Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Henry Itching


 


Blasted,  writing like a fire ball, crashing with head empty, the power came and went, it never asked you if it should, you had to reach out for it.

It was a difficult mix, getting blasted, measuring out just enough to make it (writing) easy.  Henry could write best on reefer, his worse stuff was “Drunk writing”.

The great ones just had it, working hard, born to do it. Henry was the laziest writing under the sun. Sadly it got down to doing it because he had to, an addiction, not a higher calling for him.

Writing alone wasn’t fun, reading your stuff at coffee shops and in bars would be great fun.  It was Henry’s dream to tour the USA and read his stuff to small crowds.

At times a feeling would well up inside of him, the feeling like a whore house on Saturday night, it was as though the order that held the world together was eroding. It was a great feeling like a world wide party, like anything was possible. It was a feeling of full blown self love, as though the shadows of past failure and self doubt melted away. 

Henry in old age on automatic pilot,  no more psychic lessons to learn, soul waiting for what came next.  Maybe the ones who died  young had to come back and do it again? Henry finished, just waiting.

The internet was the biggest diversion of the century.  Think of the work hours lost to social media. Henry would rather dick around on the net than write. It must have been different for your Hemingways, Dos Passos and Henry Millers, they, dedicated to their craft.

Henry would rather be somewhere else than where he was, always itching.















Saturday, February 21, 2015

Fat Chance Henry





Henry didn’t want anything in or out of the world, having to siphon every bit of fire to get through the day took most of his energy.

Besides the usual, the spirit drip-drip stuff, he had a dose of the Chinese Virus to boot, like a hurricane in the tubes, more powerful than a speeding anti-biotic.

Sometimes between dreams he rose above decaying physicality, seeing with clarity, dancers in his head filling the joints of brick-work to a better day, mind breaking-lose, free for awhile. 


Dreams for Henry better than real life. His dream-machine, psyche and libido caressing the inside stuff. Waking a let down ending sadly with an understanding— real life never as good as dreams.
 

In Wah Wah coffee shop watching old men drink coffee,  gray as  print on a newspaper, prune-faced. Henry old too but, his mind was a whore-house, potty and zealous, digging it, life's a boon. The grey-haired and prune-faced fucks bored the living shit out of him.

Old artist rocking on into old age, the Bukowskis and William Burroughs turning old age in for kicks, riding the bucking bronco,  juiced to the moon, Henry loved these guys.

The Rolling Stones playin on colored-radio somewhere near Memphis. Henry heaping on some fine cocaine, his nose full of the stuff. Keef Richards spinning rainbows on a banjo,  fuck a star, a drink in Arizona, down and out in West Virginia, you  get what you need.

Back at Wah Wah coffee shop another day, Henry wanting to wrap this up, there wasn't much left inside, his work lacking,  a recurring pain, writing for what and who knows why?
 

A rank affair looking for an exit, a way out,  getting worse not better.

Of course he would like to think that his shit was great art, ha, fat chance Henry.  

Sunday, February 1, 2015

A Second Rate Poker Hand




Dancing to music out of tune, finger-tips raw on the key-board, dog-eared and crisp.

Henry saw G-d and spirit as made up stuff, and dreams as film shorts, reruns, brain-waves run on celluloid, take it at face value he thought.    

Henry two years old visiting Navy Pier with his mother, she smoking and drinking with pals. Henry up and moving about, he falls off the pier into the mucky lake. Drowning, on his way out, he sees a light above at the end of a spiral-tunnel, anti-matter pulling him in. 

The baby wakes on the pier, pulled out of the muck, close to but not making it into after-life, retrieved and brought back to life.

Henry full of ingratitude, inarticulate at two, wanting to scold whoever pulled him out for cutting his trip to the abode of G-d short. He wanted what was up there, babies are captives of mothers bent-on protecting them. 

Humans cling to life, afraid of death inventing after-life, conjuring and stirring hidden voodoo, imagining allot, lost in a head-trip of self-hypnosis.  

Henry, anointed and plenty wet by the age of two had nada to bring back from his vision of the heavens.  

In old age Henry a half-ass Buddhist, unholy, for whom reincarnation was nonsense. 

Life full of pain, pain relief, then pain again. Ouroboros, mythical snake coiled and biting it's own tale, the circular grind in donkey time.         

Life as pain, the residues of delusion and schizophrenia, escape just a illusion. 

Henry thousands of miles away from Jesus, the Devil, the Moon, the abode of G-d, any of it. Assured it was a bunch of rot, pooh and who yah.

Life a second-rate poker hand.   

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.