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

Yeats, Angels, Dorothy , n Astro Traveling

 

My work is sui generis, feral, and full of beans, but most importantly it's honest. 

Dorothy Parker wrote, while in a suicidal mood, wrote this bit;

Razors pain you,

Rivers are damp,

Acids stain you,

And drugs cause cramps.

Guns aren’t lawful,

Nooses give,

Gas smells awful.

You might as well live.

 

Deep 6’d, walking, Soi Cowboy going from bar to bar, going to the PUSSY club for a drink, getting a blow job through the glory hole on the bar, just total relief.

I love Angels, most people do. 

What about when Angel Girls strip to their bra and panties, offering themselves to guys around, Central Park and The Short Time end were close by.  

Yeats, a gay man, believed Angels were transexual, or high-flying faeries, like Ardhanarishvara, a form of Shiva, 50% man and 50% woman. 

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

In Heaven, Love is the rule, it's a simple way of living, goin from soul to soul, butterfly kissing and then flying to the next shrub.

once aboard it's constant partying with what you desire Saint 

Peter's Gate. It's a fun place where your needs are met, mudhouse lined cotton and goat skin, lined with silk

sitting on a cotton floor lined with cushions, eating, and making out a lot. 

Scoundrels like Stalin, Saddam Hussien, Pol Pat, Mao Zedong, Gaddafi, The Iceman, Hitler, any of em; don’t go to Heaven. By contrast, their souls evaporate into grains of sand lost in the celestial desert.

Onwards, I couldn't guesstimate how the Rolling Stones do what they do. But I feel the Gods play through them, they invented gunpowder, control the weather and the CIA; their tours are circus-like, goin from town to town, rows of semis, pulling the band's gear from the airport to the stadium while the guys in the band sleep in a suite at a ritzy hotel.

I know fuck all about the Stones, the CIA, or the weather for that matter. I’ve lived in Thailand for 20 years and don’t get the Weather Channel, I’ve never read a spy novel, a Fredrick Forsythe, or a John Le Carre, having no interest in the genre, you'd have to drag me over the coals to read the stuff.

I’ve never met a Rolling Stone, but I met Muddy Waters more than a few times in Chicago blues clubs; he always had a pretty girl on each side while sitting at a table sipping champagne, taking breaks to go to the alley, and blow weed. Man, nobody fucked with him because he was da Buddha.  

The only thing I know about the Stones is what I see on TV or computer. 

One thing's sure, Jagger/Richards are prolific composers as were and are, Ray Charles, Muddy Waters, Elton John, Miles Davis, Frank Sinatra, and Harry Nilsson.  

Elsewhere, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet ambiance is Astro-traveling through the universe on light beams at 5000 MPH looking like sparks spewed from Roman Candles.

More about me:

Well, I’m a sensitive person, but I've only cried once in my life when my old man Victor Lucowski kicked it, knocked out dead by dick cancer.

I’m overly sensitive to criticism, and nasty looks. 

Those who dare give me the evil eye will be reincarnated as a cucarachas in the next life.

I can’t handle being bullied, I shrink at the thought of fighting back, thus, internalizing my angst for days on end, until I feel safe to come out of my hole.

Thus surfacing I sharpen my antennae, walking forward and wavering slightly from side to side. 

I Got a Complex

When I was 10 I couldn't stomach vegetables. When pees were served I’d grab the lot of em; chucking em under the diner table.

My old man, Leonard Lukowski, would jump up red-faced knock me on the floor; kicking me in the ribs until my ma, Dorthy would say,

stop it, Larry, you’re gonna give the kid a complex.

At night my next-door neighbor Gino and I would peep; busting out of our houses through the bedroom windows and roaming the neighborhood looking for partially open shades.

We were fucking shameless; we’d get as turned on watching an old lady strip as a hot teenager.

I was the only gentile in my junior high class. The Jews were top students and I made Cs and Ds, this was expected of goys.

There were some perks having Jewish classmates; going to bar mitzvahs was a gas; dance with teenage yentas, clinging tight, dancing chest to chest, getting loaded on Manischewitz.

I was fuck up my freshman year in high school so my parents sent me to New York Military Academy, where Trump went, he’s older than me, but we heard stories about him; a rich guy with a funny haircut who was on the debate and golf team, laugh. 

I graduated from military school at 18, a Private graduating by a whisker, making tracks for New York City with a few bucks in my pocket.

I lived in Hotel 56; a vagrant shithole, and wino paradise.

During the day I worked at Urban Pour; stocking liquor and doing deliveries, arriving at 9 AM and ducking into the walk-in freezer; jugging 3 cans of Fosters rapid fire.

I’d make deliveries shit-faced, driving a Ford van loaded with booze; there were eye openers behind every door: women with bulbous tits in see-through gowns wanting to get laid, pit bulls ready to attack, old ladies living in houses with carpets reeking of urine, and lonely people pleading with me to stay and have a drink.

In the evenings I’d go out; wearing a blue pin-strip suit, bought off the rack at Goodwill, Fruit of the Loom Ts, long hair in a man bun, and painted eyelashes.

I was a regular at Georgy’s Bar in The Bronx, and my drink was Absinthe; it was the holy fucking trinity, distilled with wormwood, anise, and fennel. The shit sent me to the moon. I'd close Georgy's; hallucinating, blind drunk lost, making it back to Hotel 56 at 4 AM when the garbage men were doing their rounds.    

On days off I'd go to Central Park, loading a mini-back with a bottles of cheap wine, reefer and a straw mat; roaming the plains of the park, camping under American Elms.

In no time I'd be high as a fucking pig on Ripple and reefer.

Out of nowhere, a Black kid walks up to me, he couldn't have been older than 10; I was keen on Black children; young’ns overflowing with esprit and high-octane personalities. He says, 

I'm Pigeon how bout you?

Henry.

Pigeon sits down next to me sayin,

mista, pass dat Ripple over here.

I oblige, passing the bottle which he drains in 1 mighty swig.

In a split second, Pigeon places his little hands on his stomach and spews on my straw mat.

I figured he was a street kid and could handle a drink, but the big gulp did him in.

Holding his hand, we walk at a snail’s pace to 9th Street, hailing a taxi, getting in the back where I ask,

where do you live Pigeon? 

Queens he says, 

what's your address? 

He pulls a piece of well-worn paper out of his pocket and hands it to me, it reads, 

2570 Jamaica Avenue, Room 604.  

It's a 20-minute drive, I pay the hack, Pigeon says,  

Mista Henry come meet my mama, 

He rings 604 and the front door buzzes open, we walk in; there's graffiti on the walls, and the place smells like mildew and garbage.

The elevator is out of commission; we walk up 6 flights of stairs to a 1 bedroom apartment. Pigeon’s mama’s standing with the door open and she asks, 

where u been boy? And, 

who’s the cracka?

I say, 

I’m Henry, and she says, 

I hope you ain’t no perv cause I’ll bust ya up motha fucker,

no ma’am, I’m straight hetero, what’s your name? She warms up some saying, 

Suga darlin, come on in then, Pigeon go to your room you look pasty- faced.

I sit on the sofa and Suga sits next to me, we eyeball one another; she takes off her dress, she’s meaty in all the right places.

We get it on in the usual ways; missionary with a pillow, doggy style, 69. 

2 minutes later I cum, trying to pull out, failing, some goes in,  some spills out. Then Suga says, 

short time be 100 dollas darlin.

The fuck hand nothin to do with love.