Henry saying to himself, “Fly me to the moon”, and “How sweet it is”, stuff Ralph Kramden would say when the Brooklyn Dodgers were winning (under the lights) at Shea Stadium (on dark nights), or stuff Ralph would say when Alice let up on him
Go ahead show ur stuff, get loaded and re-read it, internalize your essential asshole-ism, I'm so fucking cool, I am a fool, cathartic release, language and words, jacking-off.
"Come on boy, the people will like it, keep at it Henry, you're going to be star, your stuff is big son."
"Oh it smells like shit here Henry, if you only knew you wouldn’t bother."
Not writing, instead, looking for pussy in the alley ways, junk to forget and numb self, the writer and artist, the junked up angel.
Ray Charles junk prince, Jesus calling the brother, you could hear a steam whistle in the distance, a rising shrill, a commandment, move on down the road.
Writing was rap poetry, it was beats, pounding out rhythm and colour, keyboard stride, more painting than a story.
Running on empty, busted plenty too, Henry visceral in the moment.
If u think you're a writer, well think again, and then forget it.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.