Whitter Blvd.

There are choices you have to make not just every time they come up but every second you’re awake. The gift of a life time that guides who you are, what you are and how you die.
The sun was blistering the cracked concrete of Whittier st.  with it’s raised sharp edges of plastered rock protruding where a tree once grew.  It had been day three of an late summer heatwave, a warm quiet summer where the the homeboys had made an unspoken  peace among the streets and where in weekly congregation happened at Ruben Salazar Community pool “el parque”.  The chicano Switzerland where all the East Los hoods came to get relief from the desert sun in their appropriated day.  Souls of ice melting in the streets of the barrio.
Frasier street Maravilla’s, Indiana Dukes, Getaghty Lomas, Arizona Maravilla’s  & Soto Street Loco’s had privileges this day. Each with their own sections of the olympic size pool with a guard standing with arms crossed, wife beater & mad doggers squared away on it soft Mexican face and rock hard expression guarding their 25 squared feet of territory. A chicano cold war.  
Las rucas with their jean shorts and tank tops displaying  nipples through soaked bras  & blooming bodies,  of a young woman that they were. The vato’s in their cut off dickies, long tall tees,  flacos with their pre jail house bodies and side glances of fear and a boom box blaring Kid Frost.  La Raza in a latino alliance making choices to deny what their history of living in East Los fighting and sometimes killing to keep their reputation & pride for a unknown feud of dirt below their feet.

A Woman you'll never see.

Raw information in a collection of crude mental thoughts of what is perceived as reality.  
Her soft breath flowing across my chest, she was asleep, she must have been asleep for the past five minutes now. I kept staring  up into the ceiling wondering how I got here what was the collection of words that I said was to bring this short in somewhat false sense of happiness for I knew I would never experience it again or at least not with her.  

I knew that I wouldn’t ever see her again. I was still in ecstasy from her sensuality on how to please a man with her mouth…. fuck, she was amazing.   I laid there helpless and confuse waiting for night  to come to say bye with each pasting minute I could see the change in the sky as night was trying to take control in it’s perpetual dance of life and we were just a side story of billions playing all at once.


 Sooner or Later. 

She stood in the middle of the cavernous room a characteristic gaze on her face she was known for;  half smile was half gone in misguided thoughts of insecurity. The gallery hosting her show was half populated of its full capacity with friends, fake friends, market manipulating so-called art collectors and wanna-bee's with their shoes covered in paint proclaiming “I’m an artist”…Too.   She was 31, blonde, soft, quiet, tender in appearance. Like beautiful wet paper glistening under a street lamp to scared to touch. That’s what I loved about her.  But her big beautiful ass hidden under layers of fabric the type of ass that trends on porn hub “Big ass white girl takes black dick” is what I lust about her.  
I had come to silently support her from a distance.  I was the distraction from her reality of insecurity and sobriety.  I was the Mexican from high school that would finger bang her in the band practice rooms reborn 15 years later.
She felt it but was too scared to confront her husband of a year and a half to acknowledge that her life was not perfect to give up so soon and let the world know that the life she portrayed through her art was full of AA meetings,  late night tears filling her bath.  The jealousy of two artists living under the same roof and the civil war of insecurity that she isn’t young anymore fighting within herself.   They were in different places in their lives now, like anything out of alignment, they were destined to crash sooner or later.

Mark Rotten Hearts Open Legs and Shit That Goes fast. Carlos Nuñez Subjugates Himself.