Monday, January 23, 2017

Fools Paradise

Good luck Henry plenty of juice, gassed, feeling warm inside. 

Sunday afternoon, laying in a bed, room dusted with white energy.

Blind with clear vision, junked up, in the gut of the volcano.

Rattling the bones of collective soul, upward and out, going to Mars. 

Mars silent, still and empty for a million years. A nice place to go.  

Astral projecting,  hitching a ride on an angels back, Sitting cross legged like Geronimo on red Martian hill. 

Looking to the sky, star objects imploding and exploding simultaneously, kaleidoscopic.

Henry transported, moved, powerless, orgon energy, getting off on Mars.

Looking down from far above, the Earth a fools paradise.  

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.