Friday, December 16, 2016

Henry's Dream & a Song




Henry’s cell phone didn’t ring much. In the day (some day, in some time frame, most likely in the past) a phone call often lead to an romantic event—a date, a good meal, long nights of passion. 

Occasionally things would fall into place with just a dash of protocol if you were lucky—the meal a wash and the sex even quicker—

Was life losing its thrill value in the age of social media?  

Dreams still marvelous for Henry, a turn on for him. He dreamt about anything, dreaming at any speed and in any color—dreaming about sultry Negro ladies dancing in a red poppy fields wrapped in banana leaf. Dreaming about baseball, Negro fellas with big fingers catching baseballs in their caps and whisking them about, playing hialeah in Cubano nights, drunk on Havana Club.   
Or— a Chinese gal in a third floor loft, the walls full of paintings and photos of red flowers, a feng sui arranged dust covered open space— she,  sharing love and jasmine smiles for gold coins. 

Dreams aside, living still a boon for Henry. The head-stuff was the best, he was there allot, it was his place. It (the head-stuff) was the easiest thing in the world, playing out in slow motion. 
  
 In the final count—Henry wasn’t “ Back “  he was ”Never there”. None of it was his, he never wanted it anyway. The others, the big folks, the ones who wanted it disparately could have Henry’s share. 


“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.”   Henry Miller

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