Monday, January 26, 2015

Cocaine Take My Pain Away




Henry half in the bag, cob-webs in his head, it was often like this in the morning. He didn’t like early dead-lines and appointments because they triggered the lunatic in him, a blind mad-man at the wheel of a killing machine, Henry the road-menace. 

In a dream and not wanting to wake up, wanting to get deeper inside the dream. Henry in a masters level creative writing course, loving every minute of it,  at a half-open window taking notes, a lazy-eye on long-haired field-hippies playing frisbee outside on the green, the other eye on Tolstoy, Raymond Carver and Tennessee Williams.  

Henry a prisoner of brain-rot and political self-deception, an exile in a foreign country without an english speaking university. If he was in the US he could live his dream and study creative writing, this unlikely because he was broke. 

The US a nation of over-weight buffaloes lost-in and wondering a waste-land, brains frozen, roaming the tundra looking for a cheap meal wanting more than was on the plate. They didn’t need Henry and didn’t want him. 

The odds of Henry making it as a writer were slim to none.  Henry hungry still, wanting to make it and find a sponsor to bank-roll a modest tour. He craved it, going on the road, reading to small crowds in bars and coffee shops, it wasn’t about money for him.

Henry wondered about his work? He didn’t write like anyone, and rarely told stories anymore, he wrote what came to mind, a lazy writer crazy about many short story and poetic prose writers. He knew to be kosher and washed you had to write-out your passion on the page, you couldn’t pretend.    

He would think about the story he was writing on any given day, this story, maybe it was empty, ho-hum, dull. Yet, The Stunning Matures Daily had published his work for a few years now and he had close to 20,000 hits on his website, Busted on Empty. 

After the work on the page settled some, it appeared to be bonafide and legit to him. 

Henry had lost his edge maybe —the great-writers of the Twentieth Century seemed to be honed and fine-tuned, never  blowing hot and cold— Someone on Twitter had told him that his work was cool, industrial-strength. Henry feeling his latest stuff was milquetoast, maybe he would get the edge back, or was the hipster in him a ruse. The iconoclast had wilted and dropped off the vine a few years back.  

Watching the Pro Bowl, channel surfing back and forth, spell-bound watching  “Fourteen Years of Caligula” on the History Channel. The Pro Bowl players hardly trying, feeble compared to the emperor,  Caligula had a set of balls and he wasn't afraid to tackle and mix it up. 

Henry getting old his body ached, all the cocaine in Tony Montana's cigar boat wasn't enough to take it away. There were things in life you were stuck with, stuff the Mayo Clinic couldn't do anything about. 

Saturday, January 17, 2015

Jesus Gone Away




Trying to make the most of the holidays in a Buddhist country, it fit him like a hand-made shoe, the mantra of Christmas and the rest, fuck-it he thought. Henry and Jesus a million miles away from each-other, in his heart knowing it was safer not to bother, it was brain-clutter, a dirty old man in the nut-house.  

Henry at it again, writing what-ever it was, sitting in Wah Wah coffee shop, sucking up a bowl of noodles, chile peppers burning his mouth, choking on the stuff, happy to finish it and get to the coffee.  

Wondering whey he bothered with it, the writing or the chile peppers. In a vacuum with-out feed-back, an old punch-drunk boxer in the last round just about out and hanging in there, going down. 

Henry’s literary dreams, dream-prose  wrapping itself around you, 3 D poetry breathing, alive, poised to attack. Waking-up and graving the stuff, it was junk for him.  

What the others thought didn’t matter, he just did it that’s all, there was no reason for it and who said there had to be?

Henry moved from Milwaukee to Hawaii when he was fifty.  The East different, old and new at the same time. A Banyan Tree on top of over-grown roots above ground rising into the heavens, or,  not wearing shoes in the house, eating rice instead of potatoes, eating cross-legged on the floor, eating raw-fish, asian-phobic stuff, things unthinkable for some in the West.  

Twenty years after moving to the tropics nothing turned Henry on much anymore, cocaine was still a kick but it didn’t last. Life didn’t last either, not even for the washed and converted. 

In the end you were left with a big question mark on the page, that was OK Henry thought, there was nothing you could do about it anyway. 

Friday, December 12, 2014

Plumped-up and Peppered





You could see them picnicking on Sunday, off-duty city secretaries and airline hostesses naked on blankets airing out their bushes at the nude beach, it was liberating for all, it was the good stuff. 

Watching old westerns on TNN when nothing else was on, predictable, highly moral and self-righteous raw stuff on the plains, every town with hookers, poker games and violence on the streets, same as always.  

Things you were stuck with in life with-out choice, there was plenty of it. For Bukowski it was working at the post office, for some it was the ever-present enforcer and censor, the irrefutably correct.   

Henry writing every-morning in front of the big-screen computer, getting high, drinking coffee, writing what came to mind, anything, bullshit if he wanted, easy writing. 

Saturday morning finishing this story at Wah-Wah coffee shop, Starfucks charging for WiFi, can you imagine that? 

The money-people plumbed-up and peppered the line-up and the repertoire, Henry thought. 

In the end the rich and poor in the same boat, without much freedom of choice in life. 

You wanted to get as far away from it as you could, look at it and poke-fun at it from behind a bush, ready to escape out the back-hatch on a whisper. 

Age teaches you to keep distance Henry thought, and being poor leaves you little choice in the end. 

Hounded by the petty ethos of the preacher, the irrefutable correctness, the old-fashioned stuff they pass down to you whether you want it or not, it was required for every-one. 

The irrefutably correct corpe of the anal, the cock-roaches, rats Henry thought.  

Monday, December 8, 2014

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, in to all kinds of shit, 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 7, 2014

The Black Slash White Thing




Henry sitting on a torn green leather sofa on Sunday,  getting high, he loved smoking ganja with his coffee in the morning. 

Listening to Etta James, thinking she had so much soul, Etta James, Sylvia Plath and Marilyn Monroe, plenty of soul. 

He didn’t care for Christmas and this year was worse. Relations digging up harmful shit for no reason, blowing their mouths off on the internet to get attention, old never-have-beens wanting something, relevance on the way-out. 

Tired of hearing about cops in America killing black guys on the street for no-reason. US cops attacking like pit-bulls, trained to react like this. There wasn’t much to say about it,  it pissed allot of people off and it should.  

The black slash white thing in America stunk all-over,  there was some kind of junk inside it that needed to be pulled-out and buried. 

America a big bully and a control freak wrapped up into one. In the end America was always the winner. 

Henry felt strung up this holiday season, like a puppet hung on strings  in storage, behind the stage somewhere, feeling holiday deficiency. 

The gods only gave you so much life to live, having life was enough sometimes, you could ask for more but they, the gods, may not give it to you.

In the end there was little choice for all, at death-time, money couldn't help you anymore. 

Friday, November 28, 2014

Faerie-World Beyond the Stars





Exalted up on high in  fairie-world  where paper meets stone, beauteous-color sprayed painted every-where as the glitter-machine worked over-time. 

Jail-birds and out-laws out-grow their cages and flee the world,  a roll of the dice in the casino,  a moon-faced x-roulette-star playing with fate. 

Henry pratfall after pratfall, falling on rough cement pavement day after day, getting scraped up, benighted by it. Finding relief plenty, getting the best of it up on high,  getting high some. 

This must be the the cool-life, Henry thought: Hell-bound,  full of whiskey and morphine,  full of country music. The holy-rambler, the junk-champ down-town on rouge-morgue avenue looking for the high-way.  

On clear-days going to observatories, beyond the lustrous stars faeries peering out from behind corners at you.  

Settled  way-way back in your sky-colored cadillac cruising through rows of red and blue indian-corn-fields,  green  rows of rainbows full of halos,  jettisoned.  

Happy holidays baby,  thanksgiving and christmas,  days of the gods.  





Friday, November 21, 2014

On the River Looking at the Moon








Somedays, today maybe,  unable to get the first paragraph off, stuck in traffic or on the three yard line. 

Drinking at a Chinese juke joint on the river:

Black  and Chinese girls everywhere, busy, Henry hot for the vest pocket girl with a green wig on her head. It was about scoring good cocaine and eating, life wrapped around bowls of it on long tables. Tequila to wash down fried Mollies, sticky rice and okra.   

It was always summer at dusk, driving the back-back roads on the side of the river, the empty-roads slow and leisurely, the convertible-car  suspended on nothing much. Henry color-blind,  the alley-ways folding into sepias wind-tunnels, leaking rainbows, majestic.

Henry didn’t want to leave town. There were too many people on the road, when you travel you are just another buffalo he thought. Traveling an effort, why get out of bed unless you have to? 

Henry on the computer writing, drinking coffee and smoking ganja first thing in the morning. That is what a real-man-writer did. It was ritual and celebration, there was work to be done, editing and re-editing. 

Later that morning reading Dylan Thomas, “The Clown in the Moon,” it was awesome and beautiful stuff, the greatest poetry of any century, the best anywhere. 

Thomas the last ballsy poet, 

 ’My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.’ 

Dylan Thomas writing about the planet he occupied, awesome as any moon. 

Was good poetry taken to heart enough to bankrupt the space industry Henry thought? 

'Why the moon-bound-projects could dry up,' 

belching , the out-going-wind just enough to propel a little more,

Oh fuck the economy anyways he thought, banks gave him a head-ache, he didn't worship money, money the controller of the world, people were slaves to it.  

And so on and so forth today and most days.