BUDDHA

I write and I think of you. I play the guitar and I think of you. I hit the weights and I think of you. I sit in the sauna and I think of you. I study my Portuguese and I think of you. I imagine myself in Argentina and I think of you. I drink a beer at the bar and I think of you. I take a shower and I think of you. I look at my aging face and I think of you. I watch my son play football and I think of you. I hit tennis balls and I think of you. I smoke a joint with my compadre and I think of you. I go for an evening walk and I think of you. I lie in bed at night and I think of you. And when I am dead, I will be thinking of you.

I hope when you call,  it is me you want to answer. I hope when you open the door,  it is me you want to see. I hope when you kiss me, it is my lips you want to savor. I hope when you touch me, it is my body you desire. I hope when I leave you,  it is me whom you want to see again. I hope when you are enjoying a beautiful day,  it is me whom you want by your side. I hope when you are sad,  it is me who brings you peace. I hope.

With the exception of the first which is reserved for thinkers who were secular rather than religious, Donald Trump could be condemned to the other eight circles of Dante's hell. Two through five are for those culpable of lust, gluttony, greed and wrath. Trump is the epitome of all all four. He is a fat pig angrily suppurating sperm instead of sweat from his corpulent body as he rants and raves heinous rhetoric. Has there ever been a more despicable politician in the history of the United States? He is the modern Pied Piper whose followers are idiots rather than rats. The final four, six through nine, carry harsher tortures and punishments. These outcasts have been sentenced to eternal misery for heresy, violence, fraud and treachery. He precipitated violence on January 6th. His whole life has been consumed by fraud for which he is presently paying a handsome price for his ugly acts and treachery oozes like pus from the belly flab of innumerable open sores. Even lepers keep their d...

And so it begins, the daily struggle, the battle to make sense out of life. We are alone. There is no consciousness after we are dead. Some of the worst people adhere to a fictional mythology. We return to the state from which we emerged. There is no heaven. Certain moments can be described as heavenly, but there is no blissful afterlife, not even for the Islamic martyrs who have been told there will be virgins waiting for them once they cross the threshold from existence to non-existence. There is hell and hell is here. We are meant to suffer. We must try our best to overcome our suffering or we will fall victims to insanity or even take our own lives. We are all destined to die, even our beautiful babies and young children, and we are destined to be forgotten. Unless you're a great artist, not a trace will remain of you or those who used to remember you. It is all a foregone conclusion. Two weeks don't pass that someone I know doesn't pass. These constant concatenations o...

One day they will talk about those happy Sunday afternoons when the last of the Baby Boomers would congregate on the deck at Cobbleheads where they would drink copiously while Emilio Crixell and his eclectic band of musicians would belt out the blues as well as the sixty and seventy tunes that had stood the test of time. Proprietor Joe "The Irish Prick" Kenney, healthy once again that his throat cancer had been declared in remission, would stroll between the tables and greet everyone in his thick Philly accent. A cigarette would be dangling from his mouth. His many customers would bum a smoke from him with the intention of saving his life. All the characters would be in attendance. Time had taken its toll as the men did their best to hide their beer bellies behind loose fitting shirts while there wasn't much the women could do about the wrinkles searing their faces. They were also from a time when being natural was the mantra, so their principles excluded breast jobs. The...

"What is your mental state, compadre? With the exception of painting the town red the other day, you're not drinking much wine or smoking much dope." "I seldom turn to alcohol or drugs recreationally when I'm not well mentally, big guy. Alcohol makes me angry and drugs get me paranoid. I had my most terrible outbursts with women when I was drunk." "What are you doing to stay calm?" "I'm on a steady diet of Xanax, point five my diurnal dose. I'm redefining myself physically. In the last two months I've dropped from 200 to 185. My goal is 175. When I was 30, I weighed 150. At 74 I have limited appeal and I have to eliminate as many negatives as possible in order to make a good first impression. My biggest challenge is the belly. Underneath this shrinking keg there may be a six pack." "What are doing to become young and handsome again?" "I'm doing American yoga every day." "What the hell is American y...

You will probably think this is odd, but more than two years later I can see you standing on the St. Joe sidelines with crutches hobbled by a bad knee. The St. Joe coach didn't know about your injury and he was scared shitless; he knew he didn't have anyone who could stop you with your speed. You would have scored four touchdowns and gained more than 200 yards. I told that stupid coach of yours not to use you on defense because you weren't a two-way player, but that asshole thought he knew everything and he defied me. You paid the price for his ignorance. You were always a special player and nobody appreciated your talents more than me. Here I am in Mexico City with the rain falling in sheets, but no amount of water can wash away the many memories I have of you performing on the gridiron from the time you were a kid. Against St. Joe I can imagine you taking a pitch, cutting against the grain and racing 60 yards for a touchdown without a Bloodhound laying a hand on you. You ...

I'm a piece of shit. Two pieces of shit produce more shit. I'm a piece of dog shit. I'm a piece of cat shit. Have you ever seen ducks shit? The crap pours out of these creatures like diarrhea. That's the stinkin' opinion I have of myself. My dead parents keep invading my dreams at night. "You're a piece of shit," they remind me as I peer into the empty sockets that once were their eyes. Since Melania won't fuck me, my latest movida down in Florida--I don't understand their intent, but her girlfriends keep telling her that she must be blind--placed a cake before me, but instead of singing the traditional birthday song, she started rapping, "You're a piece of shit, cocksucker, you're a piece of shit." I couldn't believe my ears. Then I couldn't believe my nose as she plunged my head into the frosting. It tasted like shit. Even Marjorie Taylor Greene has remarked that there is a unpleasant odor hanging over my person. I t...

"I feel sorry for Melania," said a happily married woman over lunch at New York Deli. "Can you imagine a slobbering and straining Donald Trump over you as he struggles to squeeze out a drop of relief? In a world of Donald Trumps, I would be a lesbian." "I've had sex with men like Donald Trump and I do it dog-style," commented her friend. "If they want to kiss me, they have to kiss my ass." Trump is a fastidious guy. Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss, one of the community's most love characters, asserts that national blogs report that Trump's breath is so bad he can return comatose patients to consciousness. "Trump is anal-retentive," said Pangloss. "I believe he takes at least ten baths a day. He is constantly brushing and flossing his teeth. Despite his best efforts, he worries that food particles are lodged between his teeth. "He keeps a cockroach farm at the White House. Two or three times a day he inserts a cockroach in...

GAY: Have you eaten at the Main Street Deli? STRAIGHT: Many times. GAY: And how's the food? STRAIGHT: Excellent. GAY: What do they serve? STRAIGHT: There's a variety of selections. GAY: What is your favorite dish? STRAIGHT: I love their spaghetti and meatballs. GAY: Is the food expensive? STRAIGHT: I wouldn't say it's as cheap as a greasy spoon Mexican restaurant downtown, but portions are ample and in my opinion worth the cost. GAY: Do you usually go for lunch or dinner? STRAIGHT: I usually go for a late lunch after the rush has ended. GAY: How would you describe the ambience? STRAIGHT: I'll let Hemingway express my sentiments: "It's a clean, well-lighted place." GAY: Do they serve alcohol? I relish a glass of wine with my lunches and dinners. STRAIGHT: I don't believe so, but you can order a fresh scoop of ice cream after your meal. GAY: It's on Market Square, right? STRAIGHT: You can eat outside on the plaza. The weather lately has been perf...

You are supposed to be a brave politician, but you're a coward.  You can't handle the back-and-forth bullshit. But I still desire and respect you. Sadly, since entering politics,  you have lost your way. You and I should be living in Havana instead of enduring this futile life in the Third World Capital of the United States. Remember those romantic adventures in Uruguay and Argentina? Remember when I urinated in the coffee cup cause you were taking too much time squeezing out a shit in the bathroom? I thought you knew men well enough to recognize they will piss anywhere when the urge is too strong and the relief so gratifying. You scolded me for my action,  but 15 minutes later we were making love. Let's get a room across the border at the Hotel Ritz on the top floor and relive those fun moments. You're wasting your time  in your endeavor to save the barrios. Save me, instead, bitch!!!

I live by the lie. Lies have saved me time and time again with the exception of my three failed marriages. As long as spouses lie to each other, they are still in love because "love" between a man and a woman is the biggest lie of all. Nevertheless, I find comfort in the lie. If one day my lies should fail me, I can at least turn to the truth. But what options do those poor fools have who have thought they were living by the truth? Unlike me, they are without alternatives to resolve their despair. And imagine the awful truth when they realize that the faith they had placed in their truths turns out to be lies. To add a little humor to this sad philosophy, when two lovers lie next to each other, they are ejaculating one lie after another into each other that in the end may prove more fatal to the relationship than AIDS.

I have a bowl of cereal, a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. It's nine. In my office I reach into the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out the stash. Marijuana accelerates me. Sometimes it fills me with too much energy and I want to drink and smoke, but that is part of a late afternoon spree. I sit in the backyard and puff. A chachalaca tightropes along the back fence. Summers in South Texas are tolerable if they're spent in air-conditioning. With no Gulf breezes, the late mornings are the worst time of day. The humidity is asphyxiating. The body isn't prepared for the change after sleeping all night in a cool house. I inhale and the rush invigorates me. How many days in my life have been punctuated by pot? My love for baseball infatuates me with stats. I've been smoking dope for 50 years. If I've smoked 100 times annually, I've been stoned 5,000 times. I have convinced myself marijuana is more positive than negative mentally, but I have no idea about ...

They say that behind every good man is a woman, but women have ruined many good men.  A muse can be as taxing as a wife or a lover, but she is more concerned about giving rather than receiving.  She inspires artistry because she cannot abide by anyone less than an artist at her side.  Enlightened by this insight, I must write and write and write.  It is my ultimate satisfaction.  But do I have the ability to meet the challenge?  That is the question. How can I covet, or better said, how can I ever be jealous of anyone when I am in competition only with myself?

My dog Pancracio died yesterday. I had him for 17 years. My two oldest sons gave him to me as a Christmas present. "I know you don't like animals, Daddy, but Pancracio will change your mind," said Carlos, the oldest. "I baptized him 'Pancracio'," said Joaquin, the younger of the two. "Everybody makes fun of the name Pancracio. Nobody will make fun of this Pancracio." Pancracio was a German Shepherd. Seemingly against his fierce nature, he hated anyone who smacked of being a Nazi. On several occasions he tried to bite Terry Ray, Bill Hudson, Harry McNair and other Anglos whom he suspected of believing their blood was purer. There were many nights when I would sit in my backyard drinking wine and smoking a joint. Pancracio would nuzzle against me and point his nose at the joint in anticipation. I would exhale in his face. Pancracio loved to get high. During his youth I would take him to Matamoros and enter him in dog fights. For more than five ye...

The more we detach ourselves, the less susceptible we are to suffering. The more we attach ourselves to possessions and people, the more woes burden our lives. I am lucky. I only desire the basics which my one-bedroom apartment at the Fort Brown with an incredible view provides. I have never been materialistic. I have never felt the need to keep up with the Joneses. It is the one lesson that has remained with me from my hippie days. Peace, bro... I don't have a car. I never have to worry about cutting the lawn or fixing an engine. I have a decent selection of clothes and shoes. I can give the impression attired that I live in a mansion in Rancho Viejo. Since everything is an illusion for starters, why fight the current? I love Zen Buddhist philosophy, but I could never be a monk. My attachments to drink, drugs, dames and dining doom me. All four have led to unpleasant outcomes with family and friends. While I'm not instinctively detached from family and friends, personal proble...

I've preached  the same gospel to the Romans, to the Hebrews, to the Corinthians, to the Galatians, to the Ephesians, to the Philippians, to the Colossians, to the Thessalonians, God is dead!!! Donald Trump is our Redeemer. The black witch is an African idol. Send her to Haiti! Send her to hell! The Orange Jesus is the Second Coming. Wash his feet! Lick his ass! I have felt his touch. I am saved!  

There is nobody more synonymous with medicine in Brownsville than Dr. Lorenzo Pelly. The physician, who escaped his native Cuba when Fidel Castro and Che Guevara assumed power, is retiring after nearly a half century as an internist and critical care specialist. From State Judge Juan Magallanes to the poorest people living in the barrios, many of his patients have credited him with saving their lives or making their lives better. "I've never met an individual who has worked harder than my good friend Dr. Pelly," said Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss. "He has been at his post 24/7/365 ever since I first had the pleasure of meeting him. His dedication to his calling has been awe inspiring. With his departure from active practice, we are losing one of our icons." Besides his commitment to medicine, Dr. Pelly has always shared a keen interest in local politicians. He memorably grabbed The Brownsville Herald's headlines when he brought a burro to a city commission meetin...

I ran into a former colleague at HEB. She was sitting in a motorized cart as she weaved her way down the aisles. She retained her winning smile, but she looked at me, probably noticing that I had also aged, and said, "These aren't the golden years. These are the olden years." When you are in your eighth decade, you are in the process of a slow death. I've lost many friends and acquaintances to heart attacks and cancer over the last year. My world is inhabited by ghosts. I remember more dead people that I do live people. Physically, I'm imploding. I don't know if I'm crumbling, collapsing or disintegrating. Or if I am a victim of all three. My mind seems intent on remaining with me, until death does us part as I've repeated in three marriages, but in the latter cases these have proven to be empty words. Death, however, communicates to us in dire and direct terms and never vacillates: There is nothing permanent except death.  In my front room a tennis ra...