Saturday, August 1, 2015

Steam Rolling Through Life

Henry Lucowski fucked, jilted by most and himself too. He was junk, the lot of it was. The Henry thing reeking, feasted on by maggots and grub-worms, bare-bone and all.  

In Wa Wa Coffee Shop, not liking the past, Henry the steam roller, rolling through life, melting it down, dumping hot ash on the junk, it was the past and he hated it. 

Henry’s mind like a cess pool, taking all the shit in the world in and pushing it out further down the stream, scared to death of it.

This a mental process he had learned while serving time in San Quentin, a coping mechanism that keep him from going over the edge. 

Henry hated himself without reservation, consequently he stopped looking inside and in the mirror. He could see beauty in others and things, but not in himself. 

( Bukowski “ Born into This,” on You Tube spurring Henry on )

So Henry kept at it, the writing, for absolutely nothing. G-d knows why? 

The feeling of emptiness never left him these days. He felt his spine was tapped from the vertebrae nearest his brain, down.

Henry was stuck here.   

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Angel Headed Hipsters

Henry in a shit-hole, not suicidal,  just holding on—a hand full of nothing. 

Microscopic razor-blades flowing through his veins, inter-cellular antagonist at war with Henry inside.  

Henry at Wah Wah coffee shop, he would stop off here. Chocolate and coffee for breakfast offering temporary relief of pain, even cocaine was temporary, everything was. 

Reading “HOWL” by Allen Ginsburg—

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angel headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…”

Henry thinking on  “HOWL” some —a poem of desperation,  pathos and modern revolutionary heroes, victims of excess and predators of the “Negro night?”

Henry’s mind a space ship flying no-where he thought. 

Reading over today’s writings he realised his mind was gone, afloat on a  river of shit, and so it goes. 

Sunday, July 12, 2015

It Did His Pain In

Henry one eye open and one eye closed, he could pick and choose this way. The same with his mind, open to some closed to the others, he had a “Cross-eyed heart.”

Born with a good ear, at times he felt music could heal him, it took him away.

Henry hardly on fire,  no burning issues on the table, frankly he didn’t care.

Having told all his stories, lacking fire in the gut, it made it hard for Henry to write.

It was sad that he had nothing after a life-time of G-d knows what? 

The ghastly nothingness  Henry felt in old age was reminiscent of Sartre— the cool soberness of existentialism—Henry’s final stop in life before death. 

 “Most of the time, because of their failure to fasten on to words, my thoughts remain misty and nebulous. They assume vague, amusing shapes and are then swallowed up: I promptly forget them.”

Quote from Sartre’s “Nausea.” 

Existentialism the soul-eating virus that changed the equation of life in old age—Henry would meet it face to face— it was nothing he thought.

Henry pitied the writers, the spinners of yarns, the glorious fiction, the mystery, the spy, the ghoulish stuff.  Writing fiction was lying for him.  

Telling the truth was tantamount  for Henry— it did his pain in.  

Saturday, June 27, 2015

Making it Rain

Maybe another candy bar would jump-start Henry, more coffee he thought.  Coffee and candy for breakfast.

In Wah Wah Coffee Shop, Muddy Waters on the box,  Henry particularly loved “King Bee” and “I’m Ready,” the stuff Muddy did with Johnny Winters.  Muddy a heart as big as a deer, the King Buddha of the universe, waves of love flowing outward from his heart.

In the old days Henry figured Muddy could make it rain
—It was the stuff of Orgone Energy, Wilhelm Reich, orgasm sex rays rising into the heavens, spreading universal love, making it rain.

Henry  mad or high enough to believe he could make it rain in those days.

Henry’s mind
then and now, A queer world, a roller coaster ride,  the past forgotten as a matter of psychic survival, ZEN>

Henry's dream
— to be known as a poet and writer some, to ramble through the  USA and read in coffee shops and bars,  to make it rain for folks.

Henry and Muddy Waters could make it rain alright.

Friday, June 19, 2015

The Jesus Trick Bag

Henry hung up on the rack Jesus-like as impassioned voices burst forth—

“Crucify the gimcrack mother-fucker”

“Get rid of him and his kind”

“The earth will be a better place if you shut him up”

And so it goes Henry thought— Nothing like a slap in the face as ominous and wintry death approaches. Jews weeping vainglorious as  Centurions whip the be-Jesus out of him.

Followed thru life by a shadow, a fateful warning—He new it would be nasty in the end, it was the same for everybody, there was no escape from the certitude.

Henry feeling as though a sieve had been forced into his mouth,  cement and glue poured into it as as the drying process unfolded slowly the body solidified, he could hardly move or think, he was dead-thick.

It wasn’t clear anymore, he was uncertain if he was present here or not—The picture went from clear to semi-clear, at times fading out completely.

Henry listening to Freddie King live on colored-radio, WXRT Houston rock-in blues, back now—

“ Gospel, blues and Jesus-stomp “… he thought—

Remembering “Blues Brothers,"  Jake doing flip flops, levitating, James Brown high on TCP.

Henry lifting himself up off the floor,  Jesus standing over him says—

“ Why Henry you know life is a gift and you can open yours now…”

Henry in the Jesus trick bag.

Friday, June 12, 2015

The Edge or Something

When Charles Bukowski was asked how he got through life? He said,  “ One candy bar at a time…”   Buk funny in a dark way, a horrific   humorist, the wino  spinning out modern Twainisms .

Henry  almost awake, slumped in his chair.  At Wah Wah Coffee Shop early enough to get a good chair and to be left alone.

The world is full of everything you can imagine and Henry wanted none of it, he had enough, he didn’t need anymore— 

Aside: Henry often pricked himself with a needle to provoke feeling. 

There was nothing new under the sun— There was technological innovation to boot A new robot, a new gun, a robot with a gun, flying monkey robots with guns that carry computers Onward and out, then forward until they crash.  All the rarified metal and plastic junk ending up in a non degradable dusty-dung heap.

 Two more paragraphs lets keep it cool. When it came to his stories Henry a whore who couldn’t give it away. He would do anything for attention, it was shameful.

Burnt out, wanting to end it here, wanting to get to the essence of it quickly, so here it is the ultimate lazy man's ending, a quote.

 “THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”

Hunter S. Thompson

Friday, May 22, 2015

“Ars est Celare Artem”

Over the last couple of weeks Henry wondering, mulling over the “why” of writing.  His work short of august, not getting there, Henry a voice in the crowd not heard,  apolitical to boot.

Henry at Wa Wa Coffee Shop... thinking,  wondering if the great writers had a burning passion to get the word out. 

Hemingway looking at a blank page, giving up and offing himself, his writing kept him going like junk, when it died he died. 

Henry out of juice too, dragging the g-d damn thing around like a fat wife or herpes.

He knew what it was to be powerless over something and to live in pain, it was the kind of stuff that accompanied you in old age, like a shadow you couldn’t shake, or that fat wife with herpes.

Henry wanted to get a story out,  always the same, g-d knows why?   The junk's itch, an irritation that had to be scratched and dealt with from time to time.

Take the award winners, the lionized and lauded, Henry secretly hating them —  jealous and envious.

Henry beyond having had enough of it, beyond not caring about it,  between the cracks somewhere, only occasionally coming up for air and not liking what he saw.

Wondering if you could call his stories, “Stories”? It wasn’t story telling, more a process of waste management.

The biggest service Henry could do for his readers was to keep it short and sweet.


“Ars est celare artem”

True art is to conceal art— and so it goes, maybe Henry was on to something after all.