Friday, September 11, 2015

Shabby Platitudes

Henry listening to Bukowski read on Youtube— modern radio— WELL,  he (Henry)  listened and listened. Ruminatively wondering about the raves, hale Bukowski the greatest writer of the century, a modern-day Whitman and so on.

Buk on Youtube reading to a rowdy crowd was hardly “The greatest poet of modernity”… but Henry got the “The greatest poet” feel when reading Buk.

That said,  let’s get on with it. Henry not the greatest or great, writing was something he had to do, he didn’t expect anything from it , writing a need for him like eating or a bodily function. 

It was sad, Henry’s life work, what he was, his everything, his alpha and his omega —footlings,  chunks from the mouth.  

Henry didn’t write for others, he didn’t like others. 

He didn’t write  for G-d either.  Nothing here for G-d. G-d the unwitting,  a shadow in the sky coloured by platitudes of holy rollers.

Last night Henry met a young white kid at a bar in town. The kid asked him about his blog “Busted on Empty”

“What do you write about?” and so on. 

The best Henry could come up with was….

Confessional poetic prose….

Oh, Henry thought— just a bundle of words, more shabby platitudes—

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