Lyrical, a smile on his face, the fat cat, doing whatever without a care, his soul semiopaque, on display, not hidden.
At home drinking with people big and small, downing swigs of Jamesons 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, wanting to dance with Molly, begging the straw-man.
Feeling the now, wind in his face, dancing with the devil, doing a nose dive, losing to the devil.
Writing flow of consciousness, 10 minutes and out poetic prose, going over-land out West, busting words, busting broncos, looking at it, breaking it's mouth. Quick thrills, jolts to the body, nothing to think about, there was nothing at all he thought.
For Henry it was lazy writing, no more stories, nothing left, writing on nothing, about 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.