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 Henry 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.

It was like, 'What to do, what to do?' In the end.  

Friday, November 28, 2014

Fairie-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 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 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. 

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Lotto Monday

It was Lotto Monday. Winning the lotto makes a few rich, maybe happy too, being rich in many ways part lugging a psycho monkey around and part being a show-off.  There wasn't as much that was grand about it as people thought. 

Most think it is better to be rich than poor, they are right, the very rich are happy to be rich and so on and so forth.  

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 poorest people in the world,  it was bigger than him, bigger than anyone, you had to laugh, hopeless really.  

The inexorable few rebelling against the petty morality part of it, the saviors beaten before they got out of the gate,  there is an endless stream of them coming down the turn-pike right at you at you. 

Henry chuckling to himself some here and...  

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  reading “ Gold Mouth’s Cry” on the radio.

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 much.  

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, words as pepper on the page. 

The last exit on a still afternoon before the invasion. Deep like mud mixed with sand, allot in it, you could plant in it, but couldn't walk in it. 

In a hall way sitting at their desk the dictator and the wag do voice overs, a kind of ‘speak-nik,'  It was so loud it knocked you down.

Poetic prose, fire balls, peeling the blood orange, flower peddles floating on a rainbow, flipping over and out, wanting out,  no-where to go, writing to escape the weariness of dullsville.