Saturday, June 27, 2015
Maybe another candy bar would jump-start Henry, more coffee he thought. Coffee and candy for breakfast.
In Wah Wah Coffee Shop, Muddy Waters on the box, Henry particularly loved “King Bee” and “I’m Ready,” the stuff Muddy did with Johnny Winters. Muddy a heart as big as a deer, the King Buddha of the universe, waves of love flowing outward from his heart.
In the old days Henry figured Muddy could make it rain—It was the stuff of Orgone Energy, Wilhelm Reich, orgasm sex rays rising into the heavens, spreading universal love, making it rain.
Henry mad or high enough to believe he could make it rain in those days.
Henry’s mind—then and now, A queer world, a roller coaster ride, the past forgotten as a matter of psychic survival, ZEN>
Henry's dream— to be known as a poet and writer some, to ramble through the USA and read in coffee shops and bars, to make it rain for folks.
Henry and Muddy Waters could make it rain alright.
Friday, June 19, 2015
Henry hung up on the rack Jesus-like as impassioned voices burst forth—
“Crucify the gimcrack mother-fucker”
“Get rid of him and his kind”
“The earth will be a better place if you shut him up”
And so it goes Henry thought— Nothing like a slap in the face as ominous and wintry death approaches. Jews weeping vainglorious as Centurions whip the be-Jesus out of him.
Followed thru life by a shadow, a fateful warning—He new it would be nasty in the end, it was the same for everybody, there was no escape from the certitude.
Henry feeling as though a sieve had been forced into his mouth, cement and glue poured into it as as the drying process unfolded slowly the body solidified, he could hardly move or think, he was dead-thick.
It wasn’t clear anymore, he was uncertain if he was present here or not—The picture went from clear to semi-clear, at times fading out completely.
Henry listening to Freddie King live on colored-radio, WXRT Houston rock-in blues, back now—
“ Gospel, blues and Jesus-stomp “… he thought—
Remembering “Blues Brothers," Jake doing flip flops, levitating, James Brown high on TCP.
Henry lifting himself up off the floor, Jesus standing over him says—
“ Why Henry you know life is a gift and you can open yours now…”
Henry in the Jesus trick bag.
Friday, June 12, 2015
When Charles Bukowski was asked how he got through life? He said, “ One candy bar at a time…” Buk funny in a dark way, a horrific humorist, the wino spinning out modern Twainisms .
Henry almost awake, slumped in his chair. At Wah Wah Coffee Shop early enough to get a good chair and to be left alone.
The world is full of everything you can imagine and Henry wanted none of it, he had enough, he didn’t need anymore—
Aside: Henry often pricked himself with a needle to provoke feeling.
There was nothing new under the sun— There was technological innovation to boot— A new robot, a new gun, a robot with a gun, flying monkey robots with guns that carry computers— Onward and out, then forward until they crash. All the rarified metal and plastic junk ending up in a non degradable dusty-dung heap.
Two more paragraphs lets keep it cool. When it came to his stories Henry a whore who couldn’t give it away. He would do anything for attention, it was shameful.
Burnt out, wanting to end it here, wanting to get to the essence of it quickly, so here it is the ultimate lazy man's ending, a quote.
“THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
Hunter S. Thompson
Friday, May 22, 2015
Over the last couple of weeks Henry wondering, mulling over the “why” of writing. His work short of august, not getting there, Henry a voice in the crowd not heard, apolitical to boot.
Henry at Wa Wa Coffee Shop... thinking, wondering if the great writers had a burning passion to get the word out.
Hemingway looking at a blank page, giving up and offing himself, his writing kept him going like junk, when it died he died.
Henry out of juice too, dragging the g-d damn thing around like a fat wife or herpes.
He knew what it was to be powerless over something and to live in pain, it was the kind of stuff that accompanied you in old age, like a shadow you couldn’t shake, or that fat wife with herpes.
Henry wanted to get a story out, always the same, g-d knows why? The junk's itch, an irritation that had to be scratched and dealt with from time to time.
Take the award winners, the lionized and lauded, Henry secretly hating them — jealous and envious.
Henry beyond having had enough of it, beyond not caring about it, between the cracks somewhere, only occasionally coming up for air and not liking what he saw.
Wondering if you could call his stories, “Stories”? It wasn’t story telling, more a process of waste management.
The biggest service Henry could do for his readers was to keep it short and sweet.
“Ars est celare artem”
True art is to conceal art— and so it goes, maybe Henry was on to something after all.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Henry on top of his typewriter, caressing it some, at it again, not wanting to write, pushing himself to do it. In a vacuum writing story after story with no feedback. Having a good wank and talking to himself that’s all it was, it was pathetic, why bother?
Maybe if Henry straightened up some, it would be easier to write.
Lately obsessed with Bridget Bardot, she was pure light for Henry, legs spread, lovely bush airing out, eternally innocent, the French angel flying high over Paris in the sky spreading, wings wide open too.
Henry particularly loved her first film, “Manina, the Girl in the Bikini.” Young Calve the hero and adventurer kissing Bardot by the sea. Henry imaging it was him who was kissing her, her young mouth, what it tasted like, feeling the warm fluids inside the mouth, it was an easy kiss for Henry.
In Wah Wah Coffee Shop, Roy Buchanan on You Tube, Roy a strange bird playing the guitar in strange ways unheard of by man. His work diverse, songs tailored to fit new sounds discovered and invented on his guitar.
Life offering nothing new for Henry, it was as though he was locked into it, a lousy, stinking pattern, not for him at all, oh well and anyways, it was overwhelming.
The French painter Modigliani, absolutely nothing to live for, painting in a vacuum, great stuff … nobody cared. In the end, drunk and stoned on the street selling sketches nobody wanted for five francs, later found dead on the street.
Modigliani’s life proved that people in the mainstream are--- stiff in a vacuum occasionally peering out at the world---
Henry speaking to you from his heart he had nothing to hide, Brigitte Bardot where are you?
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Henry looking at a blank page early Sunday morning at Wah Wah coffee shop. The same paltry fat chick, same place everyday, first to get the newspaper, sitting on it so no one else could read it. It was the little stuff that chafed him.
The day hot as hell, Henry barefoot on asphalt in Devils’ Square making mental reverence to German soldiers frying eggs on the decks of their tanks in the Sahara, wondering if he could fry up an omelet on Devils’ Square asphalt?
Waiting for the fat chick to surrender the newspaper, fat chance, hoping she would drop dead soon, visualizing it.
Later Henry stuffing his nose full of high octane Bolivian Cocaine, needing the inspiration here, plugging in the jute box, listening to “Rocks Off” by the Rolling Stones and later Roy Buchanan. Trying to get his mind off the woeful and onto the higher stuff.
Out of dire need Henry aligning himself with great poets.
“Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. “
From “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas…
Life a prison for him and many, toiling in green chains…
Henry at the end of the grand experiment too, his green chains wilting and turning brown, wanting to say something.
Monday, April 13, 2015
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?