Bienvenidos, gente guapa

Somewhere a young man sits on a balcony smoking his last Marlboro and listening to Nocturnes No. 2 by Chopin. He thinks, but knows not what to think. He asks, but already has the answers. He prays, but already lives in his own slice of Heaven. Maybe it (the balcony) is only a short walk from the beach, on the base of a faraway mountain, or overlooking a corn field somewhere in Middle America.

He ponders incessantly, at work and in recess, in another attempt to scour answers and guidance from the innermost depths of his mind and spirit. He wishes to do good; to make a difference; to be a better man, with a clear vision, conscience, well-defined goals and positive attributes - both physical and mental; tangible and intangible.

He reads the old books, discerning, to the best of his ability, between good and evil. He sits anxiously awaiting his calling; something that he knows is only a short ways away in chronological time.

He goes to work every day; dilligently going about his duties in a hasty, joyful manner; though sometimes the joy is only a front. This front blocks the memories of days past as well as his deep wishes to be out of his present predicament. These memories are dark, graphic, hedonistic, and ominous. They are filled with maiming, cruelty, sex, and a variety of drugs - cannabinoids, uppers, downers, hallucinogens, and even the periodic opiate, sparingly.

He comes from a land north; where the young women are as numerous as the oak trees. The place with all a man, young or old, could ever want, and all and more that could quickly make him meet his demise, destroy him. He has a special place in his heart for the region, as it is the only place he has ever come to fully know (and sporadically exploit).

He now lives paycheck to paycheck; week by week. He knows not what tomorrow will bring, merely a general idea of it. His friends are near and away, few and far between. His parents are in the promised land; his home. His amores are white, Mexican, and black.

They dance around in his head, an infathomable tango of flesh and unholy desires. His prospects are silent, communicating only with text messages and their eyes. Their chalices wet, but empty. He will never satisfy them all - only in his mind. This mental harem is always growing and being calculated for probability and compatibility. It scratches with massive claws and bites with colossal mandibles at his real dreams, every day and night.

He goes to bed with the thought machine still running, alone, and with the same answers in his head. He patiently awaits tomorrow’s dawn, and its endless possibilities.