Monday, April 13, 2015

Cooleridge on a Bucking Bronco







 
Henry walking the hallways and alleyways of his mind, he could see their faces, babyish youth. At first sweet and innocent, later on with a hankering to rip things up, he could see them, their faces painted white against the back drop of the night time arcade, resolute not knowing, cooking up something dreadful.

Henry lazy, fazed and fantasying. Dreams and art were inseparable, it had been that way for hundreds of years, maybe thousands. Pipe dreamers smoking opium, Samuel Coleridge writing on the iffy nature of soul.

“The body,
 Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul,
 The Soul's self-symbol, its image of itself.
 Its own yet not itself—“
 

Writing addictive like opium, addictive for Coleridge, the William Burroughs of Romantic Poets, allot of folks using dope to make fresh art. Dope and art inseparable.
 

Henry ruminating  later in Wah Wah coffee shop about a recurring dream of the Old City in Jerusalem, a city of his design through the mind’s eye, flowing and circular, the yellow break road  with danger in the creases, chased by hell hounds and Nazi headhunters.
 

At Wah Wah another day Henry wanting to wrap this story up. He was without inspiration and had nothing to say, just needing a little filler here, a couple more paragraphs.
 

He couldn’t be bothered much with people anymore, most people talking shit, even scientist and doctors. Politicians full of shit for sure, there was a major disconnect between what they said and what was going on.
 

In the end—LIFE— a bucking bronco ride we hold on too with hammer and tongs till the ride was over, some let go and fall off into the Heavens.
 

Henry wondering how much longer he could hold on?

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Henry the Heckler








Man the shit cam out of nowhere. It was the  joyous stuff you would get inside after days of walking through cob webs and mine fields. It came on fast, a big big feeling that left you reeling and looking for the first typewriter you could find.

This big big feeling of joy inside had nothing to do with anything, it was as though everything inside of you was dancing with joy, not a feeling you could get with dope or anything,it was all natural. 
 

Boy oh boy, Henry freakin on the feeling of gettin up and dancing for joy, jumping for the moon, shooting the moon. Love alive and so so real inside, sending out rainbows from the soul, turn up the music Jack.

Buddy Guy playin “Sweet Home Chicago," Henry’s home town, Henry 16 years old in the 60s goin into the city on weekend nights to  hear Buddy Guy, Junior Wells, Muddy Waters, Paul Butterfield play. He would hide a flask of Southern Comfort under his vest cause he couldn’t buy a drink.  He could feel the blues deep inside,  it was more than just thinkin about where it came from somehow.

Riding the “El Train” goin home after the show,  2am smokin reefer between the cars where they connect. Henry so cool and ahead of his time, same as always.

Living life mostly in his head, dreaming about busting out allot, less and less likely the older he got. Don’t get me wrong though people old Henry still had plenty of jam. 

Henry the heckler stirring up the dead, livin a secret life on the web, singin this song for you, poetry and music, dreamin bout the blues.


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.