and traveling with a few who wanted to know.

I quickly hid in the side patio and chained smoke. Luckily my friend Caleb who also re-located from El Paso to Tucson showed up and I granted him a signed copy. He was pleased and squealed in junky delight. Or dementia. As I had stated, the guy is really attractive but nuttier than squirrel shit. Too bad. Say no to drugs, kids.

Kyle, that hustler fuck, also showed up and was so drunk and annoying, more so than ever, that I left him to his own sorrow. My patience is really wearing thin with that one.

But, the time was pleasant and all the copies I had brought disappeared. I guess I can't complain...

Midnight Rain.

Sitting in the cafe editing furiously on hobosexual to meet with the August 1st deadline. The air is muggy and damp. Here in this desert city it is the so called monsoon season - where as it rains for five minutes leaving the air so ungodly humid it feels like your head had been stuck in a napalmed watermelon.

Anyway, as I was saying, I'm sitting among the hipsters and the chatty school kids when that hustler Kyle comes up out of the gutter. We had a falling out namely because I just couldn't tolerate his shit. I mean, he's not my type of character, his only saving grace is his outrageously well hung wang. So, he stops and plops into my booth and is already lit from a fifth of vodka. He pours the rest into his ice coffee and goes into a three hour rant on the domestic life concerning himself and his estranged father. What am I a fucking therapist all of a sudden? So, I sit and I listen as warm rain sizzles out on the dark midnight streets of Tucson.

He shuts his yap long enough to listen to my decision of hightailing it out of Tucson and maybe settle into the shadowy alleys of Tijuana. I really miss that life. I miss it a lot.

The insipid people of Tucson have really gotten me down. Americans on the whole really. So, I think I will finish tieing up some loose ends here and move on. I mean, why not? What do I have to lose? Though Kyle slurs that I really should go to Puerto Rico...

Time/Space locations.

In this country of apathetic hatred and force fed disillusion, you either give up and settle with what fate flings at you or you brave the madness and search for your time/space location. After two months here, I can safely surmise that Tucson is not my time/space location. Honestly, I do not think anywhere in this country will suit me. I believe it is time for me to depart this desert and head west, to go underground for a while.

I have met nothing but the most ignorant, arrogant people here. All addicted to a plethora of narcotics. Is that a generalization of America? To be the biggest, loudest asshole around and to revel in that fact as a badge of honor? I never experienced this outside the States. If so, if that is what this country has become, you can have it.

I long for the days living in a quiet Mexican barrio where the neighbors minded their own business, where strangers treated you like a friend, where prices for the basic of needs are not gouged in the vain effort to impress your associates simply because "you have the money to buy it so I am better than you". A place where morality does not interfere with one's personal freedom. A place where, indeed corruption ran rampant, yet it was open and had a purpose and a means not in the way of attaining power for power's sake. I miss Mexico and I think I will return. Why? Haha! Because I can....

More importantly, because I choose to.

Beer and Sweat.

Decked out in all black, I walked through the muggy heat of an early Tucson morning. My goal was to make it to the cinema and catch Man of Steel. As I waited at the main bus station, I was asked by a young man for a cigarette. I gave him one. Then he went on to boldly ask if he could have five dollars to buy a beer. I looked at my watch, it was 10:37am. 

"Sure", I said and handed over a five dollar bill. I could never say no to a pretty face. Anyway, who was I to judge? The boy was thirsty. However, I mentioned that not only was it a holiday, but early. Everything was still closed.

"The bar across the street is open." He smiled.

I gazed over and saw that it was indeed open and offered the kid a beer. "Why don't we sit in a cooled bar and drink instead of you squatting in some simmering alley keeping one eye out for cops?"

We entered the Iguana Bar and ordered beer, I had a Corona, he had a draft of Coors. He stated his name was Isaiah and that he was currently residing at the homeless shelter. I mentioned that don't they breathalize you every time you enter and he assured me that it was early enough that the alcohol would wear off by time curfew hit.

And so, we drank. And drank. And drank some more. Laughing and chatting of things. He mentioned, though he was German, he was raised his early years in Nicaragua before his family relocated to Tucson. I spun my tales of travel and addiction and that I was a writer of obscene materials read by like minded individuals. As he ogled the big boobed woman tending the bar, I casually dropped the fag bomb. Why, I have no idea. Okay, I do. I was drunk and he was very attractive and the fact that I wanted to have sex with him.

He remained quiet for a bit but then mentioned that it really wasn't a problem. As a fact, his dialog turned towards sex and the fact that he hadn't cum in over two months. He kept mentioning that he really wanted to tit fuck the bartender, that she was definitely his type. Female, I wagered. All the while, my gay eye noticed that he kept groping his crotch in his baggy jeans, laughing, smiling, eyes squinted and crimson.

"You know, Isaiah," I said blankly. "If you want to come over to my house, we can take care of that dry spell." I was overtly blatant, I know. I blame the alcohol.

"Can I finish my beer?" He asked with a straight face.

After two more beverages, we found ourselves at my dim, air conditioned flat. He sat on the couch with his baggy jeans down and a long, circumcised erection pointing towards the ceiling. Momentarily, I stood there admiring his long, lithe torso. Hairless and pale. He was skinny and toned naturally. No gym bunny, he. As Isaiah watched the porn on my TV, I sucked that cock with gusto, Dear Reader. His erection was firm as a 23yr olds can be. Momentarily, he grabbed the back of my head with one hand, clenching the sofa cushion with the other, as he squirted two months of backed up semen down my gullet. Damn. It was a lot. I even gagged a little. Isaiah reclined his head back, sighed heavily and smiled. "Fuck! I needed that.." He sighed.

Isaiah then took a shower and I invited him for lunch at Subway. We talked more of his dreams of travel in which I explained that he should. There is nothing more thrilling in the world than aimlessly wandering from one exotic locale to the next. You never know what thrilling things will present themselves.

Afterwards, I walked Isaiah to the bus terminal, we shook hands and he left.

I returned home, took a nap, and awoke just in time to witness the 4th of July fireworks with the other tenants. An impressive display. The neighborhood kids congregated on a corner and squealed in delight at each colorful burst. I returned to my apartment, sat at my desk and began scribbling out notes on a new novel...

Insanity.

Insanity. Oh, how nice it is to be completely out of my mind. I mean, how else would I come up with all these crazy ideas? If I wasn’t insane I would have a sensible, nine to five job, draining my soul in exchange for a bi-weekly pay check and health insurance. If I was sane, I would spend my life putting forth the minimum amount of effort in order to survive. Follow the grid plan. Follow all those little rules. But, I’m crazy. Crazy! Bonkers! Out of my mind! I can do whatever I want. Living in my own little world and you’re invited.

Umbrella.

I saw him crying in the rain and many people didn’t give it a second thought. I could distinguish his tears from the raindrops as he kept his face toward the sky. He simply let the rain crash against his face as if he was releasing all that was inside him. Releasing his hurt, his pain and frustration.
I didn’t stare too long or hesitate to act. I just walked over and put my arm around him. I didn’t have an umbrella to offer. So we walked off together without any words continuing to let the rain cleanse him of his sorrow.

It's a Sin To Tell a Lie.

I can pen the most lurid descriptions of things. Setting the reader right in the middle of that shit. So, to speak and frankly as I had stated many times before, I wouldn't have it any other way. Yet, when I am sitting in and having a fucking touchy-feely moment with a state trained shrink and he asks to describe how I feel inside, I am at a loss for words.

Now, don't get me wrong. I try. I really do. Yet, they come out as a juxtaposition of indecipherable crap which usually ends with me smiling and stating, "I'm okay."

I am not okay. For years, inside has been a swirling turmoil of hate, shame, regret, confusion, loss, and self-loathing wrapped in a thick layer of utter sadness. There. That does it. In a nutshell. I know, I know..."Well, that is how every one feels once in a while. You simply have to deal with it." Well, first of all, fuck you and secondly, it isn't once in a while - it is continuous. Nonstop. Unrelenting. Consuming. I am trying to get you to understand with simple one word examples, but someone of your calibre will never understand. I mean, how could you? How could you grasp the constant coldness inside? The vacuum of feelings? The continuous wanting of ending this mortal coil?

Well, anyway, I will remain here in Tucson for a few more months saving my pennies and then continue on to Puerto Rico in September as planned. If I can hang on that long....

Always Classy, Me.

So, I'm walking outside the coffee shop when I notice this fucking twink staring at me from his perch along the benches on the side of the cafe. I've seen that look before in a horny dog. Oh, well, what can I say, it was hot out that morning. A simmering 108 and it only being ten in the morning.

Anyway, I approached said kid and actually the thing that I liked about his hipster ass was his t-shirt. So:

ME: Excuse me, do you mind if I take your picture?

HIM: Sure. I don't mind.

(SNAP)

HIM: You some kind of photographer or something?

ME: No. I'm a writer.

HIM: Really? What do you write.

ME: Unpublishable garbage, apparently.

HIM: Oh...they can't be that bad.

ME: I'm currently writing a novel about a gay homeless person and his romance with a heroin addict. Or at least that was how it started.

HIM: How it started?

ME: Books take on a life of their own. They twist and turn in the middle of the night like an interesting sex act but in the end you are rarely surprised by the outcome. You are generally left with a feeling of uncomfortable shame.

HIM: Well...uh..hey! You have a nice day.

I am left out front puffing on my cigarette staring at the sun...

Paul Sees a Shrink.

Doctor Guzman sat across from Paul - harrumphing and mumbling like a Bolshevik with marbles in a greasy halitosis stained mouth. Paul had a psychoanalysis exam with the onsite nut ward at the shelter, but he couldn’t get word one across with that quack. Every single time he asked Paul a question, the good doctor would interrupt an answer by digging through a drawer of his cluttered desk to produce a random pamphlet on arcane mental treatments. “Yes, yes dis you may find interestink...”

   This man is insane, Paul thought.

   As with other shelters, any client who confessed having acute depression or the slightest inkling of suicidal thoughts were ordered to see one of their state trained doctors. Paul rationed this time around perhaps he was a little touched and decided that it may be in his own interest to seek help concerning his unique proclivities.

   “Your terminal homelessness and manic-depressive induced mood swings are the product of a terrible loss in your life.” The doctor warbled. He leaned over his desk and leered at Paul with tiny, clasped hands. “Can you recall any event which may have triggered these obsessions?”

   Paul thought. He sat pensive and couldn’t recall any direct or single occurrence. There were too many.

   “No.” He finally said. “Not off the top of my head. I’m just depressed a lot. Whenever I get tired of where ever I am living, I pack up my gear and wander somewhere else.”

   “Yet,” The doctor beamed. “The problem always resurfaces, yes?”

   “Yeah. No matter where I go, there it is.”

   “Do you have fleeting thoughts of low self-worth? Do you ever think of harming yourself?”

   “You mean suicide?” Paul asked. “Oh, all the time. I mean, why not? This world is shit. Only a mad man would care to continue in such a hostile existence.”

   It shocked Paul into an awareness to utter those feelings aloud. He deeply felt that way for a long time, but to speak it…

   The doctor pursed his fat lips, “That is not healthy, my young friend. Life is good. Life is exciting. Life is as wonderful as you make it.”

   “Then I’m fucked.” Paul sighed. And the insidious part was Paul actually believed it.

   Holy shit, Paul thought. I really do need help.

   Towards the end of the session, a surly nurse - grinning moronically, glaring menacingly - produced a small plastic cup with gray horse pill coupled with a tiny red one - pushing it in Paul’s face.

   “Look.” Paul chuckled nervously - eyes ping ponging back and forth between the two. “I don’t wanna take these and wake up in some asylum.”

   “No - no. I am your doctor - you can trust me.” He stated flatly without emotion - face unreadable as a cold poker player - a fine layer of grease lacquered his black hair like a helmet. He resembled a predatory sea creature.

   Down the hatch. Shortly afterwards, Paul was issued an entire pharmaceutical of pills - mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics and was scheduled a follow up two weeks later. Walking out, Paul felt no better - if anything, more upset that he had wasted three hours with that croaker.

   Once back at the shelter, Paul passed out from the effects of the dope only to be awoken from the obnoxious pestering and raucous chatter of the morons who lived there. He stumbled around in a slurring hostile blur - pissed that the fucker of a croaker over drugged him.

   Never going back to that asshole again.

   Days later, Paul sat on a bench out on the back patio without moving for seven hours straight. He attempted to think how he began the day, but his mind was in a thick fog and he didn’t attain the abilities nowadays to do anything, much less think. Everything had been burned out...he sluggishly faltered. Five days had passed since he began to administer the prescribed medication from the psychiatrist...So, he remembered five days ago...

   Paul awoke with a start of fear, gasping for air, about an hour before the lights snapped on in the dorm. He lay there thinking of the nightmare he had until the lights blinked on at 5:30. A grating voice boomed over the hacking and farting of the waking men.

   “Good morning, gentlemen of Santa Teresa. For the guests and clients who slept in the dayroom and the chapel, please strip your mats and place them in the bin provided in the dorm. breakfast will be at 6:00 a.m...”

   And so on and on it went. Paul’s lithe torso felt as if he had been beaten with a rubber club and his eyes were crusty and tingling with pain. He reached next to his bunk and grabbed an old plastic water bottle and guzzled the liquid greedily. It hurt going down. Seizing his pajama pants from the end of the bed, he preferred to sleep in his boxers and t-shirt, Paul placed his feet into plastic shower shoes and clopped through the wooden maze to the men’s bathroom. It was already crowded. Stale clothes, dirty backpacks, white-tiled floor smeared with water, mud, and shit. The odor was enough to make an ambulance attendant puke. The filthy mirrors over the sink were positioned so as to force once to watch some old, dirty bum squatting on the toilet. Loud sound of grunting and farting produced toxic steaming shit. Ker-plop.

   Paul shuffled down the hall towards the main office, not hearing the various “Good Mornings” chirped at him from the natives. Today he began his medications as prescribed by Dr. Guzman. One Welbutrin XL in the morning taken with six Seroquel followed by a Depakote chaser, beautiful little darlings. He plopped them into his mouth, washing them down at the chrome water fountain that was losing the battle against algae and grime.

   Then the call for breakfast. Burnt, gray oatmeal. Paul attempted to eat it, but the drugs began to take hold. His speech was slurred; his body seemed to be made of hardening plastic. He couldn’t concentrate...like being drunk, but not being drunk. A couple of friends and Steven sat at his table.

   Steven looked worried, “What’s wrong?”

   It took Paul five minutes to say, I began my medication today.”

   After chewing on some horrid, stale toast, Paul returned to his bunk. Head spinning, legs twitching, terrible cotton mouth.

   He fell into a deep, deep sleep.

   Paul awoke up with the fear of suffocation. He swung his legs out and sat at his bunk. Staring slack jawed at the dusty, brown tile on the floor. It took him twenty minutes to get up the energy to rise and walk.

   What fucking time is it? He thought, swirling a dry tongue around a sticky and gooey mouth. 3:53 p.m. Okay. Need to take a shower.

   He entered the shower, white tiles covered in orange and green and black fungus. It smelled like bleach and shit. Letting the hot water flow over his torso, Paul stood there swaying. Time dragged.

   Dressing, he walk as if in a dream through the dayroom, always a chess game and television blaring a football game, and towards outdoors. The sun burned his eyes and Paul donned his cheap sunglasses which he had purchased downtown for three dollars. The long, wooden bench was quite full. Old and worn smooth from the rub of a million hobo asses; warped from the elements, it now seats the heroes of the underworld and forgotten. Paul sat among those fools, smoking his last cigarette, staring. The sky was a big, bright San Diego blue and gave everything a shimmering hue. A swarm of flies, the quantity of biblical proportions, danced and fucked on the row of tramps. Paul sat as immobile as an iguana in the sun, staring at nothing, thinking about nothing. The sun swung across the cloudless sky and time dragged.

   A large, white truck arrived with donations. “Attention men in the shelter! We need a few volunteers to help unload these donations. If we don’t get any help, the television in the day room will be shut off!” The Voice blared from a loudspeaker. The mission received all kinds of great donations, but the homeless never saw it. Good food was donated, yet the kitchen served crap...where does it all go? Two or three brown-nosers rushed to help, Paul sat and let his cigarette smolder down to his fingers. Time dragged.

   “Well, you look thoroughly medicated.” Quipped someone at Paul beyond his gray screen.

   Three, four hours passed and Paul got up to take his afternoon meds. One more Seroquel.  Another Depakote. Plunked a pill into his mouth and downed it with water from that foul fountain. Even the water tasted rancid. The hallway began to spin and he returned to the bench and listened down into himself. It was time for dinner and not really hungry, Paul poked through the unsavory stew and settled on a bruised apple.

   Outside the sun was going down and the sky was so clean you could count the stars. The loudspeaker, that Voice of Big Brother bulldozed through the tranquility. “Attention in the mission! It is time for Chapel services. Everyone is encouraged to attend! The television will be shut off all night if we do not get a big turnout!” The television is apparently shut off.

   Various men stomp out of the dayroom into the fresh air and grumble, “Damn! There’s a football game on!”

   “We can’t watch it ‘cause they havin’ church.”

   Paul looked up, slurred, “Yeah, God don’t like football.”

   Time dragged. A dog rolled around in the dry grass. The flies swarmed and clustered. Up the hill, the interstate was breathing. Across the skyline, the yellow lights began to flicker in the white skyscrapers. Steven returned from a day at Labor Ready, that temp work joint. He held Paul’s head in his dirty hands and peered into the Nothing.

   “Man, they got you fucked up.” He mumbled.

   Paul wanted to hold him, but it was too much an effort to move.

   “Help me to my bunk”, Paul asked. Like an invalid, Paul clung to Steven’s muscles as he is escorted inside.

   “Better to see you strung out on fucking junk than this shit, dude.” Steven whispered as he lay Paul onto his cot. “I hate seeing you like this. There is nothing in there.” He puts gentle hands over Paul’s eyes.

   “Don’t worry, buddy.” Paul smiled. “I’m cutting this shit out as of today. Better to be insane than a fucking zombie.”

   Within seconds, Paul was asleep.

   Growls and guttural screeches from the tyrannical lesbo cafeteria lady/man during breakfast shocked the hobos into focus. Flinging goo onto greasy trays and making harsh comments to all.

   “This ain’t no restaurant!” She bellowed from a scowling, round face. “Eat and get out! No socializing! I ain’t got time to wait around for you slackers!”

   Soft mumblings from the grime covered tables, men huddled over their trays spooning in the slop. Paul sipped his tepid coffee in depressed resentment. Cold. And cold in a way that was deep down inside. Feeling a sour mood.

   Breakfast consisted of a thin, pink stew with chunks of something in it that made it look a lot like vomit. There was a puddle of the mess on the table and Paul swirled his spoon in it while listening to snatches of dialog drift across the room. Paul languidly munched on a bruised banana.

   “What are you doing today?” Steven asked. He sat across from Paul, shoveling spoonfulls of the pink mess into his mouth.

   “I’m doing it.” Paul uttered.

   “Well, I got an interview at a Turkish café this afternoon.” Steven beamed. “I’m going to ace that. Just you wait, buddy, I’ll be back in Hawaii in no time.”

   Paul sipped his coffee, grimaced at the taste, “Good luck with that, Steven. I really hope you get it.”

   Paul decided to drag himself out into the morning mist and spent the morning languidly strolling around downtown and occasionally applied for a job. He filled out applications at two hotels for a clerk position and as an attendant at the movie theater that he and Steven trespassed through.

   He simply wasn’t feeling it. The depression was hitting him hard. He stopped taking the medication prescribed to him and spent most of his time aimlessly roaming around in a frump. He accepted that his life was pointless. That he was to spend it alone and in sad solitude. With that finality, it made the depression worse. He simply wanted to be alone. Alone and think.

   Paul made his way to a small park and sat under the shade of a tree. He watched a gay couple frolic in the grass. Two, young men laughing and cuddling on a blanket. Paul became angry. He knew he’d never have that intimacy with anyone. He thought of his own personality. What was there to love? What was there left to care about? Paul wished he was dead. To end this never ending loneliness and sadness. He sat and watched the couple lay immobile, entwined, stealing kisses under gathering storm clouds. Paul sighed, rose, and walked around the marina.

   Afterwards, he jumped the blue line back to Santa Teresa’s and that sun beating down all hot and nasty. Pigeons dived and swooped around the station spreading their vermin.

   I hate nature, Paul thought. If you stand still long enough in it, something will shit on you.

   Paul was crossing the station platform when someone boomed out his name and the echo reverberated, scaring the crap out of six pigeons and a bag lady. Literally. The lady shit right onto the cement a thick, stagnant caramel colored discharge. A small child began to cry.

   It was Steven calling out to Paul.

   “Hey, Paul!” He hollered again as he rapidly strolled up. “Damn, man. I didn’t get that job, man. Said I needed more experience or some stupid shit. That fucking sucks!”

   “Okay.” Was all Paul said with a casual shrug. He didn’t care.

   The two friends walked through the throng of paralyzed phantoms towards the shelter. A block from the trolley station, an elderly, black hag was straining to push her cart down the broken sidewalk. Dressed in tattered clothes covered in shit and a prunish head topped by a ratty, blond wig, she sneezed and her dentures flew out of her mouth and onto the dusty ground next to the sidewalk. She bent over with a huff and snatched them up. After washing them off with a cup of stale coffee, the deranged looking hag placed them back into her diseased, festering hole.

   Paul looked at Steven and stated flatly, “I can die now. I have finally seen it all.”

   “Yeah.” Steven laughed, “We call her Freakshow.”

   Paul lit a bummed cigarette and moved on. They entered the patio of the shelter. Paul looked around; not listening to what his blonde friend was going on about. Paul thought as he gazed around at the sordid and grimy denizens, A heavy air of depression hangs over this place like a thick, smelly funk. I have been here too long. The bum kicks piling up far past my tolerance level. I want to move out; my patience is wearing really thin. No one here I want to associate with. I had a very low opinion of homeless folk before entering this place and it has gotten worse.

- excerpt from hobosexual, work in progress