Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Nanno's Last Recitation




Henry hadn’t sold a copy of “Mescaline Sombrero” On Amazon.  He felt successful in an anti-social way. 

Henry  on an old bus late at night going somewhere in Mexico.  To his wonder every seat occupied by howling witches with matted raven hair. Their evilness didn't come from covens or curses, it radiated from inside. 

In the morning the bus still on the way,  to Puerto Vallarta maybe. Henry opens the window for air and sees Hemingway passing the bus at break neck speed driving a Black Corvette as he waved a bottle of Mescal about wildly, looking as though he wanted to get there.

Hemingway in the end suicidal and empty,  Henry a blank page as well,  all glory would't bring them back. 

Henry's body hurt all the time,  never a break from the pain. The bus stopped for diesel fuel and Henry dropped a few Oxycontin, washing them down with Mescal.

Henry’s  lap-top an AK 47,  words as bullets,  it didn't feel safe as evil radiated from witches brew was leaching through,  a foul oder on the bus,  he would do anything to get a story out. 

Maybe it was the last exit,  Henry going  to the abandoned movie set of  “ The Night of the Iguana ,” Seaside on the coast of Puerta Vallarta.  He would find the terrace on which Nanno recited his last poem.  When the moon crossed overhead he would read Nanno's Poem to the night sky,  that would fix Henry all right. 



Nonno's Poem

How calmly does the olive branch 
Observe the sky begin to blanch 
Without a cry, without a prayer 
With no betrayal of despair 

Some time while light obscures the tree 
The zenith of its life will be 
Gone past forever 
And from thence 
A second history will commence 

A chronicle no longer gold 
A bargaining with mist and mold 
And finally the broken stem 
The plummeting to earth, and then 

And intercourse not well designed 
For beings of a golden kind 
Whose native green must arch above 
The earth's obscene corrupting love 

And still the ripe fruit and the branch 
Observe the sky begin to blanch 
Without a cry, without a prayer 
With no betrayal of despair 

Oh courage! Could you not as well 
Select a second place to dwell 
Not only in that golden tree 
But in the frightened heart of me





Nanno's Poem most likely written by Tennessee Williams.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

The Saloon (Just Checking In)







Two Centaurs doing Yoga in the Black Forest, flip-flapping,
standing on their heads, causing the blood to flow from their feet to their heads, making them feel like men.

It was the birth of the scene behind the scene. 

Circa 1969 Golden Gate Park the dead was playing, Henry gives Alva Ginsbrook a hit of acid, the scene behind the scene unfolds.

Alva composed Howl, the dead heads still trance, it goes something like this…old traces.

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind”, 

And so on—

Later that night Henry on Grant Street walking towards the Saloon Bar  heading down hill, he sees  James Baldwin face to face. Baldwin a cranky Negro author on speed and booze allot. Baldwin looks at Henry and punches him in the face, a weak punch. Henry laughs knowing he could kick the gay Negroe’s ass. Baldwin was schizophrenic, he might have thought Henry was a dragon or a spider.

Henry makes it past Baldwin and ducks into the Saloon Bar, Janis Joplin is holding court with Hells Angel Terry the Tramp, she was a jerk when drunk and drunk most the time, the regulars avoided her. She bought acid from Terry the Tramp and hit the bricks real fast.

Max the failed sculpture, ashen beard down to his waste in overalls at the bar, same corner everyday.  After a successful show of his work in Rome circa Fifties, he never worked again. 

Max asked Henry if he believed in God? Henry says—

“ I really don't think there is anything there and a spirit with consciousness that answers prayers, I doubt it.”

And— 

“ If God is there Max better not cross him or get on his bad side.”

Max says—

“ OK Henry just checking in.”

Friday, March 21, 2014

1o Minutes





Lyrical, a smile on his face, a fat cat, doing whatever he was doing without a care, microcosmic.

At home with little people and coons, taking an occasional swig from a metal flake flask with a Hells Angels locos on it .


Henry the  dream machine flying with angels parallel to the ground, folks walking off their diners on main-street, fat.


Painfully excited, dancing with Molly, begging the straw-man. 

Nothing theoretical on his mind, living in the now without a thought, feeling the wind on his face,dancing with the Devil, doing a nose dive .

Writing flow of consciousness,  10 minutes and out poetic prose. Breaking ground, new word form on the edge looking out , breaking the mouth. Quick thrills, jolts to the body, nothing to think about.

Henry thought it was “ Lazy writing,"  having told all his stories before it was all he had.

Just a monkey riding a duck home,  coming home.  Cooking Cocaine and X, loading it up, popping it. Nowhere at all, nowhere, no-place in no time. 

Life eternal and never ending, without a care. 



Hit in the back with a baseball bate, basing out, his ten minutes were up. 

Monday, March 17, 2014

Mr Moon












Henry  could hardly recognize it,  wanting none of it, disjointed, spurious, a mensch and clown,  feeling fooled.

Henry Lucowski and Jackie Gleason,  old moon-boys  from somewhere else. 

Bone-Tired Mr.  Moon,  hungover and coming down,  heading into darkness, 

Old Bill saying, “ When  radio waves and moon-beams breathe, dream and write Henry, dream and write,  go to nature, sound off and preachify son."  “ Write stories in the sky.” 

Writing is a slow process Henry thought— your work must have form and level. 

Laying in bed at night tweaking, Old Bill writing stories in his head,  never  the same,  wanting to finish another story.

Henry never working overtime,  full of inspiration,  trying to say something,  wondering when he would get his check.

Henry and Old Bill junked up and listening to Ray Charles on the Colored Radio, asking his baby not to go, partings part 1 and 2. 

Henry’s work somewhere between short stories and poetry, deep stuff, blind soul healing the rage. 


Not knowing much and  knowing he didn't have to do it anyways.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

The Beat Hotel









In The Beat Hotel— Colonel Bill and Alvah Goldsplat—  Flaming Blue Meringue pie washed down with decanters of Moroccan Coffee and clove. “Cock Sucker Blues," By the Rolling Stones on the colored radio, WBXR,  shaking off layers of raw-hide and croc-skin. 

A  Marrakech boy siting on Alvah’s lap, Alvah reading him the Torah and Howl,  stuff from future and centuries past.

Out back on an old sofa, Bill loaded his shotgun, blowing up  beer cans, watermelons, baby dolls and old TV set.

Henry chanting with Bill, poetic stuff from dreams.

Saying—

“ Embrace all that’s dark and wicked Henry, meet them head on son, lie down and hold them tight kid, it’s the stuff of dreams”.

Mainlining a speedball, lapsing into dreams full of color, living the Life of Pi, planting Gospel Trees. Knowing there’s no place like Nashville and Memphis rock n roll, tossing seeds to the wind, two straw men asleep at the wheel. 

Chuck Berry singing “I Love You," On out of focus radio, wooly stuff loose and free, it was a  summer afternoon in New York City,  Hippy women bathing naked in Orchid Sea, a beautiful day full of rainbows.

“Isn’t it a Pity," By George Harrison playing on  Colonel Bill’s radio the room began to sway as the celling parted and rained down powdered cocaine, bathed in white light. 

 Old Bill whispers to Henry—

“ Remember Henry words belong to no one and break the law when you write”.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Jazzed on a Speed-ball







Henry Lu a man of few thoughts, not caring much for the future or the past, all choked up and trying to say something.  

Mathew Mccnaughhey, a  performance and soliloquy at the Oscar Show,  just a kid confessing on stage, replete in his tailored white tux, red hair all curled and sparkling. 

“Everyday I need someone to look up to.” (Being on top and looking down).  “It’s lonely up here,  I need God to look up too, I’m all alone, talk to me God!” And so on. 

Henry Lu looking for his shotgun and pucking all over himself… pucking for Mathew Mccnaughhey,  letting it out,  getting rid of it in the bucket, purged, running through the flames, dancing. 

It’s 12 o’clock in Manhattan,  Colonel Bill out and about in Central Park with a shotgun and a metal detector looking for the pusher-man. 

“ Henry I don't write much without a fix,”And, “ I’m a lazy writer and I’m hungry, why I could mainline a mix of lightning bolts and razor,  (bleeding , juice flowing again, segment and  paragraph). 

A blind genius sees the world in black and  shades of white, jazzed in a Harlem living room, greased, Bach on electric piano. 

“Writing is art Henry, the writer paints with words, it’s been said before,  blind soul and perspiration, like a speedball.” 

Later, by midnight fixing on a paradisiacal and glorious vision...”

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Henry Awake and Asleep Part Two

  












There’s  rythmn n the air tonight ~  

Henry Lee (Hooker) Lucowski, born  between a rock and a palm tree, a living doll, argent eyes and long hair. Earnest to the bone,  too big for his shoes, born a misfit, ornery and waspish. 

Listening to the Rolling Stones on W0MS, Mississippi radio, moon beams and an anthem coming out of the radio. Drinking Jasmine Tea, smoking tea, drinking mint juleps out of a green coconut, snorting thimbles of cocaine. 

These are the glory days….

Henry, thinking aloud and talking to himself, shrugging, hunched over, scratching his head, beatific, delighted, burnt opiates,  rocking n rolling with little queenie, dancing with Etta James, rubies and Black Beauty. 

Henry, scratching all over,  watching Taxi and Ernie Kovacs reruns on TV, happy as a pig in shit, feeling organic,  reading High Times, head knelt down before his typewriter, coming down.



There’s  rythmn n the air tonight ~