Fat Chance Henry

Henry didn’t want anything in or out of the world, having to siphon every bit of fire to get through the day took most of his energy.

Besides the usual, the spirit drip-drip stuff, he had a dose of the Chinese Virus to boot, like a hurricane in the tubes, more powerful than a speeding anti-biotic.

Sometimes between dreams he rose above decaying physicality, seeing with clarity, dancers in his head filling the joints of brick-work to a better day, mind breaking-lose, free for awhile. 

Dreams for Henry better than real life. His dream-machine, psyche and libido caressing the inside stuff. Waking a let down ending sadly with an understanding— real life never as good as dreams.

In Wah Wah coffee shop watching old men drink coffee,  gray as  print on a newspaper, prune-faced. Henry old too but, his mind was a whore-house, potty and zealous, digging it, life's a boon. The grey-haired and prune-faced fucks bored the living shit out of him.

Old artist rocking on into old age, the Bukowskis and William Burroughs turning old age in for kicks, riding the bucking bronco,  juiced to the moon, Henry loved these guys.

The Rolling Stones playin on colored-radio somewhere near Memphis. Henry heaping on some fine cocaine, his nose full of the stuff. Keef Richards spinning rainbows on a banjo,  fuck a star, a drink in Arizona, down and out in West Virginia, you  get what you need.

Back at Wah Wah coffee shop another day, Henry wanting to wrap this up, there wasn't much left inside, his work lacking,  a recurring pain, writing for what and who knows why?

A rank affair looking for an exit, a way out,  getting worse not better.

Of course he would like to think that his shit was great art, ha, fat chance Henry.  

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