Moan Disguised as a Story

Henry beat in this world, dumb-fucked in the face of it. 

Suspended in air on sharp hooks piercing his breast. Painful electrical current flowing through his body without relief.   

Writing a low-end hobby that filled the days for him. At time thinking his stuff was good,  great maybe, or 

Henry ashamed, shameful,  mercifully thick skinned, brutally honest.

Rereading his stories— editing them a source of shame and prostration— rewriting sentences, retooling ideas quickly, wanting to look smart and literary to the world, not wanting to look stupid.  

Wondering if his author followers on Twitter: The award winning, seamless and grammatically perfect queens and kings of twenty-first century romance,  spy and vampire novels read Henry's stuff? 

His most recent stories  “Indian Corn” and “ Bukowski Had it” popular enough, a hundred hits in a couple days. 

Henry writing and rewriting the ending to “Indian Corn” over and over, trying to put out a bush fire before it spread, trying this and that, nothing working. Wondering if his 150 readers would throw him a bone today. 

Writing about his condition and the writing process, no longer a story writer or poet,  just an old man complaining about aches and pains.

In his youth Henry loaded some, full of heroic hallucination,  the world melting in his face.  

Sad Henry inspired at times by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Raymond Carver,  needing inspiration,  a chronic complainer creaking and moaning, making a sorrowful sound, wilted lettuce in the junk heap.   

Allot of life was junk he thought. 

His work today not much more than a moan disguised as a story.

No comments: