Being an artist and doing your art everyday a peerless adventure.
Henry editing and rewriting like a nut, it seemed important, more than a one shot deal, running through and polishing the stuff, learning the scales.
The process a windfall for him, he loved everything about it, flow, tone, rhythm, the freedom to break away from it, using cut-up method, painting with words, words sprinkled like pepper on the page.
The last exit on a still afternoon before the invasion. Deep like mud mixed with sand, allot in it, you couldn't plant corn it and if you fell in you may never come out.
In a hall way sitting at the editor's desk the dictator and the wag do voice overs, a kind of ‘speak-nik,' It was so loud it knocked you down.
Poetic prose, fire balls, peeling the blood orange, flower peddles floating on a rainbow, flipping over and out, wanting out, no-where, writing to escape the weariness of dullsville.