Martians & Distilled Liquid Morphine

Sick and cold in New York City, I limp to printing shops, forging scripts, visiting clinic after clinic, eventually scoring distilled liquid morphine,  shooting up in the dark at Central Park 

1/2 baked, on my back looking up, I hear Angels playing harps and theremins at the park's Timpani Bowl; parkgoers are drawn to the resonance.

Anthropoids connected with Martians the following year;  Martians offer low-cost flights, and people queue for flights to Mars.

The Martians have carved out 1000s of miles of underground tunnels, creating multi-colored living space and streams full of San Casciano Water, healing water for Extraterrestrials and Earthlings alike. 

At the Oasis Festival, Extraterrestrial chefs cook up fabulous meals served to 1000s in Beduin tents; boiled ants, beans, potatoes, grapes, powerful roots and herbs, vitamin-rich food cultivated in Geodesic domes

There is no electricity or oil on Mars; they don't need it. Instead, they harness electromagnetic energy using thousands of miles of football-field-sized solar panels.

Martians have bodies that are similar to Anthropoids; they have spins, hands, mouths, internal organs, sex organs.  

The average Martian isn't weird; they see us as weird.

Martians are gentle unless threatened. They speak tonally; their forces are like muted trumpets playing jazz at times, and they can speak directly to dolphins and whales. 

When the human race hooks up with Extraterrestrials will be a staggering day; and the universe will be born again.

Fancy Dancer

Sherman Alexie is a lionized Indian writer and filmmaker; I doubt you've heard of him. 

And, for sure, nobody on X has heard of him.

Family, friends, and publishers convinced him to open an X account, and he only got 4o followers, because Tweeps are into horror, romance, and spy novels 

Sherman is a lionized writer worldwide. He's a card-carrying member of the Academy and Institute of Letters whose pin is in the desk drawer under a pile of papers.

In his book Superman and Me, he talks about learning to read when he was 3, reading a comic book, and associating the panels with the written narrative.  

One day, he picks up a book and looks closely at the words. It's hard, but he sees the words on the pages as though they were cattle corralled into paragraphs. Sherman says it like this,

I didn't have the vocabulary to say, paragraph, but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They had some specific reason for being inside the same fence.  

At the age of 3, the prodigy sees the world in paragraphs. In his own words saying, 

This knowledge delighted me. I began to think of everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small paragraph within the United States. My family's house was a paragraph, distinct from the other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south, and the Tribal School to the west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link us. Now, using this logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father, older brother, deceased sister, my younger twin sisters, and adopted little brother. 

By the age of 5, Sherman’s in kindergarten reading The Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck, laughingly, as his neighbors are reading Dick, Spot, and Jane.

Sherman, the wunderkind, was seen as an oddball on the reservation; Indian kids weren't supposed to be geniuses. 

In 1985 Alexie applied and was accepted to Jesuit Gonzaga University in Spokane, receiving an academic scholarship, the only Indian kid to make it to college from his reservation.   

His work focused on the troubles of Indians, life on the reservation, alcoholism, poverty, and despair, but he didn't cry about it, he wrote comically.

Sherman played guard on the Jesuit school's basketball team till his Senior year. 

One day, he calls the reservation to talk to his mom, who's in the bathroom, asking her,

is papa there? 

Henry, you know your father died 7 years ago. 

Alexie says, 

My mother laughs at the angels who wait for us to pause during the most ordinary of days and sing our praise to forgetfulness before they slap our souls with their cold wings; the angels burden and unbalance us, and da ride us piggyback. 

Alexie is also a filmmaker. He's produced and written screenplays for several low-budget films, including Fancy Dancing, Winter in the Blood, and Smoke Signals. 

All in all Sherman Alexie is 1 of my favorite writers.

The Door to Door Portrait Artist

Henry chills at home while Lu Lu's shopping at Safeway sitting at home listening to a never-ending Mahler Symphony, flashing back to the hurricane, the turbulent seconds it took to move on, and the days of rain it left behind.

Time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me; a lyric from Time is On My Side, penned by Jerry Ragovoy, on loan to the Rolling Stones for an unknown sum.

The summer is over, the harvest is in, and we are not saved; Jeremiah 8:20

Jeremiah's Old Testament proverb vetted the coming famine when the wheat, fig, grape, and olive harvest was shredded to nothing by a swarm of locusts in 600 BC.

The dewy-eyed novitiate asks the Clown Monk;

your highship, I have nothing to do,

 

butterfly, talk about sex, do drugs, watch La Liga and Bonanza on TV, avoid telling the truth.

1984, a year when computers are as slow as molasses, and cell phones are bulky and rare. Stable operating systems are few, and the World Wide Web is a year old, the year cocaine is more popular than computers. Henry asks his wife, 

have you read the articles on computers in Science Magazine or The Xylophone Quarterly?

I'm a mermaid, not a geek.

They fuck in the hot tub and smoke a 3 pronged joint, and when they're baked, Lulu confesses to Henry what really went down in Cuba with Fidel Castro saying

I fucked Fidel, he was going to send me to jail. We'd party at his Havana house, he had the best of the best, ganja as well as cocaine. Did you know Fidel and Gabriel Garcia Marquez were best friends in the day? Year after year. Marquez would bring his beautiful wife, Mercedes, to Castro's house, where they'd talk about Latin music and literature. Both were the best at what they did. One night I said to Fidel,

mi amor, your passion for the Russian rockets and AK 47s is secondary to your passion for sex, Castro says, 

in my position, wearing one's heart on his sleeve is impossible. When I listen to cold and rigid Russian concertos, I remember the El Movimiento 26 de Julio and the revolutionaries who fought and bled by my side. 

Henry wonders, 

do you still love Fidel? 

He's arrogant, a wild lover hung like a burro. He’d rub cocaína on his pollo to stay hard. He had so many women, 1000s; I'm hot let's jump in the cold tub.

As they're eating chicken salad sandwiches the doorbell rings; Henry opens the front door and a Black man holding a white cane says, 

my name's Andy Higgins, I’m a blind man, a door-to-door portrait artist, 

 

please come in,  

Henry leads Andy around the bungalow, walking him to the kitchen table, where asking him,

how bout a drink or some pot? 

Thank you, yes, Seagrams & 7, and roll a fat joint. 

Lu Lu cranks up the air conditioner, it's clear Andy is hot.

Then she spins an LP on the record player; the George Shearing Trio tickles the keys playin, Unreachable Heights. Andy asks, 

George Shearing?  He's blind, ain't he? Does he play without looking at the keys? I have no musical talent, I became a photographer to prove that a blind man can do anything if he puts his mind to it. Let's go to work, Henry grab my Polaroid and the tripod. Set the kit up facing the sofa; think like you're doing a portrait.

Henry secures the camera to the tripod, looks through the lens, frames the shot, goes back to the sofa, sitting next to Lu Lu. 

The couple didn't dress fancy, he was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and she was nude.  

Andy stands, walks to his camera, knocks it down, then catches it in 1 hand, Henry asks, 

How’d you catch the falling tripod?

Everything's feel for a blind man. OK, here we go, I’m going to say, get ready, count to five, and shoot, now let's smile!

Henry and Lu Lu don't pose, they ignore Andy, making out, playing scissors, rock, and paper, even wrestling on the sofa, Andy says, 

I can smell your body, she answers curtly, 

keep your nose to the grind pal.

In minutes Andy says,  

I think we have enough shots, for an extra 5 bucks, I’ll immortalize your portraits in a plastic-bound photo book.

Henry goes to the kitchen, mixing drinks, martinis this time, bringing them to the living room on a tray. 

On the sofa, the couple pages through the Polaroid portraits, laughing insanely.

They love the photos, the work is realistic, raw, 

well— you all know how much Polaroid film costs, how about 200 bucks for the works?

Henry stands, reaches into his pocket, walks to Andy, handing him 2 hundred-dollar bills, the blind man asks, 

Can you call me a cab? 

Henry laughs saying, 

Trust in the Lord, Ray Charles, 

I'll be trustin in the Lord alright, Henry, gotta go, my cab is here.

Lu Lu leads him out of the bungalow to the sidewalk; he faces her asking, 

what ya think? She answers, 

Andy Higgins, without a doubt, the GOAT of blind photographers.

Cantinflas, the Genderqueer, & Jesus

Somewhere between Abilene and El Paso, driving Southwest in my Dodge wagon, I exit at a speck on the map, Salt Flat City, parkin at a Tex Mex joint, Pedro’s Cafe. 

Inside, I sit at the counter, looking over the menu.

The waitress is genderqueer with a Cleopatra wig and she says to me, 

howdy handsome, do you like Tex-Mex food? Or how about a blow job? I give the best head South of the  Mason-Dixon line, 

I'll pass, sweetie, I'm impotent, I'll have el especial. Keep the coffee common, cariña.

In due course, I'm served by Miss Brittany CoxXx, hah ; chicken quesadillas, cheesy baked burritos, tamales, Tex-Mex  with native aroma, delicioso.

By 9PM, I'm on my way to the El Paso border crossing but it's closed, I do a U-turn and drive to Gala National Forest, parkin, grabbin my sleeping bag, finding a bushy area, placing the bag on a bed of pine; on my back lookin up at the sky hugged by Mother Earth and kissed by the sky;

Like a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra.

That morning at 6AM, I pack the wagon and suck down 3 Red Bulls, hyper-buzzed I drive' to the El Paso border crossing, stoppin my car at the checkpoint, showing the Mexican agent, who resembles Cantinflas, my passport, and car insurance, he's indifferent, smirking and sayin,  

Don't get the clap, Gringo.

 

I Drive south to Torreón, Mexico, it's 7 hours from El Paso, halfway to Mexico City, listening Ranchera and Mariachi music on local radio. 

At Chihuahua, I pull into a liquor store, buying 2 pints of mescal, a Zippo lighter, and ultra-thin rolling papers.

Driving out of town on Avenida Bolívar a Black cowboy's standing on the sidewalk, pimpin' somethin, maybe himself, I ask,  

are you holdin, man?

Sure gringo, I got 1/4 ounces of Diesel Gold for 1000 pesos, 

let me smell some, 

he opens a Ziplock bag, I take a whiff; the shit’s pungent, so I hand a 1000 Peso note and then rolling a few while I'm driving, something learned on the rodeo circuit.

I'm southeast on my way to Mexico City, I light a joint, alternating tokes with swigs of mescal, enjoying live radio.

By dark, I can see the lights of  Zacatecas on the horizon, weary I turn into Parque Nacional Sierra de Órganos; no one is there, not even a watchman.

I lay a sleeping bag on the rooftop of the wagon, counting stars and fading out.

Up early, I drive into Santana Ciudad and buy 1/2  a dozen bolillo and a cup of black coffee.

In 3 hours, I’m in Mexico City, passing grimy brick buildings that exhale soul shadows, I’m  shook to the bone. 

In the community of Tepetos, a dicey area, I notice a rusted neon sign at the end of an alley, El Last Exit.

I park on Calle Juarez and walk to it, inside I see a large gal in a metal cage, who asks,

do you want a woman gringo? 

Señora, I want to book monthly,

esta bien señor, 2000 pesos and a 500 peso deposit. 

I walk to room 107, unlocking the door. There's a made-up double bed, a hot plate, and a cold-water WC. It's not a good room.

Horny, I walk the streets, the sewers steam a gaseous smell. I duck into Rico's Cantina. It's dark inside, you can smell stale beer. The hard-drinkin' Mexicans eyeball me, el camarero comes up close, we look face to face, his breath is awful, I order, 

let’s see now, I'd like a shot of top-shelf Tequila and a Corona Extra, 

The greaser grabs a machete from under the bar, slamming it on the counter repeatedly, so  

I belt out yelling, 

your motha's sucks donkey cock.

So I run to Saint Christofer's Church, buying a red rose from a lady dressed in black; a thorn pricks my finger, it's dripping blood. 

Catching my breath, I kneel in the 2nd pew eyeballing the crucifix on the sanctuary wall. 

I see Jesus, His lips are moving, His face is comes to life, His lips move, and He says to me,

Henry, would you like to confess anything to Me? 

May I share a story? 

Yes, my son, 

I met a Gypsy kid on a bus goin from Greece to Albania, and he told me a story;

Romani Folklore has it that when You were crucified, a Gypsy stole the holy nails from Your wooden cross, and You were so grateful You told him in the future the Romani people could loot and plunder sin free, Jesus says, 

Yes, son, it’s a faithful tale.

Jesus looks at me sternly saying, 

Henry, in the coming months human beings will be raised, entering the Kingdom of God and have Eternal life, are you ready to skyrocket into the Heavens my son? 

Yeah, well, la, Jesus, it sounds breathtaking, but I'll never give up mescal, tamales, and pussy.

I wake in the 2nd pew, feelin nothin particular, and I never had another religious experience, which was fine by me.

Back at La Exit, I ask the mamasan to send a woman, fresh orange juice, ice, and a bottle of tequila to my room

After partying through the night, things felt right again