1o Minutes

Lyrical, a smile on his face, the fat cat, doing whatever he was doing without a care, his soul semiopaque, no long hidden.   

At home drinking with people big and small, downing swigs of Souther Comfort from a gold flaked flask with a red tongue and lips logos on it. 

Henry the dream machine flying with angels parallel to the ground, everybody eating Sunday diner on main, never-the-less, 
painfully excited, watching everything, dancing with Molly, begging the straw-man. 

Nothing on his mind, in the now as he felt feeling the wind on his face, dancing with the devil, doing a nose dive, losing to the devil. 

Writing flow of consciousness, 10 minutes and out poetic prose. Breaking ground, new word form on the edge looking out, breaking the mouth. Quick thrills, jolts to the body, nothing to think about.

Henry saw it as "Lazy writing," having told all his stories, nothing left, writing on nothing.  

With a monkey and a duck on his back, coming home, cooking cocaine and opium together, loading it up, popping it. Nowhere at all, nowhere, no-place in no time. Standing alone and chanting out loud for 10 minutes today.  

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