Friday, December 16, 2016

Henry's Dream & a Song

Henry’s phone (cell phone) didn’t ring much. In these days a phone call often lead to an event—a date, a good meal, long nights of passion. 

Things fell into place without much protocol, the meal just a wash and the sex even quicker— life losing its thrill value in the age of social media. 

Dreams still marvelous for Henry, all of it turned him on. Dreaming about anything, dreaming at any speed, dreaming about sultry Negro ladies dancing in a corn field wearing banana leaves. Dreaming about baseball, Negro fellas with big fingers catching baseballs in their caps and whisking them about, playing hialeah in Cubano nights.  

Or— a Chinese gal in a third floor loft, the walls full of paintings and photos of red flowers, a feng sui arranged dust covered open space— she,  sharing love and jasmine smiles for gold coins. 

Dreams aside, living still a boon for Henry. The head-stuff was the best, he lived there most the time, it was his place and there was nothing like it. It (the head-stuff) was the easiest thing in the world, it played out for him in slow motion. The outside-stuff very different, speeding by unconsciously, dancing and shaking to empty and dumb syncopation, it wasn’t important to Him anymore. 

In the final count—Henry wasn’t “ Back “  he was ”Never there”. None of it was his, he never wanted it anyway. The others, the big folks, the ones who wanted it disparately could have Henry’s share. 

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.”   Henry Miller

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

My Work is Awful

Henry,feeling beastly, burning up inside, cravin, dope, junk. 

Did u see the film, “Night of the Iguana?"

The Reverend T. Lawrence Shannon, in exile, pursued by a Lolita, breaking down in Mexico, outside of Mexico City, on the bay somewhere. 

Henry didn't care for Lolita's he preferred beautiful middle aged women.  

He, Henry, the writer, writing graphically, paint on the page. 

Henry loved the Little Walters, Dylan Thomass, Jack Kerouacs, William S. Burroughs, and the Hunter S. Thompsons of the world. 

There were more than a few on the list, they were super heroes, all dead of course; including, Charles Bukowski, James Carver, Francis Bacon and Ernie Banks, true champions of the the poetic, paintin, blues and sports world, a lengthy list. 

They lived in a Century  where g-ds roamed the desert plains, loaded carrying little, outcast in their own way, outside of the world, breaking down allot of the time. 

Henry, hardly the best, surreal, just a touch, fragrance of dried flowers and incense, great ganja,  vagina everywhere,  Henry loved it all.  

A lot of folks loved Henry’s stuff, an elite few, the high rollers and king pins. 


—oddly out there, craving human touch and connection—

Monday, August 15, 2016

The Aces of Twitter

Henry doesn’t want to write today or any day, that said... 

A few nights ago on Twitter he was— out of the groove— Twitter slick and commercial, Henry didn’t belong there, or anywhere much. 

Henry used Twitter to kick his stories upstairs as they say. He knew there was no future in Tweeting— drunk or sober— for him.  He put out some great old Tweets a few nights and nobody noticed.

In allusion too his book “Mescaline Sombrero” he Tweeted… 

The book is awful, Lucowski downed a bottle of No Doz and wrote it in 24 hrs. It's garbage.

And on politics and something else... 

Well, I’m drunk now, in Asia. In the beginning Twitter was awesome, and Facebook sucked, now Bernie Sanders sucks, what an asshole.


Look for Jesus or Abraham Lincoln to fall out of the sky about the time of the Democratic and Republican conventions. 


The Clinton's; pimps who run the whore houses that Donald Trump owns.

Henrys' thoughts out of sync on Twitter,  his voice weedy, between the cracks and passed by, walked over and stepped on. 

Twitter in a slick new era,  Twitter people game-ready and fast on the draw,  Aces all. 

Henrys' best days on Twitter dare-say over and done with,  sewn-up, gone.  

Monday, June 20, 2016

The Soul Maggot

Henry laying in bed at 6 am, waking from a dream, he dreamed he was a full blown narrative writer who worked at it. 

Awake with a  taste in his mouth of what he wasn’t and what he was, feeling like,  a slothful and sullen shadow of a writer.

Henry busted up plenty too,  the insides bleeding again, the spirit-maggot eating his guts away, he felt shameful and inadequate. 

William F. Burroughs called it a parasitic being—

“Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.”

Henry after reading Burroughs take on it,  point blankly, matter of factly, without prevarication, scared shitless and wondering—should I be worried? 

Henry soul-bound and circumscribe saying  “I don’t give a shit.” It was his “Salt of the earth,” he was safe from the soul-maggot. 

Thursday, May 26, 2016

How Sweet It Is

Henry saying to himself,  “Fly me to the moon”, and “How sweet it is”,  stuff Ralph Kramden would say when the Brooklyn Dodgers were winning (under the lights) at Shea Stadium (on dark nights), or stuff Ralph would say when Alice let up on him

Go ahead show ur stuff, get loaded and re-read it, internalize your essential asshole-ism, I'm so fucking cool, I am a fool, cathartic release, language and words, jacking-off.  


"Come on boy, the people will like it, keep at it Henry, you're going to be star, your stuff is big son."

Another aside...

"Oh it  smells like shit here Henry, if you only knew you wouldn’t bother."

Not writing, instead, looking for pussy in the alley ways, junk to forget and numb self,  the writer and artist, the junked up angel.  

Ray Charles junk prince,  Jesus calling the brother,  you could hear a steam whistle in the distance, a rising shrill, a commandment,  move on down the road. 

Writing was rap poetry, it was beats,  pounding out rhythm and colour, keyboard stride,  more painting than a story.

Running on empty, busted plenty too,  Henry visceral in the moment.

If u think you're a writer, well think again,  and then forget it.

Bukowski  says….

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-

the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.

don’t add to that.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Dying, Vile and Verbose

Writing, creative writing is like herding cats. Unlike a homework assignment for wayward Henry—the stuff surfaced when it was good and ready, coming from somewhere between the cranium and the navel.

Henry googling chronic pain and fatigue, his daily condition. Filing the resulting hooey and blah blah in the wastebasket of the mystery of medical science or —fucking doctors just don’t know shit and, be patient  Henry in a few more years you will be dead. 

Death a sovereign remedy and elixir, the best LSD trip imaginable or nonbeing and nothingness in the cold stark earth. 

Dying for days, months or minutes, most of it long arduous minutes. Dying, vile and verbose, pain with many faces; cold and hot, sweating and gasping, choking as you shake, dry heaves or salty spew, begging for Mama’s helping hand. 

This was the stuff of Henry’s life gone down.   Carousing maggots, drunk and feasting on rat carcass. An Inglorious fanfare, a death march, a parade without audience.

Henry the eloquent carper, the majestic party poop. Far removed from the crowd with no way back.

It was his and he owned it he thought.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

We Three Kings

Can you imagine Norman Mailer's metaphor, NASA Rockets and satellites blowing spent jet fuel, floating in space, disturbing angels highly tuned sensitivities?

Sometimes the best Christmas memories are unconventional and have less to do with garlands, cozy fire places, christmas cookies, eggnog, the giving of stuff, having more to do with love and magic, seeking out first-time adventure.

Henry the snow-bird going to Alcapulco with his parents on Christmas, 1966, he was sixteen.  The Las Hamacas Hotel, on the street… near the bay. The Las Hamacas, best breakfast ever, fresh baked french roles, avocados, great Mexican coffee, enjoying the feeling near the pool, fresh bright white linens on the tables, surrounded by large coconut and banana trees.

Christmas Eve a nice day, after breakfast Henry headed to the taco bar across from his hotel and ordered a pineapple margarita, he sat at table on the beach, a great juke-box,45 RPM disc, Sop-with Camel, The Strawberry Alarm Clock, some Jefferson Airplane. 

Henry sixteen, easily tempted, astute lover of everything sensual, fresh fruit and flowers, psychedelic music, incense, exotic and erotic literature, always reading: Hemingway, Henry Miller, Anis Nin, William Faulkner, William Butler Yeats, Langston Hughes, John Cheever, Kerouac, the Kama Sutra his favorite and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, spinning it out.  

He saw a young guy and a girl approaching, crossing the street, coming from the hotel, walking arm in arm. Henry leaning in their direction, all teenagers, asking them to sit down with him? They were from Pasadena, California, brother and sister, fifteen and sixteen, Stoney and Moon, Moon-girl fetching, willowy, wearing glasses, long hair, new breast, nymph-like, a child who had recently become a women, Spike hip, lean, tanned, in the cool-world.

After a few drinks Stoney said he felt something near, like a shadow, it was one the locals called the Magician. Stoney went to the back of the cafe, on the beach, when he came back he had a bag of thumbed size, golden buds, fingers of Acapulco Gold.   

We Three Kings went back to the Las Hamacas, hid away in hotel room toilet, filling the door edge with a towel to keep the pot fumes in. It was Henry's first time. By dusk we went outside sitting on the edge of the pool with our legs in the water. 

Smelling ocean and tropics, piquant, pulling on you. Skipping small stones, laying flower peddles on water interrupting, rippling circles expanding outward, chakras perspiring, opening up, attuned, flora magnified a thousand times. 

"Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!"  William Butler Yeats

On Christmas Day We Three Kings woke at sun-rise and caught a taxi to a beach out of town, a run-down movie set.The beach full of Mexicans on Christmas Holiday. The huts used on the Tarzan set had been annexed by the local Mexicans, they set up bars in beach-huts, grills that cooked fresh fish, Parrot and Grouper, Red-Sea Bass, plenty beer on ice, soda, no neon signs anywhere. 

Christmas day, the ocean was like a free juke-box, waves repetitive, rhythmic, Mexicans sat up-right in close-set groups on blankets, drinking, eating, cantina music coming from a radios, the atmosphere was festive.

We Three Kings wanting to drink beer, Stoney the oldest, sixteen, the Mexican vendors didn't give a shit, we bought Corona with limes by the arms-full, played in the ocean, Henry and Moon talking allot about what is life, existence? Is there a God? What kind of music do you like? Meeting on a mental level, both virgins, blasted on beer. 

After sunset, we went back to the Los Hamacas
tired, wanting to rest. We went to Stony's and Moon's room, two single beds, Henry and Moon-girl in one bed, Spike passed out in the other. 

Henry and Moon, every breath new, deep tongue kissing, opening buttons and zippers, fumbling, getting naked, almost there, Henry finding her vagina lubing her with coconut oil, with effort going inside her, Moon surprised, shocked some, not feeling much, Henry coming in 15 seconds, enjoying the smell of her vagina, both hugging when it was over, laughing, drinking beer, in sync, full of the joy of Christmas.

Rattled some, thinking of sex, Henry had forgotten Christmas dinner with his parents. He was walking out the back door to take a swim and his Mom cornered him, he knew what was coming, his Mother saying...

"Henry where have you been all day, your Father and I have been worried sick about you, we think you have been up to something, you didn't leave a note" and so on…

His Mother tap dancing on his head some and lecturing, sermonizing, juiced.

"Henry you missed Mass, this is Christmas, A time for families to be together, to pay respect to the Lord, I can smell beer on you. Maybe you should go to confession tomorrow, Henry this and that, blah, blah...blah." 

His Mother and Father Martini drinkers, into the 60s, committed Catholics, hip in their own way.

A truly wonderful Christmas, not the usual thing.

Christmas stuff, in sync, We Three Kings, given the gift of life's pleasures by the Lord on Christmas. For Henry the best Christmas on record, no churches or crucifixes, no cozy fire, no fat dinner, just the magic colored lights of the city, on the Acapulco streets, in the bars. We Three Kings, the best Christmas gift of all, Moon-girl, Henry and Spike, having a spiritual Christmas, green and red colored gamma-rays, the true stuff.