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, Spike and Moon-girl, 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 Spike said he felt something near, like a shadow, it was one the locals called the Magician. Spike 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, Spike 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-girl 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 Spikes's and Moon-girl's room, two single beds, Henry and Moon-girl in one bed, Spike passed out in the other. 

Henry and Moon-girl, 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-girl 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.

Sunday, December 13, 2015


This  story is an attempt to have some fun with the character of Lenny Bruce, it is historically correct some, fictionalised in parts. It's a short story and there is not enough space to chronicle and detail all Lenny's arrest.       

Figaro Lucowski 

Jived to the moon on junk, you shlemiel, schemata, putz…  give me a rim shot, a sleazy drum roll as Cherry Soup takes it all off... real slow, live tits and ass, bang rat ta bing... slassssh. Baby did you cum? Did you cum good now? Lenny on stage a comic, schtick shocking everybody, the fat mayors, cops, the censors, the self righteous, God himself, the sleepers in their easy chairs, white-bread America dead by 9pm every night. Lenny the shark on the prowl looking for a fix at 2 am, brilliant performer and philosopher, the gad-fly bored shitless, poles-apart, scaring the be-Jesus out of middle America in the 50s, 60s, 70s, with off the chart shtick. Non-violent physically with a mouth like a time bomb that could go off any second. Saying things he wasn't supposed to say, pushing it, pressing taboo buttons, trying to get at the silly anal fuckers who controlled the script, the ones that decided what or what-not could be said in public on stage.
Lenny Bruce born Leonard Alfred Schneider, 1925 in Mineola, Long Island, he would become a Socratic one man revolution pouring pepper by the bottle on American white-bread.
From a fucked up family, sure, normality and business as usual never could have made a Lenny Bruce. By 5 Lenny was abandoned by his paternal family and passed around like a piece of meat from relative to relative.
 ….symbol clash schmaltz
AUTHOR'S ASIDE: It's 2 am, Hindemith on the radio is cranking me up, excuse the hyperbole. How many billionares, would give up everything they had to fight for the right of free speech? The right to say something dirty on stage or in a book or sing a dirty little song like "Louie Louie", " My Ding-a-Ling " or " Cock Sucker Blues ". Larry Flynt, publisher of Hustler Magazine, is the only one who has spent millions fighting for free speech, as Lenny Bruce did. Lenny ended up broke and shattered in the end, fighting.
Lenny at 13 stayed on the Dengler family farm on Long Island, four years with a surrogate family that gave him some stable white-bread home spun chutzpah, he had of balls by 17 and he joined the United States Navy in 1942. Lenny saw action and once he was out he became hip fast, hanging at strip clubs, the village and Times Square. Lenny never came close to a American Legion Hall or Memorial Day parade the rest of his life. 
Chew on this… Lenny was in the Navy for four years, he was HONORABLY DISCHARGED in 1946, for homosexuality. The Navy, the gayest place in the world, take the Neptune parties as they cross the Tropic of Cancer. Wearing coconut shell bras, put-on ladies' tits or Fijian grass skirts, wigs even. Sleeping in hammocks hung close together on long voyages. OH….any port in a storm hey sailor? Tokhes hanging out of hammocks, over-head swinging back and forth in rough waters at 2am..ahoy there matey?
Lenny served through World War Two, in the heat of  battle. The homosexual stamp on Bruce's discharge was a concession of Navy cluelessness, "This boy is a freak of nature, he doesn't think like the other good ole flag waving boys in the US Navy, we can't pigeon-hole him, he is odd, out there, so we will simply stamp his discharge papers, HOMOSEXUAL." The only category on the list that was odd enough to describe Lenny at the time.
When Lenny got out of the Navy in 1946 he was HIP, a radical concept for many at the time, particular for the Dengler family that raised him through high school. He showed at the family farm dressed in a Wave's uniform. He just got a little freaked out that's all. Lenny had a little taste of junk, fixed it, he started shooting up on Victory Day in New York City. The wholesome Dengler's wondering what happened to Lenny in the Navy? THIS ISN'T THE SWEET BOYCHIK LEO SCHNEIDER WE KNEW?
Lenny was living in New York in 1947. He started to spend time with his real mother Sadi Kitchenberg a comic, who had been on the road during his early life on the borscht belt. Away all the time she couldn't take care of him when he was young, throwing infant Lenny out like schemata in the bath water. Sadi was borscht belt comic royalty and off the chart. Lenny was born to be what he was, he and Sadie would sit in the kitchen at their apartment in Brooklyn and add lib, do comic routines for hours, Sadi recognised that Lenny was a comic genius and had talent.

There is a scene in the film "Lenny", Dustin Hoffman plays Bruce, not bad, not bad at all for a cowboy. Lenny and Sadi, Sadi playing straight, Lenny so fucking funny that he moves Sadi to tears, his Ma has to shut the comic monster down for a few minutes and locks him in the closet some, as a joke, to catch a breath.
By the 50s Lenny stood in as MC at the Victory Club on Ocean Parkway, a nightclub where his mother did gigs, his  first taste of show business. Later, performing in clubs such as Squires on Long Island, Clay Theater in Jersey and George's Corner in Greenwich Village for $2 an hour and cab fare home.
After doing bits performing comedy for the square weekend beats, suits during the week, Lenny became bored with yuk yuk green headed folk music lovers. Lenny was a junky, hip all the time, not just on the weekends. He started performing in east coast night clubs and strip joints. Lenny loved doing strip clubs because he was freer to improvise and could use language with less censorship.
Lenny met his first wife Honey Harlowe at a burlesque theater, a stripper who wore mama-san stiletto heals, asian style silk skirts with leg slits and button up collars. He really fell head over heals for Honey, both outcast by the late fifties! It was co-dependent love at first bite. Two adrift, out of place mentsh falling for each other out of desperation on junky strip club desolation row. Yes, Honey was a shekse (not Jewish), which made her more alluring to Lenny, he was bored by women he could control. Honey would cause Lenny allot of headaches in his life.
Lenny didn't like Honey stripping after they were married. She was curious when Lenny would fix, so Lenny fixed Honey one day wanting to stop her from stripping, to get control over her. It worked, Honey stopped stripping, but the couple needed to come up with more money to support their habits.
One of Lenny's early bust, which got him publicity was the Brother Mathias Foundation bit, a scam for junk money. Lenny put on a clergy collar and went door to door collecting money for lepers. He made a whopping eight grand in a 3 weeks. Eventually he got busted and gave two grand to lepers to get off the hook.
Lenny and Honey moved to LA in the sixties, his comedy bits were becoming known and Hollywood people were starting to go to his shows, narcs and the obscenity police were starting to attend his gigs on a regular basis too. Lenny began to move away from doing bits at strip joints and play more "straight clubs". He got his first big break Ann's Club in San Francisco performing  for $750 a week, allot was spent on junk, , but they were staying at first rate hotels after years on the burlesque belt living in dumps.
Hugh Hefner gave Lenny the introductions that would make him famous in 1959. Hefner was hip literati, Playboy  published the work of the the most gifted authors of the time. On the Playboy band-wagon Lenny was contracted to write comedy and do comedic albums for Twentieth Century Fox. The poker game of life and fame is only won by a hand-few, Lenny was on his way. His LIVE performances in clubs were now being recorded and sold on vinyl. He went on TV, the Steve Allen show, Playboy After Hours and the Arthur Godfrey show. 
(Lenny and Arthur Godfrey two people who couldn't have had less in common, like Hunter S. Thompson meeting Nixon, much more toxic and rattlesnake-like, unpredictable and funny). 
Lenny wowed and blew the minds of TV viewers. FOR FUCK SAKE,  heroin flowing in his blood stream and juicing out through speech patterns and movement while on TV. Lenny and Ray Charles, White-bread Americas first 'taste' of jazzed and jones freak-hood on TV.  Sixties junkies on the TV scene held in check by Ed Sullivan and network suits. Scenes like Jamie Fox playing Ray in Atlantic Studios weaving from side to side and itching his shoulders every 30 seconds could hardly be played out on sixties TV. Lenny never kicked and never tried too, Ray kicked, Lenny the rugged individualist, the rodeo clown with a mouth like a raging bull that resonated across the globe, he loved it on the edge, that's what kept him junked and on stage.
Lenny's obsenity bust were what counted historically and were the crux of his insurrection. His bits in clubs, his poetic on the edge use of humor as provocateur, philosophic self dialogue, tweaking and pushing the buttons of obscenity laws of the sixties, seventies and even today are what made Lenny Bruce the revolutionary he was. 
Joe Schlock of the late 60s, doing the trendy thing going to a club to watch Lenny Bruce do his bits, wondering what the fuck? Unable to understand the political references to his court cases for obscenity, the historical  relevance going over their heads. Lenny not pandering, junked up on stage, fixed on the political bits, which were humorless, not giving a shit. 
The film about Lenny's life with Dustin Hoffman was full of watered down bits so movie goers didn't have to work to hard mentally to get the drift of the genius pontificating. But if you have access to his last work in the library or record, wherever and take the time to listen, you will see, Lenny Bruce, Socrates doing his job.
"In March of 1962 his first obscenity trial in San Francisco is held. He is charged with violating Section 311.6 of the Penal code of the state of California, which provides: Every person who knowingly sings or speaks any obscene song, ballad, or any other words in a public place is guilty of a misdemeanor."
October 6, 1962, he is arrested for possession of junk.
Later that October, Lenny is banned from Australia, FOR SAYING FUCK? What the fuck? ( OZZY puritans, maven motha fuckers who fed cyanide to the Aborigine killing them by the thousands, shocked to hear the word FUCK, go figure?)

In December Lenny is arrested at the Gate of Horn club in Chicago for obscenity. The language dicks, you know, the fat square heads with no necks in trench coats, wearing size 12 Wingtips were there waiting for the bad boy to say ,fuck, cunt, pussy. LENNY WITH THE BIGGEST PAIR OF BALLS IN THE 20TH CENTURY OBLIGES AND OF COURSE COULDN'T RESIST, HE WAS ARRESTED.
"Seventy prominent American figures including Gore Vidal, Elizabeth Taylor, Arthur Miller, Woody Allen and Paul Newman sign a petition in support of Lenny Bruce".
Lenny had a number of court cases going on for dope and obscenity in Illinois, New York and California. He continued to perform in clubs, dodging  hard time by appealing and jumping bail from state to state. His legal fees caused him to file for bankruptcy in October 1962. Hugh Hefner and Playboy continued to back Lenny and published his book 'How to Win Friends and Talk Dirty' on Playboy Press.
Lenny the fucking giant bull, you gotta love him for never giving up and selling out his principles, his passion for freedom of speech and freedom to do dope if he wanted to. Always pushing it to the limits, with little regards for his personal health or lifestyle.
On July 25, 1966, Lenny did a show with Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention at the Fillmore East in San Francisco. It was as though the times had finally caught up with him, maybe. Sick, overweight, broke and facing jail time on a shit load of court cases. Lenny siting back stage on an old sofa next to an antique bedroom light on a small table, draped by a red curtain, smoking menthol cigarettes, bored by it all, seeing through the hippies, many who didn't know who he was, most dosing on LSD, somewhere else. Lenny Bruce  wanting to go home to fix and lay in bed, listen to jazz.  
Only a week later Lenny was back in LA, alone in his suburban spa style modern house. Even with the heart of a rodeo bull, Lenny's body finally gave in to heroin and cigarettes, he died of an overdose.