obscure moments

I understand coming up here to Flagstaff was a bust. Hell, that revealed itself on the third day after my arrival. On the cusp of leaving this Friday to all points south, I was exiting the shower last night and slipped. I landed pretty hard on my back, banging my head on the hard tile step which lead up into the shower proper. When I attempted to stand back up, I slipped again and twisted and knocked my left knee. I had trouble sleeping, obviously, and spent the afternoon hobbling about downtown in an attempt to walk it off. (The shelter closes its doors at 7am and you are allowed to return at 4pm) My leg, though this morning was severe, the pain seemed to subside when I walk. It’s only when I am stationary and get up to move again that the dull and piercing ache returns. As for my head? Well, aside the tender bump on the back, I do admit I feel slightly dizzy.

It’s obvious, under the circumstances, I am in no state to travel, so I will remain another month…perhaps. I don’t know. My thoughts are not linear and I honestly have no idea where to go or what to do. Every time I think of it, I become emotional and tears swell in my eyes. I am truly lost. I simply want a stable home. A place to retire in and live out my years in unbothered contentment. All this wandering has taken its toll on me as the years continue to slide rapidly by.

Honestly, everything from writing to travelling to even this blog has lost its significance to me. I no longer possess any drive to continue these things. Things that at one time gave me purpose, now fill me with boredom and dread. Perhaps it’s time to disappear from the public eye and fade away into obscurity…

angel headed hipsters

There was blood. Goddamn, there was so much blood. I had to admit, the fucker deserved it. The two fighting caused a crowd to form of both bewildered tourists and cheering, fist pumping bums. Elston roared in crazed fury as he swung one lightning fast blow after another while the one who took the blunt of his blows equally screamed, more of gurgled mercy than alcohol induced rage.

It began earlier as Elston and I stumbled toward the Sunshine Rescue Mission to eat lunch. We previously finished a bottle of Wild Turkey along with two joints at his camp under the shadow of the Lowell Observatory. Elston lay on top of his gray semen stained sleeping bag and blew solid plumes of smoke down toward his unbuttoned crotch and when his dork would pop up out from the heady fumes, he would rasp, “Abracadabra!” The silliness of it caused me to laugh my face crimson.

Anyway, we plodded down the mountain through downtown Flagstaff with myself disdainfully leering at every goddamn tourist who met my bloodshot gaze. The super positive square as hell white people here are as annoying as fuck. One more chipper asshole in khaki shorts and pastel polo shirt who wished me a "happy memorial day" I'm breaking their far too white teeth! Well, I digress, we make it to the mission and already there was a long line which pissed us both off. The unfortunate thing about being a hobosexual in this small ass berg is you constantly come in contact with the same sad sacks day in and day out no matter where you wind up. Depresses the fuck out of you.

Standing in line, Elston and I silently waited in the chilly wind (does it ever get warm here?) for the chow line door to open when this old drunk as fuck Indian swished up to us and began a vindictive tirade toward Elston on why hasn’t he been to his trailer at the rez lately, why hasn’t he called, why hasn’t he returned all the money he had borrowed. The scrawny Indian queen stood shivering and baying like a wounded sheep as Elston remained stoic, his head drooped, glaring at the filthy pavement. The queen paused in his berating tirade and a squinting eye gave me the once over.

“Who the hell is this?” He hissed, hand on shapeless hip in low-riding faded jeans, the other clasping a filthy shopping bag bulging with containers of donated hygiene products. He possessed the classical Indian features of high cheek bones, slitted eyes, but held that pouty mouth common to all bitchy faggots the world over. His graying hair was long and pulled in a ponytail which extended to his lower back.

“He’s a friend. Leave him alone.” Elston warned, his voice an almost inaudible whisper.

“Oh, another silver tongued devil? When will you get it through your thick skull that nothing good comes from associating with the white man? They destroy everything they touch.”

I admit, I had to agree with him on that one.

The older Native American had his ah-ha moment and realized what was going on between us. His remarks – solely focused on Elston – became cattier and more vicious. This continued during lunch. When we sat at a table to devour, strictly from the munchies, our reheated pepperoni pizza and chicken wings, the old Indian plopped at our table and continued his diatribe. We couldn’t eat our meal fast enough. As a fact, the asinine and petty verbal assault continued outside on the front patio. I stood in the cold sun as Elston nonchalantly sat on a metal bench smoking a cigarette and chatting with a fellow hobo (in an attempt to curb his anger, I suspect) but the old guy kept it up out on the sidewalk through the iron bars of the gate.

As quick as lightning, Elston bolted up, ran through the entrance and cracked a fist into the man’s square jaw. The older Indian reeled, stumbled backwards all the while hollering, “Stop it! Stop it! I was only kidding!”

My young friend did in fact not stop, but continued a rapid fire of fists. Blood flung left and right from the old man’s busted lip and nose spraying the wall and pavement. He struggled to defend himself in vain. Within moments, four squad cars careened up to the corner and Flagstaff’s finest poured out of their squad cars. Elston was violently thrown onto the ground, uniformed knee firmly on his neck, and handcuffed. After several esoteric questions by the police (the old man bleeding a cascading stream of crimson blood onto the curb all the while bleating, “I din do nuthin”) Without even a word, Elston was roughly tossed into the back of a squad car and whisked away to be booked.

And so, I am stuck, once again, alone in this no-where town with nary the person to converse with but slack jawed burnt biscuits and shabby train hopping hobos. I think this Friday it may be to my advantage to lay tracks for a different local…

yesterday's lost tomorrow

Going to gay bars to meet other men? Not my thing anymore, really. Been there, done that. What's the appeal? Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part - a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating one another. People possessing no morals often consider themselves more free, on the contrary mostly they lack the ability to feel or to love. The dead fucking the dead. There is no gamble or humor in their game - it's a corpse fucking a corpse.

dark pine float

Under a profound night of a clear and starry sky, I sat on a decomposing log as yellow flames of a rapidly constructed camp fire illuminated our three faces. The fragrance of pine fused with charred wood floated high up into the darkened trees.

To my right, Elston passed the enormous joint to me. For some time we sat silently. Me, young Elson, and an elderly Indian of indeterminate age in black denim and worn cowboy boots with a grimacing expression equally stoic and unreadable as a totem pole. We met the old Indian in the Rescue Mission food line during evening chow. After we ate, he approached Elston with some familiarity and invited the two of us up the ridge of the mountain to his camp and smoke weed in friendship. He introduced himself as James Ironheel. I shook his lanky hand and could have sworn his bones rattled. He possessed a firm grip and a toothless old woman smile. With a frail body and bent stoop, James’ single braided hair was jet black with long streaks of silver. Subsequently, we made our way toward the nearby mountain.

It wasn’t much of a hike, but then again I was still getting adjusted to Flagstaff’s high altitude and was ruby faced and winded when we arrived. It was a simple camp; a fire pit, a blue tarp tied across two pine trees, a couple of sleeping bags with the tale-tell signs of humanity: empty soda cans, wadded napkins, a lonely and filthy sock lay about the pine needles carpeting the camp.

It was Elston, under the approval of James, who prepared the fire. It was a good thing too, because I found out to my dismay since my arrival, the temperature drops to the low fifties during this time of year and the chill in the shade of these majestic pines were already taking effect. I rested on the for mentioned log, observing in fascination as the two performed a stylized ballet around the modest camp; each movement as if practiced from time antiquity.

I glanced around at the darkening forest. The lighting, the smells, the shadows of mysterious beauty.

“Damn.” I mumbled. “This is what I imagine the entrance to The Black Lodge in that show Twin Peaks must look like.” I glanced over to Elston, “You ever catch that show?”

“What show is that?”

“Twin Peaks.”

“Nope.”

After preparing the fire and asking if it was warm enough, Elston took a piss in a nearby shrub as James squatted across from me, reaching into his dingy, canvased backpack and removed the weed. The pungent yet satisfying smell assaulted my nostrils. Elston sat in the dirt and dead pine needles next to me as James rolled the joint, lit it, took a huge puff, and passed it to Elston.

“Long ago…” James began as he sat squinting solid faced into the fire, “Snoqualm, the Moon, had a spider make him a rope out of cedar bark and stretch it from the sky to the Earth.” He exhaled large plumes into the crackling fire. Elston passed me the joint and I inhaled deep. Harsh. I instantly began to cough and certain my face turned crimson. Elston chuckled and in contrast James never moved a muscle as he continued, “One day Fox and Blue Jay found the rope and climbed up to where the rope was fixed to the underside of the sky. Blue Jay pecked a hole in the sky and they climbed through to the sky world. Blue Jay flew to a tree while Fox changed himself into Beaver and swam in a lake. Moon had set a trap in the lake which caught Beaver. Moon skinned him and threw the body in the corner of the smokehouse.”

With silent ceremonial movements, I handed the joint over to James. He paused, inhaled, continued with a slow solemn tone, “That night when Moon was asleep Beaver got up and put his skin back on. He looked around. He took a few of the trees, and the Moon's daylight making tools, some fire, and the Sun which was hidden in Moon's house. He changed back into Fox then he found the hole that Blue Jay had made and took the things to Earth. He planted the trees, made daylight, gave the fire to the people, and put the Sun in its place.”

The weed began to hit me and I felt that slow pull of gravity and tingling dizziness. I glanced over to the aquiline profile of Elston. The shadows, along with the droning baritone voice of James as he continued his story, I found myself smitten. So handsome Elston was, so calm, so reserved. I wanted to reach over, grab his chin with my hand, turn his face toward mine and kiss him.

James droned on, “When Moon awoke he was very angry. He found the tracks that led to the hole. He started down but the rope broke and he fell to the Earth in a heap where he became a mountain. One can see the face of Snoqualm on one of the rocky cliffs. Today it is called Mount Si and it is near Northbend, Washington.”

Apparently, he was done as abruptly as he began as the three of us sat in wordless peace listening to the crackling fire. My thoughts raced in a kaleidoscope of a million images. What’s next? Where am I going? What am I doing? Moreover, why was I here?

I finally said to no one in particular and most likely just to myself, “Well, I'm on my way, I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way. I'm takin my time but I don't know where...”

Elston coughed and then stated, “You're rushing things.”

For the first time in hours, James became animate, his face contorted into anger and pointed a twig thin finger at the both of us, “Its fucking life? Why wait for something you want? Fucking go for it cause if you wait too long you'll miss your opportunity. Life's about taking risks and rushing things and finding out if it's right or wrong. And if you fuck up or get hurt in the end then its life, you simply just try again...”

“Yup.” I said.

“Yup.” Elston grinned.

“Yup.” James smiled, his face of dark lines and black, toothless mouth.

Crimson eyed and wobbly, we said our goodbyes to old James and made our way back down the mountain well after midnight. It was extremely cold and I missed that fire. I stated that fact to my new friend. Elston stopped in his tracks and said he had a sleeping bag roll hidden close and though not as fancy as James’ camp, I was welcome to stay the night.

Under a deep navy starry sky, amid pine trees and dew glistened tall grass, I lay on my side in the fetid sleeping bag with Elston spooning behind me. My jeans and boxers down about my thighs as he slowly and methodically screwed me with his arms wrapped around my ribcage in a python like grip. Subsequently, our heavy breathing subsided, Elston and myself spent (we wiped our mutual slimy matter on the inside of the sleeping bag), still embraced, we both fell into a deep, contented sleep until dawn exploded over the red ridge of the mountain.

the man with the elevated hair

He stated or at least mumbled something to the fact he arrived the previous evening from Black Hills up somewhere in South Dakota. His face was young – somewhere between nineteen and twenty-five – yet weathered and lined from being subjected to a myriad of harsh elements. Obviously, a certain type who was comfortable in the shadier aspects of truck stop lavatories, musty locker rooms, and bed bug infested flop houses. He possessed razor sharp facial features from a thin, hooked nose to a well-defined chin. An almost faint splattering of light brown freckles lay across the nose and upper cheeks. It was his eyes, though…it was those light green eyes in thick, black lashes which caught my attention. He lay on his back sprawled across the sidewalk in musty clothes, puffing on a rollie, squinting in the early morning sun, big worker boots crossed out into the post dawn golden street. He scratched at the grey knit cap that covered a shaggy mop of straight raven hair.

“They both need one another, you know.” He continued in a whispered, raspy drawl. “It’s called 'inter-dependency'. And they both know it. Yeah…he does terrible things to Tom. Nasty, even sadistic things. But that’s fine, as long as that’s what Tom wants. Think about it. His actions. He’s always asking for it. It’s his partner’s job to fulfill that need and Jerry knows it.”

“Proof?” I asked, taking a sip of tepid coffee from a small styrofoam cup.

“Well, in the Tom and Jerry Show, they live with one another…”

His train of thought was interrupted by a stooped codger with gravity defying hair. His face was bright red and coarse; lined and covered in silver stubble. He was wearing double denim with a faded red checked shit. He spat. “I knew I’d catch up witcher stupid ass soon enough!”

The boy watched the old man as he approached, yet remained immobile. His dark, copper-colored face as stoic and unreadable as a plaster of Paris mask.

“Ya fergit it back at the camp, dincha?” The old man stopped, stood bow-legged in tattered faded jeans. “Give yer ass a place to camp and this how you repay me?”

“Yeah, Bob…I forgot it back at the camp.” He finally replied after a long pause.

“Well doncha think yer dumb injun ass should go back and git it?”

“Chill out with the old white devil shit, Bob. You want your tobacco, go get it yourself.” The young lad stated calmly. “I’m talking to this man.” He flashed a dirty finger toward me; then slipped his slender hand back into worn pants pocket.

“Who da fuck dis?” Bob spat, one eye squinting at me.

“I’m Lou. Who the fuck are you?” It came out calm with a hint of sing song.

“Watch out fer dis boy.” Bob said, motioning toward the nonchalant lad who sprawled out on the sidewalk. “He bad. He fill yer head fulla sweet promises, then lie to yer face. Kid got no scruples!”

“I like him already.” I smirked.

Bob harrumphed or made some sound equivalent and began his bow-legged shamble up toward his camp somewhere on the pine covered ridge. I stood there and silently watched as the little old man was out of hearing range, sucking on my smoke so nasty. I looked down toward the prone form of the Native boy.

“Fill my head full of sweet promises…what was that all about?” I asked coyly.

The youngster took a long puff of his rollie and blew an enormous plume casually into the azure sky. “Don’t be boring. Up until now, you were nothing like those other men I’d met on the road. All hard and brutal and masculine, until we get back to the camp, then they dissipate into a gooey, syrupy mess of uncontrolled faggoty-assed passion…cooing like enamored school girls; promising me the world if I remain by their side and keep them warm on those oh so sought after starry nights. You know exactly what Bob meant…so don’t disappoint me by becoming one of them. You indicated so much promise in being otherwise.”

“I apologize.” I said flatly. “I never been to this part of the country and don’t entirely grasp the queer lifestyle outside the mundane screeching faggot you see at clubs or a coffee chain.”

“Queer? Gay? Heh. Those outmoded constructs. Never favored to be pegged by either label…hell, what is the LGBT acronym up to now?” He chuckled, “LGBTQURTUVEEPD .v2?!”

“Right…right. So many unnecessary labels. You either suck dick or you don’t.”

He removed both wiry, brown hands from his pocket (both shiny over the dirt) and folded them across a lean, flannelled stomach. However, he sure as shit made me notice the throbbing jump in the crotch his dusty khakis. “Yup. You nailed it on the head there, mister. And speaking of head, I sure could go for some right now. Bob was too drunk last night to finish and passed out. He just wanted to lay by the fire and snuggle. His body felt like jerky and he smelled like expired ham”

I chuckled as my gaze scrutinized his prone torso. He noticed. The crotch of his pants jumped three more times. Somewhere in the distance was the faint sound of a rumbling locomotive being carried on the never ending breeze.

I took another long drag and croaked, “Well, I’d be happy to oblige, but I don’t know this town. Where can we go?”

He leisurely lifted himself off the sidewalk, brushing the dirt from his faded backside. “Follow me.” He casually slipped his hand down the front of his pants and adjusted his erection to a more clandestine position.

As we began our walk toward his secret location, down a lonely set of shadowy warehouses and boarded up red brick buildings, I passed a smoke to him, “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Elston. Elston Manygoats.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Nope. Manygoats is a proud and longstanding name in my tribe.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Elston Manygoats.”

it's kinda like being dead

Black winds howl down off fir tree covered mountains leaving the rustic town bitter and cold. Enormous crows swarm and swoop in the pristine indigo sky as weary and beat Indians shuffle in tattered clothes past cafés and restaurants occupied with clean and well-dressed white man. They smile whitened teeth and sip expensive wines as an intoxicated Native obsequiously shuffles up clothes grimy and dusky with soot, he extends a withered brown hand asking for a handout before warned away by the asshole barista with the beard and the man-bun.

Met a hip Native by the moniker Elston. Primarily, we sit on some sunny stoop smoking and talking. Perhaps talking too much. I enjoy silence. The echoing voices within my head living and re-living nostalgic memories over and over again. Shit…I can sit idle for eight hours straight staring at the tip of my shoe and I’d be utterly content. It takes up Time.

Long days pass waiting. And it’s cold. Always the cold. More so from the for mentioned gusts blowing down from those picturesque mountains, goddamit. I sit catatonic in a park under swaying trees as the local hobos bask in the sun rolling cigarettes and sipping liquor from brown paper bags – it is so maudlin. I have witnessed this scenario a million times and I venture I will see it a million again before I give up the ghost.

Time spent waiting. Waiting waiting waiting for what exactly? I have no idea. I am out of fucking options. Too many let downs and dead ends over the past few years. I am at the point where I have given up. Is this the end? Is this the beginning of a sweet and much sought after death I so welcome with open arms? I surely hope so because quite honestly, I am damn tired of this shit…all of it.

silent rumblings

Awoke, washed up the best I could, and after breakfast of tepid coffee and a stale donut, spoke with my appointed case worker, Carlos.

I explained my intentions to remain in Flagstaff and apply for assisted housing. After getting the address to the Flagstaff Housing Authority, I( made my way there only to find out to my dismay that their waiting lists are closed (opposed to the outdated internet site which stated otherwise).
Well, fuck. Now what?

familiar paths

Woke up to grey, mottled skies, grabbed my gear, hailed a taxi and placed my personals into a rented self-storage unit. With only a back pack stuffed with essentials (toiletries, socks, and boxers), I made my way to the Sunshine Rescue Mission located over on Benton. Until further notice, I am homeless. Again.

Nestled in panoramic mountains swathed in pine trees, the town of Flagstaff seems extraordinarily laid back. It is a pleasant departure from the demented and anger saturated locals of a metropolis or the drug/incarcerated addicted mindset of Yuma and Tucson. Definitely a slower paced environment.

I found the mission. A rust colored brick building in a residential neighborhood. Quiet, clean, much in a way from previous places. In the open patio, sprawled on a metal bench, ran into my first wing nut. An early twenty-something Native American zonked out on dope. Because of the long walk, I was thirsty, so when I asked the location of a nearby convenient store to purchase a bottle of water, all I received was a mumbled incoherent reply. However, as I was walking off property to search for a shop to buy said water and I lit up a cigarette, all of a sudden the demented fucker became as literate as William Shakespeare. Told him to fuck off when he asked for a smoke.

Had some time on my hands, as hobos often do, and found the local library to sit and wait check in for a bunk for newbies, that being at 4pm.

Was eventually processed. Most of the local homeless are Native American – raggedly somber men squatting, blinking in the late afternoon sun. After dinner (some kind of pasta with diced potatoes and a salad), I wearily lay at my bunk, but endured an incident concerning the immediate neighbors. A comical fist fight broke out between this large Native American and his black bunky regarding body odors. How mundane.

After that monkey business (Native American won), they switched off the lights at 9 yet endured little in way of sleep in lieu of the raggedy ass metal bunks and the guy in the bunk above tossed and turned shaking the bunk constantly.
A ver…

flagstaff

I have found occasionally it is necessary to take my own half-cocked advice. Recently, I was contacted by an acquaintance Stateside - he being William Wiggins from my old El Paso days - who found himself flat on his ass, stuck homeless and destitute in the middle of nowhere. William asked for some financial assistance and me being the big softy I am, wired him some money. Nevertheless, during our phone conversation, I questioned what he planned to do with himself. He explained in precise tones and I admitted his plan was doable with patience and perseverance. But, it was what I said after that affected me: “How bad do you want to meet your goal and futhermore, what are you prepared to do? My advice is by any means necessary, if you want it bad enough.”

For a few days, I pondered that conversation. I had grown stagnant in Tijuana, still bitter over the bad luck of missing my flight last January. In actuality I desired to go, to leave a city I both loathed and adored. However, with my current situation with rent, eating out all the time (the guesthouse offered no kitchen or means to prepare one’s own meals), the mooching boys, purchasing other extracurricular diversions…I was finding it difficult to save funds. I found myself in a financial black hole.

On the fourth of May, I awoke at 5am, shoved all my belongings – clothes, letters, written drafts, notebooks – into my ragged suitcase, stumbled downstairs from the room in the guesthouse I rented and hailed a taxi. Within minutes I was waiting in line at the border. Jumped the trolley to the San Diego airport and purchased a ticket to Phoenix. Taking a taxi from the airport to the Greyhound station, I purchased a bus ticket. I sat in bemused woe, staring out into the scene as it changed from simmering desert to golden hued grassy plains in lieu of a setting sun to majestic fir trees. Within three hours, I made my way to Flagstaff, Arizona. Arriving at the chilly and dark hour of 9pm, I rented a room at the L Hotel off Route 66.

How bad do I want it? At what lengths would I go to attain it? Good question. I placed myself on an if/or mission. I want a secure home to retire and live out the rest of my days in stable comfort. I also desire to continue on to Cambodia and traverse Asia writing about it. I crave both. However, the two proposals polarize one another. I cannot have both. I had longed wished to attain an apartment through section 8, in which I qualify. However, throughout the country, the wait lists are either closed or the wait is decades. During my year hiatus from writing in this blog, that was what I was attempting to do. Bismarck, Tucson, Yuma – all failing miserably. In any case, Flagstaff recently opened their waitlist and with the small population, I reasoned the wait to be no more a few months…if it fails, I would hopefully by that time acquired sufficient funds to continue on to South East Asia.

Tomorrow I will seek out the homeless shelter in this town. From digging with some local hobos, they apparently offer transitional housing to wait the ordeal out. We’ll see.

images that seem to linger

Rolled over in the musty sagging bed and attempted to piece together the night before. The dank room I was in was windowless, graffitied walls painted pink with the lingering effluvia of a million Mexican hookers. I lay naked on an old spotted mattress, itself stank of mildew and various indescribable aromas. The bathroom was down the hall. I rose slowly and staggered to the sink next to the bed and took a piss, washed it with water from the tap then splashed my stubbled face.

Gravity took over and I slumped uncontrollably back onto the bed. I lay there dizzy and aching - head pounding as I stared at the naked light bulb dangling from a wire coming out of a hole cut in the plaster in the ceiling. Directly above my face was a bright yellow spot in the plaster. That's rat piss, I thought, not water damage. Rats always piss in the same spot. Humans don't - unsanitary fucks...

My mind throbbed with the kaleidoscope of a million images. It had to be round nine at night, the bars were in full drive cause the sidewalks were pregnant - crawling with twinky Mexican fags. They swaggered and cooed to and fro from one disco to the next all glaring and giggling at every crotch. The disco and cha-cha beats thumped as outside between the clubs hustlers lurked in the shadowy shadows to rob the unwary tourist or desperate old queen with time worn accuracy. We stood outside and smoked and laughed until I was invited inside for some much needed drinks. He said his name was Arturo. Short in stature with a thin build and black curly hair cut short. I loved his smile.

The place was jumping, you dig. Wall to wall boys lined up and jumping to the beat, swirling and dipping and walking around like aroused Tom Cats. The sexual tension was thick like only it can in these Mexican gay joints.

Arturo introduced me to his friends - all fine characters and there was one cutey - a thin twink named Manuel and he really took a liking to me. The boy really liked to drink his drink. And on that note - the tequila began to flow.

Arturo, Manny and I hit the dance floor and boogied down until the joint closed down at 2am when the lights snapped on. The waiters ushered the whole lot out into the streets where there were some more socializing - fags, trannies, and lezzies huddled in groups talking and laughing all wondering where the next party was - a yellow hummer drove by and invited me to a fiesta in the hills, but I refused.

Arturo and I jolted drunkenly across the street to a chicken restaurant and devoured delicious chicken tacos and made out in the booths - where the waiter snarled pinche jotos but we just laughed under the sneering glare of the fat mamacita who was running the joint - and that's when Arturo came up with the idea to rent that cheap ass room. After we stopped to buy a fifth of inexpensive tequila.

Down dark, trash littered alleys of mangy dogs and bums with quivering hands reaching out forever, past shady characters glinting eyes under fedoras twinkle in the moonlight and hissing hookers with silver teeth and bruised thighs - we stumbled up worn wooden stairwells to a nameless hotel in an unknown place and slapped down the twenty in front of a fat receptionist chewing on a cigar so nasty.

With difficulty, Arturo pried the wooden door open, flicked on the light and the bugs scatter. We ritualistically passed the tequila bottle - taste so good going down. I retch. Arturo jumps up and down on the bed - something breaks inside - we laugh.

Tongues and fingers probed as clothes were peeled off and erections exposed. I sat on the bed as Arturo laid me back and began to suck my cock like a champ and that fucker knew what he was doing. He continued to kiss me talking all dirty like in Spanish. Arturo's fingers found their mark and were slid up in me and I didn't need to instruct this horny fucker in anything, he puts my feet up over his shoulders, spits into his palm, lubes his cock and slides in with slow deliberate movements. Thrusting and lunging, Arturo fucked me as I gasp and grunt through clenched teeth. Arturo jacked me off, kissing and massaging me - talking oh so dirty. With Arturo milking it out, I gasped and squirmed in intense orgasm. Pounding faster and harder, Arturo pulls his cock out and squirts his semen all over my stomach - falling next to me in a sighing plop.

We lay there talking a bit sharing a Delicado cigarette. Eventually Arturo had to split and he did. He got dressed, we shook hands and said good night - I finished the bottle of tequila he purchased and fell onto the bed.

almost...

Damn in such a funk of late. So numb inside - avoiding contact with everyone. I am just waiting to leave - and even then I feel no surge of excitement over that. Yesterday, I lay sweating in my bed all day - only to pull myself out to walk to the corner bakery to buy some bread. I am so broke right now - I am surviving on bread and water. Returned to my room and lay there thinking about nothing in particular for hours on end. Around one a.m. or there abouts - walked back to the 24hr bakery and purchased some sweet bread and a small milk with my last 12 pesos. Why is it like this? How has all enjoyment of the fundamentals of life been crushed out of me? I want nothing. Nothing but to be left alone with my own thoughts. And they are even mired in bleak resentment of past events. I see my future - those filthy haggard old men pushing a shopping cart down the street, all sanity and lust of life gone out of them - I believe that will be me.

someone wicked this way comes

So I'm waiting, right...sitting in this café across the border in Mexico watching my cold coffee swirl with a thin skin of curdled cream languidly floating on top. My cigarette is burnt down to a nub, but I'm waiting. And I hate waiting. The dusty clock up on the wall crawls like the clock in the Machinery of Metropolis and just as painful. This old fart, winkled and the color of a brown paper bag sits starin' and a-starin' and I glare at him but he won't stop. What? He think I'm queer or sumpthin'? So I gulp the coffee and ask the obese and overworked underpaid masera fer another cup and she look at me like I just fuck her virgin daughter and slosh haffa cup full. (I make mental note to slam down two pesos and dramatically storm out. Cunt.)

Sigh. Stare out the big window and the world is cold and the wind is blowin' dust and the Mexican folk they walk briskly past huddled in their trappings to avoid the cold, but it's cold in here too and I sip my coffee and that shit is hot. I make a little yelp and the old coot giggles. Wyoncha go watch the toilet flush, Gramps? So, I'm waitin' and I got one Lucky Strike left and I got like twenty two pesos and he's late. They are always late. Goddamn, like there are two time zones, American and Mexican and Mexican is always outta whack.

Two Mexi-fags swish into the café and coyly scope out yours truly before sitting at the booth but I just watch the cockroach skitter across the diner bar. I flick it with my finger when it comes too close and catapults it into an eclair that some fat bitch rich and nasty eats later. Where the fuck is he? I can hear the ticking of the clock over the fucking chachacha music. I straighten the wrinkle in my black chinos and gaze over and watch two hoggish couple slurp and kiss each other inna booth. Revolting. Wonder what would happen if me an my boy started frenchin right here in the middle of the cafe? One of the Mexi-fags catches my eye contact and smiles. Flames and knives shoot outta mine in return.

Ding! The door...but naw, just some shoe shine boy who asks the gringo inna shop fulla customers but asks the gringo only if he wants his shoes shined. Nope. I says. Kinda cute. I give the kid ten pesos and tell him go buy him some marijuana - he laughs - then I follow with 'and come back inna few years to make some real money.' And watch the cutey leave the cafe.

Finally, with a blast of cold gritty air the glass door swings open and in all his hotness Javier comes in and he looks tall and fine in black leather coat, black sweater, black slacks and boots. "I hope you weren't waiting long, babe?" He asks and smiles that smile that melts hearts. He is so full of warmth and patience and kindness - emits it like radio waves. Fills the room.

"No, not long. Time was just flying by." I smile back. "I was finishing a cigarette. Ready to go to the movies?"

"Let's go." And we both hit the cold pavement. I walk next to him, laughing and thinking what a beautiful night.

one more tomorrow

Went home after eating some tacos and took a cold shower. The hotel did not have hot water. Javier arrived soon after and asked where I was all day. I told him I was at Cinema Latino. He, in his beautiful sensitive way, cautioned me and talked me into getting tested for AIDS and everything else the following day. I agreed. I don’t get him. He knows me. He understands how I am. Anyway, the Zone takes care of its own.

At that moment there was a series of knocks at the door. When I answered, a man in his late twenties stood there. Introduced himself as Xavier and asked if he could speak with Javier. It seemed Old Chuck told this Xavier character where to find him. I invited him in and after casual chitchat; I found out he was Javier’s older brother. He in fact resembled Javier, except for the thick macho moustache and thinning hair.

“You holding?” Javier asked with an increasing hunger in his eyes.

“Si, hermano.” Xavier nodded towards me. “It’s all right with your friend?”

“He don’t care. He’s cool.”

“You cool, gringo?” Xavier smirked.

“As ice.” I said.

Xavier hastily reached into the front of his dirty pants and pulled out a syringe, a foil of heroin, a blackened spoon, and a lighter. Javier sat on the bed like an immobile lizard and I calmly watched in fascinated wonderment at the ritual. I opened the drawer in the nightstand and retrieved a partially smoked joint.

With precision, Xavier cooked down the shot and, glancing in the dirty mirror on the dresser, jabbed the syringe deep into his neck. Hissing through clenched teeth, Xavier pushed down the plunger and the solution drained into anticipating veins.

Muscles gone slack and with a vacant look, he passed the needle over to his brother who did the same. Eyes rolling back and with a whispered sigh of junky orgasm, Javier lay back on the bed and dreamed of dark and troubling things.

I sat there, legs crossed, sucking on that reefer so nasty. Later that evening, Javier lay naked beside me in rumpled sheets. Cigarette smoke swirled up to a stained white-washed ceiling as lights from passing cars created moving patterns of phantoms. Phantoms who laughed at us.

hang it up daddy-o

There was an American bar in the Red Light District of Zona Norte. I occasionally went there to watch American football and drink myself stupid in the company of overweight, old white men. In a lot of ways it was like being home, except I could smoke inside and all the girl hookers were Central or South American.

On some of those nights, I called a friend stateside because I knew he was watching the same game. Except I was always too drunk and when I awoke in the morning I had text messages asking me if I was okay and telling me to come home.

You’re scaring me, one of these read.

blurred phantoms

Walking up from that cesspool of Coahuila - Zona Norte, (the Red Light District, ignorant asshole, keep focused) - I turned the corner into the Plaza and was accosted by screaming queers on all sides and I tell you were they out in force tonight - when a truckload of Tijuana fuzz gang fucks me.

Encircled by menacing, black uniformed stormtroopers, a pint-sized fat one asked where was I going and before I could answer, barks for my identification.

Tall, smooth cop explained in English - now get this: “We had a report of a white American who fits your description buying drugs here in the Plaza.”

“My description?”

“Si, senor, light hair, glasses, black clothes. May I have permission to search your person?”

Why not? You’re hot. So, up against the adobe wall and goosed - asked if I ever take drugs.

Never.

Never?

Never.

“We are just doing our job, senor - we are here to protect la turistas such as yourself.” Says hot cop, giving me his One Adam 12 production as he empties my pockets, placing my articles on the dirty concrete. Opens wallet fat with peso notes all the colors of the rainbow.

Can kiss that wad goodbye, I thought.

However, the troopers took nary centavo one and let me be with a cuidado and roared off in their Keystone Cops paddy wagon.

Casually lit a cigarette and walked into the darkness teeming with perverse and sexual predators, the thump thump of the queer bars rattling in my skull. Cute Aztec Indian lad smiled with dirty palm out for the soft touch. I dropped a fist full of coins into his calloused hand. Always been a sucker for a pretty face.

Stopped in a cantina and downed two quick beers - nasty hooker cooch eyes me and I give her the leave me the fuck alone glance back.

Old Mexican drunk with thick black mustache and deranged look in his bleary eyes snapped, “Leave! You don’t belong here!”

“Man, you don’t even know me. What did I do to you?”

“I just don’t like you.” The old drunk snarled and explodes into a mosaic of glitter and confetti. “Ugly American!” He screams before being sucked into the darkness of a toilet stall glory hole.

softer than satin was the light

It was a shitty night in a shitty section of Tijuana. On the slummy north end of Zona Norte where the tacky lit whorehouses give way to crumbling rotting homes, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron - a block of sordid wooden dwellings like chicken houses - the smell of musty clothes and clogged toilets. I love places like this.

There was nobody else on the street. The long colorless grey of the night was spotlighted at intervals by yellow street lamps. A black mongrel trotted by covered in mange and it's genitals a swollen red mass of lacerations and glistening pus. I quickly turned into a narrow side-street near one of the big bus stations. He was standing near a doorway in the wall, under a yellow streetlamp that gave hardly any light.

He possessed a young face of copper colored skin - high pointed cheekbones, long Indian nose, pencil thin moustache over thick lips. Wavy black hair was combed back, his clothes were well used and exaggerated a tall and slender body.

His large greenish eyes in thick black lashes scrutinized my shadowy ambling form like a predator hunting in deep, murky seas. As I passed, he asked for a cigarette and a Lucky Strike exchanged hands. He asked what I was looking for. I asked how much - he said twenty dollars.

I followed him through the melancholy doorway and across a grey, shadowy backyard into a basement kitchen, an odor compounded of dead bugs and dirty clothes and stale cooking grease. I faced him, kissing, rubbing stiffening cocks - he seizes me by the shoulders and whirls me around - we tear our pants down in convulsions of lust. He spits on his long skinny cock and works it up my ass in a corkscrew motion.

We grunt and wheeze with his arms under mine, wrapped around my chest constricting me. His gritted teeth and parted lips next to my ear, his breath hot as a rutting beast. I can feel his heart pound against my arched back. "Jeeeeeeeeesus!" Both ejaculate at once standing up. We move away from each other and pull up our pants.

I retrieve a twenty out of my wallet and he asks for five more. I slap the bills into his hand and step back out into the cold and somber night. I light a cigarette and head back to my room.

I still feel so empty and alone.

sometime ago

If the world ever lost me, I’d doubt it would ever notice the difference. Like the name of a stranger you’d met once in passing, my demise would be as dramatic as an entrance and exit from a crowded bus, always wearing that same indifferent face that mirrors the cosmos’s thoughts of me - empty, nonexistent, and light years in between. Not much different than those who I once held close, deep within myself, like the very air in my lungs; I’ve been exhaled from memory long exhausted of use, as I am destined to be, from their minds. And yet, in the face of my inevitable disintegration, from reality to memory to a forgotten thought to a lost name in time, I try to hold onto these moments as they slip through my fingers; though these times may have forgotten me, I keep them alive within me, never more caring about being forgotten, but simply trying remember I once mattered to various people, at various times.

I meant something, sometime ago.

i got idea man

Walking through the crowded Plaza in front of the decayed Cathedral…the sun hot beating down on my pasty skin, anonymous eyes follow full of lusty tension; meet and elude contact. Everyday tolerate a little, it takes up time…jack off aficionados whisper hot into the ear…Fuck your way to freedom. The sun languidly creeps across the vast and cloudless sky. I stop for a cold drink…some fruity concoction. Attempt to locate a bit of shade, but all spots are occupied with bloated and wrinkled fucks gasping in the heat. A spectral junky sits grey and immobile with needle poised to the wordless communiqué of need and the old hustler palpitates the Mark with fingers of putrid ectoplasm…

A boy of eleven, thick black eyelashes and rosy cheeks sits in front of the trickling fountain admiring the sculpture of some damn sulky saint as an obese pedophile lurks nearby, bloodshot eyes burn behind black shades. The sweaty child fucker clutches his sad and tiny cock in sexual frustration as he unabashedly regards the object of his secret desires.

I discover a gap on the long concrete bench between two geriatrics and sit under a spreading palm tree and light up. Legs crossed, Wonka shades, black cotton button down summer shirt, black chinos, black Doc Martin chukkas; I am feeling it. I sit there puffing on a Lucky Strike with American Imperialism. Two young Mexican guys in their early twenties sit opposite me and size me up. I check them out through dark shades and they both are quite the lookers. Poorer class, shabby clothes, dirty shoes, but still hot…who am I to judge? The two purchase frozen fruit bars from a vendor and make a spectacle of sucking them so nasty.

The sun veers into mid afternoon and the boy parade hits full force. For the leisure of the knots of loud American turistas, the faux Aztecs have begun their daily extravaganza in front of the Cathedral, dancing amid the tribal thumping and drumming of native muse. As I sit waving away an army of shoeshine boys and candy vendors, this old humpback gash drops her bag between my feet and pulls out a small, plastic bottle of water. In Spanish, I tell her I don’t want any which then causes her to wave the bottle in my face. “Okay,” I sigh in Spanish, “How much?” In which she replies one dollar. I explain to her she must be outta her fuckin mind, because I can go into any shop and get a bottle of water for a quarter. She began looking around helplessly and bleating, “No intiendo!” (I don’t understand him!) a random cholo hottie glided from the churning mass of people to translate in which the price was negotiated to fifty cents and when I handed the old cunt a ten-peso piece of course the old gash didn’t have change. Withered old bitch. Cunt wobbled off cackling.

Fine. Got me for five pesos. Hope she sleeps better tonight. I crack open the bottle – it being so small – I finish it in three gulps. I retrieve a notebook and pen from my book satchel. My mind is awash with a million images and words splash across my eyes like a kaleidoscope of fireworks on a summer night. The only recourse is to write my way out of this insidious depression which I battle on a daily basis. I sit and I scribble notes on a new novel. No title as yet. It is still in its larval state. However, it will be gritty and raw and harsh. I will not hold back anything. I plan to puke it out onto a page and then smear that mess into some sort of coherent prose.

I pause from scribbling out three pages and stare out into that chaotic vista in front of me in deep contemplation. Am I living the dream or have I thrust myself into another fractured nightmare? I think the paranoia is I still hadn't adjusted to this change. Or it is the tidal wave of nostalgia from previous Tijuana episodes. Have I changed that much? Has my age finally caught up with me? Do I crave the tranquil stability which I had spat at for so many decades? Only last night, I lay in my room pondering the idea at the first of next month packing my shit and returning to El Paso. Why? Hell if I know. My true desire, as you may or may not know nor care, is my passion to venture to Asia. But, I have my doubts on that now when only three months prior, I was completely gung-ho for.

Charles Bukowski once wrote, “If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery - isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.”

Oh, how I envy writers who possess the ability to transform their misery into beautiful flowers. That is the goal I am attempting to reach with my writing. To expunge all the melancholy and despondency and letdowns and depression from my body and mind onto paper. But then again, there seems so much. A vast, dusty hall of memories piled to the high, dark roof in uncategorized, dirty, and soiled boxes echoing with the low hum of absolute solidarity. Unmistakably, it seems I have my work cut out for me.

two sides of a coin

Enrique gazed out the window, watching the dusty trees sway in the spring breeze, he couldn’t help but think of him. The years passed faster than he expected and if it hadn’t been for his college classes distracting him, he wouldn’t realized the four year mark had just passed.

Young Enrique drew his legs to his chest, straining to ignore the ache he felt when he thought of his death. Four years should had been enough time to grieve, yet still he could not stop. He hadn’t even known him for a year when it occurred but they had grown so close so fast it still felt as though he had lost a lifelong friend.

It was these emotions which made him so angry towards those who believed someone you only met and talked to on the internet was not a real friend. Enrique would look at them with a harsh look in his eyes and tell them sometimes internet friends were more real than offline ones. But though Enrique said that, he would recall he would never had met him if not for an offline friend.

“Ahh…” He sighed, “Sometimes I’m jealous of him. At least he got to meet him in person.”

And it was because of that friend’s connection with his sister, he found out about his coma and eventual death.

His thoughts drifted to more positive memories before once again recalling he had begun to love him. Something that had only been realized when his heart skipped a couple beats when he suggested Enrique visit Laredo for his birthday and they would actually meet. If only he’d gone.

Enrique often wondered if that niggling feeling was the reason he still was in partial denial over his death. As every year around this time he would lurk on the sites they both frequented, in the vain hope it was all some nasty joke.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking thoughts both depressing and exhausting. ‘What if’s’ did not change what had actually happened. The dark had gathered outside as he had stared blankly out into it, lost in thoughts as dark as the outside world had become. But at least, he thought, he had finally stopped crying.

I sat on my bed watching him, packing a bowl I’d smoke by myself. I’m okay with that, I hope you know. There’s a boy who I love, maybe just a little bit. I guess the strange part is I used to love him a whole lot more, but things change and I try to look at occurrences more realistically now. He never, and will never, love me but that’s okay right now. You know why? Because there are men in this world who are passionate even when they are not in love. I want to be one of them. There are people who write these beautiful, powerful prose about being in love with people they have yet to meet. They are able to because they have hope, because they are okay with being vulnerable. They are okay with believing they are worth love, and one day they will live in it. I love someone who doesn’t love me, so I will never again give him my heart. I refuse to numb myself any longer. I refuse to shut away something as beautiful as love, simply because I feel absolutely, horrifically vulnerable in loving. I figured out how to be happy on my own, not because a man put his hands around my heart or pulled the drawstrings at the corners of my mouth into a smile.

The restaurant boasted old wooden floors and large plate-glass mirrors behind the bar. It’s full, cordially so. We sat at the bar and I ask why we never sit in a booth. Javier says this is easier. He orders something spicy to drink and I ask for gin and vermouth. Why is there a baseball game on? I wanted to drop my face on the bar and let the blood slowly draw away from my nose, drip and pool to a puddle below my stool. Instead, I snatch the menu. Shake my head. Snails and gizzards and cracklings and why the fuck is it wrapped in bacon and stuffed with bleu cheese? Do you have ranch dressing? Of course not. Every place Javier wanted to go to is too good to have ranch dressing or salt n pepper and let’s talk about sex. Fuck me. From behind. I roll my eyes. He smiles at my embarrassment.

Our drinks come and his is manlier than mine. I try it and cough a little. He sips at mine. What is that? Martini? Yeah. I’m hungry. Why do you like me? Because you’re fucking weird. I like you. I know. Javier asks me to go to Mexico City with him and I stretch my lips across my face like a smile and say maybe. The bartender takes our food order and I get the only thing I recognize and he gets the chilaquiles in green sauce. I loathe green salsa. When it arrives, Javier asks me to try it. I say no. Please? No. This continues and I become frustrated. I want to leave. I want to drop my face on the bar and break my teeth, force them into my gums and pucker my nose in on itself, piercing my brain. Javier says if I don’t eat one then he’ll never be mine. I laugh and say we are now officially wasting each other’s time.

I catch myself in the plate-glass mirror, where two panes come together, and I look crooked, deformed, demonic, and utterly charming. Black leather jacket. Grey button-up cotton shirt. Black tie. Stubble. How could he not want me? He cuts the overly fried egg lying on top of the chilaquiles in half and says to try that much. I tell him splitting it apart doesn’t help. I think about leaving and I begin thinking about what I’m gonna say, ‘cause I have to say something. Or would it be better to simply walk out without saying anything? Not even a glance at him. Leave, man. Get up.

The old, bald man in the cowboy suit next to me leans in and mumbles something in Spanish about the game. I say something back to prove I am a man and I know sports and stuff. Then Javier and the bald man talk with me in the middle feeling suddenly awkward, but watching this scene in the mirror. Javier likes the bald man’s ambition and his gold watch and the fact he speaks four languages. I notice his black teeth, halitosis, and beady little eyes. Javier says he’s moving to Mexico City, the bald man asks when, Javier says the beginning of May, the bald man says he should be visiting down there then. I mumble we should get going. The old man extends a withered tentacle and massages Javier’s shoulder. He giggles. I finish my drink and don’t order another. I morosely glance at Javier, look at the bald man, the game, the condensation ring, the mirror, me. What the hell happened? Heavy sigh, noticeable. Javier leans to my ear, You gonna fuck me when we get home? If you want. You wanna go? Yeah.

I pay and in the backseat of the taxi, Javier asks if I want head as he massages my crotch. I smile no and ask the taxi driver to turn the radio up. I’m hard but we’re almost home. Up the stairs, to my room, push the blankets aside. I fuck Javier bent over and I pull and push into him, using his hips like handles. Fuck me ‘til you come. I tease then give it then take it then give it deeper, taking Javier to the furthest until I have to pull out and empty onto him, weakened as steam in cold night air. I like you. I know. But why, though?

The following morning, it was surprisingly easy not waking him. He lay there, curled up on the sagging, old bed with his head comfortably nested between the safety of his arms and shiny, ebony hair curtaining a calm face, slumbering. The room was still dark and reeked with the mixed, pungent bouquet of dust, musty clothes, and dried semen. I broke my lingering gaze from him and got out of bed. The young man remained unmoving, drawing deep breaths from the air around him, and I studied him again as I pulled on some of the few clothes which weren't packed down in my suitcase. I looked at him turning around in his sleep and reaching for a person who was no longer there. The emptiness of the vacant body didn’t stir him to wake — instead he withdrew his arm back towards his chest and hugged it with his other. It wasn’t like I didn't want to be there with him, quite the opposite, but I needed to go, and yet I didn’t want to pull away from the sight of him, didn’t want to turn around and leave him there. So vulnerable and so pure. Yet I felt I had to, so eventually I did, tearing my gaze away and unwillingly stepping out into the cold morning.

I walked over wet, cracked sidewalks to a corner café. Ordered a coffee Americano from a grimacing Indian woman behind the cluttered counter. The sky was as grey and bland as I felt that somber moment. I stared out onto the cobblestone plaza which stretched in front of the silent cathedral across the street. The smell of piss and wet dog hung in the air. Several city workers slowly made their way across the plaza with fire hoses attached to a tank on wheels washing away the filth from the previous night. They moved slowly as if in a dream.

I watched as I sipped my bitter coffee. The heat scorching my lower lip. I thought about him. Should I go back? Why am I so afraid to follow up on the pursuit of a relationship? Emotionally, I am so lonely, but the walls I have built around me are far too high and far too thick. I am truly lost.

I casually toss the styrofoam cup into a trash can cascading in putrid garbage and briskly walk back to my room. I am going to show him love, compassion, respect. Everything he asked for throughout the previous night. I stop. Light a cigarette, and return home…