Oliver Belmares

This is the year the world is suppose to come to an end again and I continue to scrape by scratching my ass to the bare minimum. These are my thoughts walking down a well lit street across a city that doesn’t even need cabs. At the center of the city lies a stone sculptor of a small mission that once stood then fell and we celebrate the fallen. It is possible that a lot of the fallen Mexican comrades at the battle of theAlamofelt like complete failures as they bleed out into their hay beds while the Mexican army surrounded their shoddy little hut. Thinking that their powerful rulers had won over everything they worked so hard for and nobody would avenge them, not even the Americans. Nameless heroes died in that hallow fort with no idea there would be a response attack days later on the hills ofSan Jacinto. The men of theAlamoheld that shit down together for days and was the loss was  avenged in (give or take) eighteen minutes but everybody knows that except the fallen. The poor, toothless, dirty Mexicans who probably loved drinking and whores more than any other American hero would have inTexascirca 1836. These heroes probably didn’t think much past the whores and their freedom. Maybe that’s why they lost. Fighting for freedom wasn’t enough. It was vengeance that fueled the rage that brought us to victory. That and shit load more Mexicans with guns.

 These are my thoughts walking the street across a city that needs no lamp post when a old town car almost strikes me at the hip at the intersection. I feel more lucky than disappointed. Helluva sign.

Its not that I really want to kill myself but the idea hangs in the air waiting like a funnel-web spider trying to tell me all the interesting things that could come with throwing myself in front of a cab. Instead I wave it down and sit inside hoping the driver will say something random and inspiring to me. Instead he speaks no English and barely knows my destination. I try to smoke and he immediately starts cursing at me in some sand language. I tell him to quit being a nosey little bitch and he seems to understand that very well. By the time I am on the other side of the cab he is at the rear end with a baseball bat calling me a something Mexican. I don’t resent it because most Mexicans don’t really care what you call them. It’s not like calling a black dude a nigger. The baseball bat would be in somebody else’s hand in that situation, or a gun but I’m not trying to get racist here. I’m too busy dealing with this balling phone operator trying to beat my ass with his blue tooth still attached. I know he’s only trying to intimidate me and he just wants me to run off scared of him as if he was a member of regime but I’d much rather just stand here and talk my shit until he’s swung the bat too close to my face for him to try again and not hit me.

The cabby returns to his safe little Twinkie and flips me the bird as I flick my cigarette into his back seat hoping by the time I get my ass down the street I can see his cab burning to ashes and the cabby sobbing in anger outside of it wishing he had gotten the name of that pestilent twenty-some year old prick.