TREVINO RIPS OF BPUB & TENASKA FOR A FORTUNE!!!

 

AMIGOS SHARE A JOINT AT COBBLEHEADS

Sunday means the deck at Cobbleheads. It means the blues. If you didn't get drunk Friday or Saturday, this is a last chance before the weekend has been deposited on the trash heap of history. Estanislao Contreras, the poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, and Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist and once related to Maclovio O'Malley, la Voz de los Vatos, through marriage, grab a table by the resaca.

E: Summer is coming. I hate summer.

J: Then breathe deeply and relish the moment.

E: I can't relish the moments. They pass too quickly. In the blink of an eye it's daylight savings time again. Where did the time go?

J: It just goes, bro. Time is a raging river and there is no stopping the rushing currents.

E: But there used to be tranquil pools that offered a brief respite from the rapids that were sweeping us toward the falls.

J: That's called youth, bro. You're an old fart and time can't bury you fast enough.

E: Does getting old mean that not anyone can be president and that at best you might achieve a small degree of mediocrity?

J: Knowledge is a terrible thing, bro. The more you think you know, the more you realize that you have been wallowing in a sty of stupidity all your life.

E: What the fuck are we still doing in Brownsville, vato?

J: Compromises that must be fulfilled, but other than those obligations, we weren't meant for anything better.

E: What about the little things in this world that we're suppose to appreciate? I thought a cool breeze or a field of flowers were sufficient reason to give thanks for our existence?

J: Maybe a shrimp cocktail would ease your existential pain?

E: I haven't been writing any good poetry lately.

J: I can't start a new novel. So?

E: When you're bald and burdened with a big belly, you need the satisfaction of accomplishment, but the clock is running out.

J: That's why you have to keep shooting. You might still hit a game-winning three-pointer and you'll be hoisted on the shoulders of your fans and carried down Elizabeth Street at the head of a Charro Days parade?

E: Did you go downtown during Charro Days?

J: Sadly, I missed the festivities again.

E: Did you vote?

J: Were there elections?

E: Puto! You don't give a fuck, do you?

J: I give a fuck, but it has to be worth the effort. Would you fuck an aging, fat chick with wrinkles that would offer you deeper penetration than her cunt? I didn't think so. Life to me is an aging, fat chick whom I have no desire to fuck. I should have a little apartment in Lisbon with a balcony overlooking a street scene. I just want to watch and allow my imagination to entertain me. How is life on the home front?

E: I rise in the morning and go to bed at night. During the interim I do my best to accommodate the persons and animals who are a part of my daily routine.

J: Keep your expectations low and accept the hand that you were dealt.

E: But I'm not even holding a pair of twos?

J: Then bet the house. We've reached a point in our lives that we ain't got nothin' to lose.

The friends stayed until dark. During one of the breaks, they joined the musicians for a joint in the parking lot. The days of snorting coke in the bathroom are over. After the smoke, they switched from beer to wine. For a moment Estanislao found the moment. For a moment Jack didn't find all the chicks on the deck fat, aging and withered with wrinkles. For a moment the moment sufficed.

HARLINGEN!!!

There is no doubt that Harlingen is the most racist city in the Rio Grande Valle.

Federal Judge Filemon Vela and his wife Mayor Blanca Vela, both enjoying their rewards in heaven after their many acts of kindness for their fellow man, were raised in Harlingen, but they didn't want to raise their children in the redneck town where at one time Mexican-Americans weren't allowed to swim in the public pool. 

They moved to Brownsville. It was the best decision of their lives. They were welcomed with open arms. From the time that founder Charles Stillman hired Francisco Yturria to assist him in his business dealings, the Anglo-American and the Mexican-American have found common ground in Brownsville although all historians will recognize that it has been a process without its obstacles.

But there is a reality that reigns today. There is no racism in Brownsville. In Harlingen, you can feel the dagger-like stares of the dwindling Anglo-Americans burrowing through the backs of the Mexican-Americans. 

Nowhere is the white's disdain more tangible than at the Harlingen County Club. If you don't meet Hitler's standards of being a superior race, beware of the dog. And if both your parents were Jews but your father was black and your mother brown, don't even bother entering the clubhouse and pulling out your credit card to play a round of golf. We can hear the attendant now:

"What color are the golf balls?"

"White."

"Are you the same color as the golf balls?"

"No."

"Then I would suggest that you get the fuck out of here."

Harlingen is the former home of the KKK in the Rio Grande. Trump would call Harlingen home if he lived in the Valley. He could walk into the Harlingen County Club and call Mexican-Americans "rapists" and he would receive a standing ovation.

AN EVENING OUT

 Wine and dine, 

and then mine 

someone fine.

A COOL BREEZE

And I thought the summer had arrived forever as I trudged through the heat yesterday.

What did we do to deserve such a cool day?

Was God congratulating us for not wiping our asses with our hands?

We are a stupid people.

Maybe we need a benevolent dictator because we can't think for ourselves.

Isn't God a benevolent dictator?

Trump proved that hollow heads swivel upon our slumping shoulders.

And won't he and his horseflies come buzzing around our noggins again?

Are these nuisances God's way of reminding us about the consequences of bad decisions?

I'm not going to surf the net today.

I'm not going to read the newspapers today.

I'm not going to watch television today.

I don't want to hear the bad news.

I don't want to hear about murders.

I don't want to hear about diseases.

I don't want to hear about wars.

Serve me a cold beer.

Tell me I have nothing to fear.

Say that you will always be near.

The cool weather is here.

Sit down beside me, dear.

For those who are gone let us share a tear.

And we will give our Creator thanks for this moment of good cheer.

DON'T MARRY A PAINTER

 For god's sake

don't marry

a writer,

but goddamn it

don't marry

a painter either.

The first

will pierce you

with his words,

but the second

will turn his brushes

into swords.

COJONES

 I'm writing great shit,

but you have to start moving

and dedicate every day

to the campaign,

even if it's only an hour or two.

Though we are both Zen followers

in many aspects of our lives,

we still relish wine and women.

And we want to win!!!

We can be as spiritual

as we desire,

but in the end

we are meat-devouring

pussy-eating beasts.

There is no time to waste.

We old fucks

have to teach

these young bucks

a lesson

about the transcendent truths 

of cojones.

THREE VIRGINS AREN'T WORTH DYING FOR ALLAH!!!

I don't think that even with Viagra

I can get it hard enough to pierce a virgin.

And then there's the blood.

I need a woman with sufficient experience

so I can park my car in the garage

without scraping the sides.

I need sufficient maneuvering space,

Once I can rev up the engine,

I stick it in gear and we're off to the races.

I don't think virgins are built

for either speed or comfort.

I'm partial to the models

that have only had a few owners,

but then there are those

who have been driven hard

and can really accelerate.

With the top down,

they take your breath away.

INCOMPREHENSIBLE

 Since I understand nothing,

I have a predilection

for incomprehensible poems.

Perhaps that's the reason we have endured:

I find you incomprehensible.

THE DAY BEFORE I UNEXPECTEDLY DIE

 Everything is one big, fuckin' lie

and you know it 

because you have always lived it.

And then there are 

the constant worries

about the children 

besides the drinking 

and the drugs

and the financial concerns

and the failing health 

and a million other things.

Where is the peace?

There is no fuckin' peace!

It's all illusion and delusion

inevitably wrapped in death.

I look at my children

and I see death

staring at me in the face.

I could write a thousand other things

and hopefully I will,

unless death gets me first.

I could write

a series of short, dark poems

on this rainy day,

but I probably won't

because my nerves are shot

and I can't count on you

for some dirty sex now,

which would offer me 

a brief respite

from this pounding headache.

Should I take another Xanax?

The first one isn't working.

I'm not going 

mano-a-mano 

with you.

I'm venting.

It isn't personal. 

How does thinking about the deaths

of our children reflect on you?

I'm allowing 

the dead matter

in my head

to pour out 

of my mouth.

I can't be happy 

and optimistic

all the time.

Would you rather 

I text someone else?

Since you're not here to provide me

with a temporary refuge deep in your pussy,

I will take that other Xanax

and seek my escape through sleep.

I'm riding a wave.

I hope I don't drown.

I give thanks that I'm retired

and I can comfortably wrestle

with the devil in my bed

unless he pokes a hole 

in my inflatable mattress

with his horns or his tail.

Maybe I'll take all my texts

and write one long poem a la T.S. Eliot.

Only my commitment to art

can possibly lift me out of bed

as I lie here weighed down

with yet another hangover.

I think I have my long,

perhaps rather disjointed, poem.

Let me know if you're visiting 

in the afternoon, 

so I can take a Viagra.

Anticipating a good, hard fuck

gives me hope.

I want you to agree

to consensual rape

because the sex

will be that nasty.

I think the second Xanax is working.

I'm beginning to feel better.

New title:

The Day Before I Unexpectedly Committed Suicide.

Your suggestion is humorous:

The Day Before I Lost My Mind.

Based on your many years

of first-hand observation,

deleting "unexpectedly" has merit.

I've appreciated your insights

during our time together,

almost as much as 

I have appreciated 

ravishing your body.

Done.

THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE

 Whenever I think about the loser you were banging 

when we separated, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the loser you were banging 

when we reconciled, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the losers you were banging 

between our separation and reconciliation, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the losers you were banging 

before I met you, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the losers you were banging 

when we first met and I was the third guy 

you had banged in three weeks, I tremble with anger.

You say that you are a modern woman.

I say that you are an immoral woman.

Blinded by your bestial instincts,

you don't respect the law of the jungle.

A man is raised on a pedestal

with each woman he may slay,

but a woman is cast into a pit

if she is an easy lay. 

UN CULO CHULO

 Una chula

gave birth

to un chulo

after she gave

her culo

to another chulo.

ODE TO MY THREE SONS (NEW ADDITIONS BEGIN ON THIS DATE)

 My sons

are the three suns

in my sky.

When I close my eyes

and die,

I hope to hear them cry.

FLINT

 If I could rub my balls together

and produce a flame or two,

I might fill my wife

with a burning passion

that would leave

both of us scorched

and smelling of smoke.

The loving might

get so hot her pubic hairs

would burst into an inferno.

Our consummation

would end

in a huge conflagration.

With hose in hand,

could I extinguish the blaze

or would the combustion

ignited by cock and cunt

remain an explosion

smoldering in a haze?

THE PRODIGAL SON

You put a stake

through Dracula's heart.

You don't put a knife

through Daddy's heart.

MARK TWAIN

 This is a short story about a pair of pathetic pals 

named Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. 

Huck wasn't worth a fuck 

and Sawyer had all the makings of a dirty lawyer, 

but it was a given among the citizenry 

that he lacked the wherewithal to pass the test. 

Like all worthless individuals looking for an easy out, 

they were natural politicians. 

There wasn't a position for which they wouldn't run 

and each on one occasion even won, 

but the results, sadly, didn't measure up to the rhetoric. 

Once again they are on the campaign trail 

and everyone agrees they are destined to fail. 

But that won't stop them. 

Though this story is ending, 

they are only beginning. 

It wouldn't surprise anyone 

if they donned their Halloween costumes 

in future elections 

and masqueraded along the hustings 

as Trump Republicans.

ROBERT SANCHEZ REHAB CENTER RELEASES CLEANSED PATIENT!!!

He has returned to work as an attorney at a prestigious law firm after a two-month rehab hiatus at the Robert Sanchez Rehab Center as he battles his addictions to alcohol, cocaine, Xanax and sex.

Sadly, he informed his colleagues that his wife had left him because she had lost all hope that her husband would ever overcome his bad habits, particularly his proclivity for sex that has left her infected on several occasions with gonorrhea, chlamydia, syphilis and trichomoniasis as well as genital warts and herpes.

He also told his colleagues that he would no longer be joining them for their marathon drinking sessions at their favorite watering holes. 

"I start drinking and then I want to snort coke," he lamented. "Before I know it I'm sleeping with a downtown whore. In order to overcome my guilt and sleep, I have to take Xanax."

A great guy when he isn't succumbing to temptations, everyone is rooting for him.

LAW OF THE JUNGLE

 A man

who sleeps

with many women

is admired

for this gallantry.

A woman

who sleeps

with many men

is abhorred

for her promiscuity.

CHEWING THE FAT

It was time to paint downtown red and revel in a cool norther that was sweeping Brownsville during its usual winter of eternal spring. It won't be long before the populace will be longing for relief from the summer heat. Estanislao Conteras, the controversial author of Chicano Sex Songs, and Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, amble over to The Library Bar and settle into their seats on Market Square outside the watering hole. They launch into their ruminations:

I have the name of an ex-wife tattooed on my shoulder. At the time of our marriage, I told her the tattoo would prevent me from forgetting her. Unfortunately, I can't remember which shoulder these days.

For those who find themselves covered in honey, there is but one question: To bee or not to bee?

Folks like to talk about eternal energy, but I assert that at the end of the spiral, you go splat and you're swept away with the rest of the dust.

There are no end to words. Leave the page blank. Then you won't be fooling yourself.

When you choose a stream of consciousness moment, you have to imagine that you're improvising on a sax with the confidence that somebody will hear your music.

¿Adieu or adiós? It doesn't make much difference the language. When it's good-bye, it's good bye.

The only way you can leave your problems behind is to turn your back on them and start trudging in the opposite direction.

When you are lying in hot water, loneliness disappears into the steam-covered mirror.

I prefer walking through doors that swing open easily.

I am an old man now. I have loved and lost, but I don't wallow in the mire of the past. The mud-slinging has been slung and those past loves dangle from a tree branch hung.

I have raised six children. One of them died after three months. A Jewish friend said that they are beautiful until they grow up. Although my children have become adults and are beautiful, it is a different beauty. When a child is no longer a child, it is a small death.

Start a bloodbath. Then bathe until you have cleansed yourself of all the wounds you have endured. Refreshed, sharpen your pencil and stab to your heart's content.




Forget the pizza! Forget the wine! For Contreras and O'Connell, there is no more spiritual spot in Brownsville than the courtyard at Dodici Pizza & Wine. There is the ambience of the French Quarter surviving from those days when Brownsville was once called the New Orleans of the Rio Grande. The owner clears a table for them. Ordering a pizza and a bottle of wine, the pair recommence their meditations:

I ask myself many questions about the passage of time, but we should give thanks for the flickering moment.

Old men seek refuge in cheap apartments. They no longer roam the plains. These old lions have lost their teeth.

We should never measure ourselves against the masters. We would be intimidated into doing nothing.

There are millions who have lived in fear, witnessed their own blood flowing into the gutters and died.

You are forced to climb. That doesn't mean you don't reach out for a hand, but if you're going to reach the top and overcome obstacles along the way, it's all in your hands.

A wind, a wave and a wand in her hand. I need someone like this in my life.

As bad as your situation may be, would you want to switch places with individuals who couldn't remember their names?

The Buddha never sought followers. He pointed. You chose your own direction.

She never forgave you for biting her nipples when you started teething. And she had beautiful breasts before she became pregnant with you. Never forget! There are two sides to every story.

Time will heal. It took me years to accept that Santa no longer existed.

If you think of sex as nothing more than eating a steak or drinking a bottle of wine, you enjoy it until you are hungry or thirsty or horny again.

Sometimes it is best not to remember if that's possible. That is the reason people feel deeply saddened at Christmas because the innocence of those beautiful times has vanished forever.

Sadly, a haiku is much longer than my penis.

It's like comparing apples and oranges. There is no difference between poetry and prose if the author defines his prose as poetry. And I insist that free verse is best when it's terse.

Whether they craved or gave, they were destined for the grave.

Our body is a canvas. Make sure the artist can draw. In some cases, it helps if he can also spell.

I wish I were in Mendoza, Argentina sipping on a Malbec and gazing at the Andes.

Life is an ellipsis...



"Delta" Dave Handelman is taking the stage when Contreras and O'Connell are entering El Hueso de Fraile. The compadres order a bottle of red and and find a table at the bohemian retreat. Although the audience is asked to remain quiet during the performances, Contreras and O'Connell don't always abide by the rules, particularly when they are pontificating on life:

I have always lived in warm climes. Living and dealing with a frigid environment is beyond my comprehension. This reality accounts for the reason I have no appreciation for hockey. Your wintry descriptions did make me shiver and I won't be moving north soon.

If you are lucky, there will be an Indian summer before the final winter when the leaves drop suddenly from the trees.

We used to hang out in a cemetery and smoke dope although there were buddies who found holes significantly shallower than six feet.

Like a shark, you keep swimming forward. It's a waste of time to drown in your own tears.

I prefer being a male. Take a Viagra. Rise to the occasion. Swallow a Xanax, Who gives a damn!

Even on a bad day, there is tomorrow. And just like dark turning to light, embrace the new day with a fresh mind.

You imply that beauty is only skin-deep. But what would a person look like flayed?

The moment you stop taking yourself seriously is the moment you start writing serious stuff.

What would Freud say about Lot's two daughters and the Bible's favorite word--fornication?

Uriah Heap will never be tossed on the trash heap of history. Dickens is eternal.

Momma always knows. She doesn't say anything. She lets her fish run.

Those who live without judging others are truly liberated.

I eat the same type of salads. I vary the dressings.

There are a fortunate few who once they become one will always be one.

I don't think I would read that poem to my three-year-old at bedtime, but I might read it to my wife to determine if we are going to get funky tonight.

Job is my favorite book in the Bible because Satan exposes God's terrible ego who is lured into a bet that will allow a dutiful wife and a brood of beautiful children to die in order to prove a point.



Contreras and O'Connell are traditionalists. They would sooner vote for Donald Trump than finish a foray downtown without stopping at The Palm Lounge, an institution. They opt for a bucket of beers as they continue their ramblings:

If you are always looking for angles, a poem will suddenly appear out of nowhere.

I have often wandered streets like a stray dog, but I had money in my pocket. Money will open a door. Even a wanderer has to sit and that's when the adventure begins.

I have found that sleeping late gives me the same pleasure as long strolls. It's about having a tranquil mind.

Feel like I'm watching a foreign movie whose language I don't understand, but I do comprehend bits and pieces of the work. However, I am one of those readers who never works too hard.

You take the melody and change the lyrics. Sometimes the imagery suffices for a translation, but a general sense of agony still permeates the sonnet.

Did Ted Hughes lead Sylvia Plath down a suicidal path? His critics contend that he was partly responsible for her death. Ultimately, a person chooses to kill himself or herself and pointing the finger at others if of little consolation when you consider the consequences.

Much like prisoners, birds find safety in cages. Freedom doesn't compare to security.

I don't think we are losing our freedoms. There are millions in our country who are losing their sanity.

We should never take ourselves too seriously because when it's all said and done, we're a rather silly species at best.

Knowing Spanish is the key to the universe. Pigs speaks English. Poets speak Spanish.

Death, no matter how you slice it, particularly if it claims those whom you love, is never a pleasant thought.

Is a combination of Western and Eastern philosophies the Middle Way that will lead to salvation?

If you want to live the rest of your life broke, fall for a bloke.

When there was only the second generation of Cain and Abel, murder ruled humanity.

I have sex with my laptop and welcome into the world my latest creation.