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. 

Good poetry taken to heart could be enough to bankrupt the travel industry Henry thought. 

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

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


‘Fuck the economy anyway.’ 

That was enough for today Henry thought. 

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Lotto Monday




It was Lotto Monday. Winning the lotto makes a few rich, maybe happy even, sometimes being rich,  like lugging a pyscho monkey around. 

Most think it is better to be rich than poor, they are right, the very rich are happy to be rich, there is no right and wrong here.  

Henry feeling lucky to have what he had, out in the middle somewhere and waiting, waiting it out. 

Here is another one— 

Your health is more precious than diamonds or gold, everybody knows that, for obvious reasons. 

Here to stay Henry thought, the petty edict of man-kind having everything  do to with money and less to do with the poor others, it was bigger than him, bigger than anyone, you had to laugh. 

The inexorable few hopelessly rebelling against the petty morality part of it.  The saviors wouldn't would never win, they were beaten before they got out of the gate,  there is an endless stream of them coming down the turn-pike. 

Henry listening to Allen Ginsberg reading on radio Charlotte, WEYJ,  Alvah calling them, 

Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated—“

There is an explanation out there for everything under the Sun, an explanation for everyone and everybody. The things we do are analyzed.   

Sylvia Plath  peeling the  zipper slowly, reading from “ Gold Mouth’s Cry”

The bronze boy stands knee-deep in centuries,
and never grieves,
remembering a thousand autumns,
with sunlight of a thousand years upon his lips
and his eyes gone blind with leaves.”

Truly beautiful Henry thought. 

The great writers unlike the average, in touch with something out there, something humble, they were sucker punched by it. 


And so on and so forth, today the same as many, never changing. 

Friday, November 14, 2014

Peeling the Red Orange







Being an artist and doing your art everyday a peerless adventure. 

Henry editing and rewriting like a nut,  it seemed important, more than a one shot deal, running through and polishing the stuff,  learning the scales.

The  process a windfall for him, he loved everything about it,  flow, tone, rhythm,  the freedom to break away from it,  using cut up method,  painting with words,  peppering words on the page. 

Listening to the radio, WXRT, Charlotte, stuff, information came through it, a steady flow of Martian signal mixed with music waves,  nothing important, they call it inspiration. 

The last exit on a still afternoon before the invasion. It was deep Henry thought, like mud mixed with sand, allot in it, you could plant in it,

In a hall way sitting at their desk  the dictator and the wag do voice over,  some kind of ‘speak-nik,'  knocking you down.

Poetic prose, fire balls, peeling the blood orange, flower peddles falling to the ground, flipping over and out, wanting out, writing as escape from the weariness of dullsville. 


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Moan Disguised as a Story








Henry beat in this world, dumb-fucked in the face of it. 

Suspended in air on sharp hooks piercing his breast. Painful electrical current flowing through his body without relief.   

Writing a low-end hobby that filled the days for him. At time thinking his stuff was good,  great maybe, or 

Henry ashamed, shameful,  mercifully thick skinned, brutally honest.

Rereading his stories— editing them a source of shame and prostration— rewriting sentences, retooling ideas quickly, wanting to look smart and literary to the world, not wanting to look stupid.  

Wondering if his author followers on Twitter: The award winning, seamless and grammatically perfect queens and kings of twenty-first century romance,  spy and vampire novels read Henry's stuff? 

His most recent stories  “Indian Corn” and “ Bukowski Had it” popular enough, a hundred hits in a couple days. 

Henry writing and rewriting the ending to “Indian Corn” over and over, trying to put out a bush fire before it spread, trying this and that, nothing working. Wondering if his 150 readers would throw him a bone today. 

Writing about his condition and the writing process, no longer a story writer or poet,  just an old man complaining about aches and pains.

In his youth Henry loaded some, full of heroic hallucination,  the world melting in his face.  

Sad Henry inspired at times by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Raymond Carver,  needing inspiration,  a chronic complainer creaking and moaning, making a sorrowful sound, wilted lettuce in the junk heap.   

Allot of life was junk he thought. 

His work today not much more than a moan disguised as a story?
  

Monday, November 10, 2014

Kinked on Bukowski









Henry listening to Thelonious Monk in the afternoon, feeling different and reading Bukowski, how did Buk know so much? The God stuff spot on, for instance;

“the gods seldom
give
but so quickly
take.” 

And,

“the gods play no
favorites.”

He calls them "the gods,"  using “g” in lower case, disrespecting God with the lower case designation, gods the same as the rest of the clowns for him.  Henry wondered how many of Buk’s “gods” were out there?    

Buk saying,

“The whole world is a sack of shit ripping open. I can´t save it.”

Well now isn’t that lovely Henry thought, and true too. 

Henry feeling much the same as Buk on this,  in a recent story, “ 10 Minutes Today” saying, 

"For Henry it was lazy writing, no more stories, nothing left, writing on nothing, about nothing, there was nothing at all just a 'bag of shit ripping open'. " 

As well as a Tweet @FigaroLucowski,

“John Cusack is a great talent as a writer, very passionate, I wish I could say I gave a shit about the world, like he does.” 

Cusack sees world government as a conspiracy, selfishness in the face of  common sense. The kid passionate, but for Bukowski or Henry just another day in the shit bag, nothing much to think about, all three cynical,  distrustful and cowed by world government. 

Henry's book “ Mescaline Sombrero”  well, maybe it sucked, the stories were great but it needed more editing, nobody bought it, he had enough stuff in the can to put a new and better book out. 


He loved writing, cheaper, more laid back, not physical and messy like painting. Writing a laid back way to look at the world, writing an awesome groove.
    
His creative life in a vacuum, begging for attention from anyone, begging for anyone to buy his book, Henry shameless.  

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Van Morrison Knocked up Half the Town

               




Flora and Ted Delmar lived in Bolinas, California population sixteen hundred, a artist community that people from San Francisco visited on weekends, with famous residents Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Van Morrison who owned a ranch outside of town. Bolinas looked like the old run down town in the western "Three Bullets for Ringo". The Delmars lived in a small old wooden house, weathered and sky blue color. They were AWOL, Absent Without Leave from society and the rat race, opting out when Nixon was elected.
Flora had a trust fund from a eccentric rich uncle who lived in the East. It wasn't allot, but the Delmars could afford to live simply and past the time painting, writting, drinking, listening to music and smoking pot. Flora painted her dreams using house paint instead of expensive Rembrant paint. She would glue old newspapers and sand from the beach on the thin canvass to thicken and give it texture. Ted had a old Olympia typewriter he wrote his stories on. The couple was moderately successful and could care less about making it. Flora had a few exhibitions in San Franciso and Ted published a book of short stories entitled ' Mescaline Sombero' on Black Sparrow Press.
One night their neighbors, Dennis and Lola Weaver, came to the Delmar house for a visit. They owned the health food store in Bolinas and were heavy drinkers like the Delmars. After eating some falafel and couscous they began to drink bourbon and spring water, passing a joint of high breed Humboldt County pot around.
Lola Weaver knew that Flora had wanted to get pregnant, bored and feeling horney, feeling heat she says, " Oh Flora good lord what is wrong with Teddy's sperm? Try this dear, put raw oysters,  earthworms, seaweed and pumpkin yogurt in a blender then give it to Ted before you make love." Flora says " Oh fuck off Lola we all know that Dennis's sperm isn't any better than Ted's, and that your son Moonboy was fathered by Van Morrison", Lola countered by saying " Well dear my darling Moonboy has the DNA of a genius and will be a world famous musician someday,". "Sure" says Flora in reply reminding Lola that, " Van the mans DNA also carries the lousy genes of a sexed out doper, booze hound, rogue cowboy and bald fat man". Roaring out loud spontaneously the pair laughed so hard that their eyes teared.
Meanwhile Dennis and Ted were in the backyard, peering through a telescope at the night sky as they passed a joint back and forth. It was a fresh and crisp night and you could smell the ocean. The sky looked like a dark blue tarp draped over the horizon as though someone had pricked the tarp a zillion times with a needle allowing the light source from beyond to shine through the tiny holes. Ted got serious for a moment saying to Dennis " One night broh, I was looking at the sky, like we are tonight and I saw a tiny star like blue ray of light that was moving up and down, hovering near the moon for fifteen minutes, then bingo the blue ray shoots up into space and vanishes."  Dennis was skeptical and didn't believe in UFOs saying " You are not going to tell me it was a UFO, maybe it was a star that just flickered out." Ted thought for a few seconds and said, " Well it sure as shit wasn't your momma's booty"! The two good friends wrestled each other to the ground laughing.
Later that evening Flora decided she wanted to walk down the hill and go skinny dipping in Bolinas Lagoon. She wanted to bath in moon beams, asking the Weavers to come along. After splashing about and chicken fighting the couples went to their perspective Mexican blankets, exhausted, full of joy, necking a bit and passed out. Life was good for the Delmars and Weavers, whom in their different ways had escaped the rat race of the city and found simple joy in country living, living off the grid, opting for a spiritually creative life instead. Aware beings, choosing to generate the smallest carbon footprint possible, using green energy to power their houses. Not wanting to leave behind allot of plastic shit that would end up in the rubbish, more carbon based toxins taking a big dump on the precious environment, perpetuating the cycle of sedate planetary suicide.
One Christmas night Flora and Ted got magnificently wasted on Mescal. They finished putting the colored lights on their tree, which was not a pine but a huge home grown cannabis bush in a painted pot. For them Christmas night symbolized the birth of earthly innocence that was eroding, going down to the low lands as the centuries progressed.

Friday, November 7, 2014

circus music





over the edge like popcorn

purple powder shot from gun

black clown and the fire eater

juggle razor blades on tongue

purple hair stripper shows tits

painted the color of rainbows

dancing with the scarecrow

broke down beat music of

the sacred heart down not out

transversing the hill like ants

the clouds burst white rice like

confetti on the people for luck

it was worth 3 bucks they thought

Cherry Bombs and Roman Candles






Henry on a cold, cold morning driving on a frozen lake, his 1963 BMW doing figure eights and cluster fuck spins. In the trunk there was a bow with arrows wrapped in sack, soaked in petrol for a some flaming arrow action later. 

The forest a backdrop to the lake, a picture washed in sepia and bronze light, the leafless tree limbs and twigs accentuated the scene, symbols of nature, graphic color like you would see in Jackson Pollack painting. 

He loved the aroma of the forest, burning leaves, melting coconut butter, fresh grass shoots,  deer musk. 

Henry didn’t hunt game,  preferring pyrotechnic stuff that tantalized the senses,  shooting flaming arrows at night, sometimes he would attach Cherry Bombs or flares, creating an outrageous light show with sound.

Later Henry went to town for a drink—  Walden, Maine a small town with a Maple Syrup mill and a L. L. Bean outlet. 

Antler was a bar where Jack Kerouac hung out in the seventies. You could find all types of people there, bikers, priest, poets, bums, business men, all with their heads submerged in their drinks and not one of them wanting to talk about Kerouac. 

Henry at the bar saw a gal with dreads and feathers in her hair, approaching her he asked what here name was. Her name was Sparrow, she was a poet. 

She invited him back to her place,  she lived in a cabin near a cornfield. After a few drinks he lit Cherry Bombs and Roman Candles almost setting her cabin on fire. She told him to get the fuck off her property and never come back.  Henry made a big impression on her


Just another day he thought.