sweating like jason robards

Today the temperature reached 100 degrees in Echo Park. I watched baseball in bed all day long, sweat pouring from my hair, salt dripping from my nose to lips. I'm definitely a man by taste. Hunger was inside of me, but it's easy to ignore you're body when you're body is nothing more than a wet flesh suit. I can't think to write. There is a fiesta across the street. It's a birthday party by the look of it, and by the familiar happy birthday music rippling from the Mariachi's. It sounds like birthday music, but it's different. It's mexican.

I'm sitting here in the 100 degree heat at 8 o clock at night. I'm lake of sweat. My eyes are perspiring. My lips are stained red from a half bottle of wine, they are cracked and dry. If I had a gun I'd look like Warren Oates in a Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. Today, sitting very close to the mexican border in southern california, I am a Sam Peckinpah film. There is nothing left but my body, the mexican birthday party, the wine, and my mind shooting at 60 frames per second in the Los Angeles heat. Slow Motion.