Henry could hardly recognize it, wanting none of it, disjointed, spurious, a mensch and clown, feeling fooled.
Henry Lucowski and Jackie Gleason, old moon-boys from somewhere else.
Bone-Tired Mr. Moon, hungover and coming down, heading into darkness,
Old Bill saying, “ When radio waves and moon-beams breathe, dream and write Henry, dream and write, go to nature, sound off and preachify son." “ Write stories in the sky.”
Writing is a slow process Henry thought— your work must have form and level.
Laying in bed at night tweaking, Old Bill writing stories in his head, never the same, wanting to finish another story.
Henry never working overtime, full of inspiration, trying to say something, wondering when he would get his check.
Henry and Old Bill junked up and listening to Ray Charles on the Colored Radio, asking his baby not to go, partings part 1 and 2.
Henry’s work somewhere between short stories and poetry, deep stuff, blind soul healing the rage.
Not knowing much and knowing he didn't have to do it anyways.