Wednesday, March 22, 2017

A Peculiar Vision

Henry looking at photos in a lazy way, breezy, feeling lovely, gazing the work of great photographers. 

He liked photographers that were on the lip of it, the ones that had a freakish and peculiar vision to share.

Folks like Diane Arbus, Robert Maplethorpe, William Eggleston, Robert Frank and Man Ray to name a few. 

Viewing their work transported Henry to queer places, lonely corners in small-towns and ghost-towns.  A world at the other end of the orbit: Carnivals, freak-shows, asylums, chemical-factories, subway tunnels and garbage-dumps. 

Henry loved the hip photographers, the lost and broken ones, the truth sayers, the spark-plugs transferring—a momentary vision worth a thousand words. 

He liked the black and white film “Cocksucker Blues,”  a  two part film by Robert Frank. A junk trip full of raw meat, bouncing hippy-girl breast, chickens and goats, all of it in the isle and seats of a 727. 

In “Cocksucker Blues”  Robert Frank magnified everything using grainy film shot at odd angles. In editing he cut the film up, splicing in queer ways, making the film look more insane than it's reality really was, allot of people liked it that way. 

Robert Frank and other peerless photographers gave a wide birth to day to day parallel strata like it was a rampaging Rhino.    

"How I hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity."   William S. Burroughs  

Henry loved the part of all art that didn't conform.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Writing is It's Own Reward

Henry thinking—holy fuck come on people! Nobody reading his stories @ Busted on Empty anymore—

Henry’s last two stories only eighty hits between them, he was averaging two hundred hits per story before—he didn't know why people were losing interest in his work.

Why keep writing?—There was nothing  in it for him. 

Henry old, his body ached inside and out, weedy and weak-kneed,  everyday a endeavor.  

Booze and dope a temporary fix.  Henry— a life of misdirected addictions, he was fragile and bedazzled.

Nothing he loved worked anymore, the magic evaporated.

Henry wasn’t grousing, this self-depreciating expose— an exercise  in literary method. 

Literary method a phrase he invented a few seconds ago, it was his method of checking his wits. 

His work neither apropos or spot-on. 

Henry didn’t write for money or glory, none of that for him— he wrote because he wanted to be read.

Writing is its own reward.

– Henry Miller

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Henry Junked on Beer

Henry drunk some, at it again, listening to the Rolling Stones, junked on beer.

Lately, unable to write without a drink, needing to get mildly intoxicated to pull it off.

It was months between stories,  Henry lazy, uninspired. 

The other day a fan of his work, John May, sent him a SMS on Facebook.  John said he loved Henry’s stuff—John loved all the real stuff out there—Bukowski, Hunter Thompson,  William Burroughs.

John asked him why he didn’t write more, Henry could only say he felt tapped out, in a vacuum. Ten years of writing and not a word from anyone, John was the first.

Henry was a big fan of Herbert Hunke—

Hunke a Times Square and Coney Island junk/ hustler for allot of years. Hunke junked the beats for the first time, Burroughs took to Junk like a pro. 

Burroughs wrote on Junk, way out there,  cranked up, it moved him, he was on the moon. He could see the future.

Henry wrote on beer like Bukowski, Junk too much for Henry. 

Bukowski saying—

“Stay with the beer,  beer is continuous blood, a continuous lover.”

Bukowski, Indian cigarettes, beer and wine, late night writing sessions with Beethoven and Brahms on the radio.

I was fairly poor
but most of my money went
for wine and 
classical music.
I loved to mix the two 

Henry like a steam engine moving slowly down the track, rolling steady. 

Writing was music and melody, splashing paint on paper, it got easier.

Monday, January 23, 2017

Fools Paradise

Good luck Henry plenty of juice, gassed, feeling warm inside. 

Sunday afternoon, laying in a bed, room dusted with white energy.

Blind with clear vision, junked up, in the gut of the volcano.

Rattling the bones of collective soul, upward and out, going to Mars. 

Mars silent, still and empty for a million years. A nice place to go.  

Astral projecting,  hitching a ride on an angels back, Sitting cross legged like Geronimo on red Martian hill. 

Looking to the sky, star objects imploding and exploding simultaneously, kaleidoscopic.

Henry transported, moved, powerless, orgon energy, getting off on Mars.

Looking down from far above, the Earth a fools paradise.  

Friday, December 16, 2016

Henry's Dream & a Song

Henry’s phone (cell phone) didn’t ring much. In these days a phone call often lead to an event—a date, a good meal, long nights of passion. 

Things fell into place without much protocol, the meal just a wash and the sex even quicker— life losing its thrill value in the age of social media. 

Dreams still marvelous for Henry, all of it turned him on. Dreaming about anything, dreaming at any speed, dreaming about sultry Negro ladies dancing in a corn field wearing banana leaves. Dreaming about baseball, Negro fellas with big fingers catching baseballs in their caps and whisking them about, playing hialeah in Cubano nights.  

Or— a Chinese gal in a third floor loft, the walls full of paintings and photos of red flowers, a feng sui arranged dust covered open space— she,  sharing love and jasmine smiles for gold coins. 

Dreams aside, living still a boon for Henry. The head-stuff was the best, he lived there most the time, it was his place and there was nothing like it. It (the head-stuff) was the easiest thing in the world, it played out for him in slow motion. The outside-stuff very different, speeding by unconsciously, dancing and shaking to empty and dumb syncopation, it wasn’t important to Him anymore. 

In the final count—Henry wasn’t “ Back “  he was ”Never there”. None of it was his, he never wanted it anyway. The others, the big folks, the ones who wanted it disparately could have Henry’s share. 

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.”   Henry Miller

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

My Work is Awful

Henry,feeling beastly, burning up inside, cravin, dope, junk. 

Did u see the film, “Night of the Iguana?"

The Reverend T. Lawrence Shannon, in exile, pursued by a Lolita, breaking down in Mexico, outside of Mexico City, on the bay somewhere. 

Henry didn't care for Lolita's he preferred beautiful middle aged women.  

He, Henry, the writer, writing graphically, paint on the page. 

Henry loved the Little Walters, Dylan Thomass, Jack Kerouacs, William S. Burroughs, and the Hunter S. Thompsons of the world. 

There were more than a few on the list, they were super heroes, all dead of course; including, Charles Bukowski, James Carver, Francis Bacon and Ernie Banks, true champions of the the poetic, paintin, blues and sports world, a lengthy list. 

They lived in a Century  where g-ds roamed the desert plains, loaded carrying little, outcast in their own way, outside of the world, breaking down allot of the time. 

Henry, hardly the best, surreal, just a touch, fragrance of dried flowers and incense, great ganja,  vagina everywhere,  Henry loved it all.  

A lot of folks loved Henry’s stuff, an elite few, the high rollers and king pins. 


—oddly out there, craving human touch and connection—

Monday, August 15, 2016

The Aces of Twitter

Henry doesn’t want to write today or any day, that said... 

A few nights ago on Twitter he was— out of the groove— Twitter slick and commercial, Henry didn’t belong there, or anywhere much. 

Henry used Twitter to kick his stories upstairs as they say. He knew there was no future in Tweeting— drunk or sober— for him.  He put out some great old Tweets a few nights and nobody noticed.

In allusion too his book “Mescaline Sombrero” he Tweeted… 

The book is awful, Lucowski downed a bottle of No Doz and wrote it in 24 hrs. It's garbage.

And on politics and something else... 

Well, I’m drunk now, in Asia. In the beginning Twitter was awesome, and Facebook sucked, now Bernie Sanders sucks, what an asshole.


Look for Jesus or Abraham Lincoln to fall out of the sky about the time of the Democratic and Republican conventions. 


The Clinton's; pimps who run the whore houses that Donald Trump owns.

Henrys' thoughts out of sync on Twitter,  his voice weedy, between the cracks and passed by, walked over and stepped on. 

Twitter in a slick new era,  Twitter people game-ready and fast on the draw,  Aces all. 

Henrys' best days on Twitter dare-say over and done with,  sewn-up, gone.