Black Angels, Rich vs Poor, Martians & Cosmic Consciousness

 

Every writer on Twitter says if you write you have to read.

I got into it with one gal on Twitter, not a blowout by a long shot, asking her how she figured Hunter S. Thompson could focus on reading bearing in mind that his writing day began with the aid of acid, hashish, and Bloody Marys. 

Hunter was particularly fond of; Ann Rand, Henry Miller, George Orwell, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tom Wolfe, William Styron, and J.P Donleavy, never the less once his career took off like a bat outta hell, he took a blow torch to his book collection, incinerating it.  

I stopped reading some time ago when I could no longer download the digital library, Internet Archive; writing rabidly for the fuck of it anyway.

I’m alcohol-free, but use edibles as a sacred kinikinick when working, faithful that my prayers will reach the Great Spirit.

Hemingway said to write drunk and edit sober, I guess for him getting loaded while working stimulated his mind's eye. 

Truman Capote reflected on the Dick Cavett show that you can't write drunk, how right he is.

I listen to music relentlessly on the computer, recoiling between blues, rock n roll, and jazz, but I couldn't tell you a thing about Taylor Swift, Beyonce, Lil' Flip, or Drake.

Many writers listen to music before kicking off work, warming up; Steven King listens to Metallica, and Anthrax while writing; both bands suck.

Growing up I went through some rough patches; doing time,  short time, for breaking a window after being bounced like a beach ball from the Beach Ball Bar in Newport Beach. My old man Earl Lucowski paid a lawyer 800 beans to get me outta that one; for 2 days I laid face up in the top bunk, transcending incarceration in deep meditation while astral traveling.

Everyone's a slave to something, there’s no escaping it, shit like;  chocolate, booze, dope, love, passion, Netflix, gambling, and so on.

I’m a slave to sex, going to Thailand and getting hooked on trouble-free sex, staying in the country for 20 years, committing carnal sin after carnal sin, and in consequence being smacked down by God with impotency. 

I take current events seriously, luck has aided and imbedded mankind to dodge the bullet of nuclear holocaust.

We're lucky to be here now. 

There are boatloads of rich folks in the world; dicks behind the wheel of lavish vehicles unmindful of the indigent on the road.

God loves the little guy.

Most of the well-heeled's driving impulse is to make money, wallow in it, and build walls protecting them from the indigent.

Wealthy rappers are a phenomenon, they can shove their moolah in Whitey’s face if they feel like it, and why not, considering what Black folks have endured over the centuries?

People listen to every known genre of music on YouTube, and pop music is it at the top of the list; rock n roll, soul, blues, rap, jazz, and Black folks are the nitty-gritty behind it all. 

And as baby Black Angels fly through the Mesosphere they push satellites aside with the power of their wings.

Are there Martians? Of course, there are.

Can Martians live in peace in the Anthropoid’s world? I think so. 

When  Martians and Anthropoids couple on Earth they will instantly pinion on every level.

Martians will marshal peace, hexing Earth, triggering cosmic consciousness, purging war, poverty, and death.

It'll be Heaven on Earth.

I Got a Complex

When I was 10 I couldn't stomach vegetables. When pees were served I’d grab the lot of em; chucking em under the diner table.

My old man, Leonard Lukowski, would jump up red-faced knock me on the floor; kicking me in the ribs until my ma, Dorthy would say,

stop it, Larry, you’re gonna give the kid a complex.

At night my next-door neighbor Gino and I would peep; busting out of our houses through the bedroom windows and roaming the neighborhood looking for partially open shades.

We were fucking shameless; we’d get as turned on watching an old lady strip as a hot teenager.

I was the only gentile in my junior high class. The Jews were top students and I made Cs and Ds, this was expected of goys.

There were some perks having Jewish classmates; going to bar mitzvahs was a gas; dance with teenage yentas, clinging tight, dancing chest to chest, getting loaded on Manischewitz.

I was fuck up my freshman year in high school so my parents sent me to New York Military Academy, where Trump went, he’s older than me, but we heard stories about him; a rich guy with a funny haircut who was on the debate and golf team, laugh. 

I graduated from military school at 18, a Private graduating by a whisker, making tracks for New York City with a few bucks in my pocket.

I lived in Hotel 56; a vagrant shithole, and wino paradise.

During the day I worked at Urban Pour; stocking liquor and doing deliveries, arriving at 9 AM and ducking into the walk-in freezer; jugging 3 cans of Fosters rapid fire.

I’d make deliveries shit-faced, driving a Ford van loaded with booze; there were eye openers behind every door: women with bulbous tits in see-through gowns wanting to get laid, pit bulls ready to attack, old ladies living in houses with carpets reeking of urine, and lonely people pleading with me to stay and have a drink.

In the evenings I’d go out; wearing a blue pin-strip suit, bought off the rack at Goodwill, Fruit of the Loom Ts, long hair in a man bun, and painted eyelashes.

I was a regular at Georgy’s Bar in The Bronx, and my drink was Absinthe; it was the holy fucking trinity, distilled with wormwood, anise, and fennel. The shit sent me to the moon. I'd close Georgy's; hallucinating, blind drunk lost, making it back to Hotel 56 at 4 AM when the garbage men were doing their rounds.    

On days off I'd go to Central Park, loading a mini-back with a bottles of cheap wine, reefer and a straw mat; roaming the plains of the park, camping under American Elms.

In no time I'd be high as a fucking pig on Ripple and reefer.

Out of nowhere, a Black kid walks up to me, he couldn't have been older than 10; I was keen on Black children; young’ns overflowing with esprit and high-octane personalities. He says, 

I'm Pigeon how bout you?

Henry.

Pigeon sits down next to me sayin,

mista, pass dat Ripple over here.

I oblige, passing the bottle which he drains in 1 mighty swig.

In a split second, Pigeon places his little hands on his stomach and spews on my straw mat.

I figured he was a street kid and could handle a drink, but the big gulp did him in.

Holding his hand, we walk at a snail’s pace to 9th Street, hailing a taxi, getting in the back where I ask,

where do you live Pigeon? 

Queens he says, 

what's your address? 

He pulls a piece of well-worn paper out of his pocket and hands it to me, it reads, 

2570 Jamaica Avenue, Room 604.  

It's a 20-minute drive, I pay the hack, Pigeon says,  

Mista Henry come meet my mama, 

He rings 604 and the front door buzzes open, we walk in; there's graffiti on the walls, and the place smells like mildew and garbage.

The elevator is out of commission; we walk up 6 flights of stairs to a 1 bedroom apartment. Pigeon’s mama’s standing with the door open and she asks, 

where u been boy? And, 

who’s the cracka?

I say, 

I’m Henry, and she says, 

I hope you ain’t no perv cause I’ll bust ya up motha fucker,

no ma’am, I’m straight hetero, what’s your name? She warms up some saying, 

Suga darlin, come on in then, Pigeon go to your room you look pasty- faced.

I sit on the sofa and Suga sits next to me, we eyeball one another; she takes off her dress, she’s meaty in all the right places.

We get it on in the usual ways; missionary with a pillow, doggy style, 69. 

2 minutes later I cum, trying to pull out, failing, some goes in,  some spills out. Then Suga says, 

short time be 100 dollas darlin.

The fuck hand nothin to do with love.

LSD Trip Memior

 

I'm from the East Side of Milwaukee; I have so many stories, about everywhere, or anywhere.

Let's put it this way I've been bipolar for decades, but I've learned to balance things out, I dose myself during downers.

I couldn't do much so I took shit jobs, working 5 months maybe and quitting, I was a good worker but the whole thing felt stuffy to me.

Like being a Security guard, it's a loser's job, for people on the bottom. 

I stay as far as I can away from guns, the rental guards don't carry guns, a guy's trained in a few hours, you're lent mildewed uniforms, navy blue shirts with official-looking insignias sown on, blue striped pants, cheesy baseball caps. 

My first day of work I bathed in English Leather my first assignment was the Harley Davidson Museum on Chestnut St., in the  Milwaukees hood, the night shift.

I show up at 9 PM; the guard who works the first shift, Jimmy Till, is in the box, watching the factory workers walk out, going home.

Anyway, I’m alone in a 2 story brown brick building, built in 1906, it’s winter and the heat isn’t on.

I run upstairs hoping the activity will warm me up and I notice the assembly line of freshly painted motorcycle tanks hanging on hooks; the scent of spray is in the air and I take a few whiffs.

Back on the first floor, the museum part, I eyeball the Harleys, there’s; 

the 1st model made, the 1907 Model 3 Atmospheric-Valve Single, the WW2 bike, 

the streamliner V-twin, and so on, none of which turn me on much.

By midnight I drop a quaalude, and at 9AM the day guy, Jim Tinn, nudges me saying, 

Henry whatza doin man? You’re supposed to be at the gate checking in the day crew, get out there now.

So I walk to the box,  sleeping in standing posture as the working stiffs parade by for another day of paint sniffin.

The watchmen gig lasted a month or so, till I spun out; havin a ball all the way down.

Later that summer I drive my old car from Milwaukee to the Lake Geneva Playboy Club to see the acid band Mountain play. 

 

The Playboy Club was a ski resort in the winter.

I park my car in a field with other cars that are parked any which way, nice, compared to the tidy in-line parking one finds these days.

I get out of my car, walk a few steps to the top of the hill, and then walk down; people not hippies are scattered about, and a lovely girl wearing a knitted halter top hands me an orange wedge of LSD, which I drop immediately. 

Coming on, I circle and look up the hill; it looks like a giant wave with people surfing horizontally on boogie boards.

The sound man plays Gimme Shelter over and over again, it’s a great acid groove. 

Then Mountain comes on the small stage, Felix Poppalardi, the bass player's wearing a blue judo key, over blue jean short shorts, and wooden Geta slippers. Leslie West is wearing a dye died teddy drape over leather pants. 

I walk to the side of the small stage to the right and run into Joe Powers, someone I grew up with in Illinois, he's drinking beer with other straights, guys he works with at a garage in Kenosha. 

We shake hands; hanging out a little because I’m tripping and he’s buzzed on beer.

I don’t remember much of the concert but I remember driving towards Milwaukee, lost on a treelined country road, headed toward deep shit, and going off the road in Janesville. 

It was the weirdest derailment ever, I was lying crossways on the front seat blind to it all, and the car misses trees, then resurfacing on the highway without a scratch; I get the feeling it’s part of the acid dream, but it’s not.

In no time a county sheriff shows, I roll down my window, and he looks at me saying, 

have yous been drinkin, son? 

I tell him, 

no I’m comin down off acid, and he says, 

don’t bullshit me boy. 

He cuffs me and drives me to the station where I’m given a breathalyzer test that registers, 0.00, then without cause I'm thrown into the drunk tank for the night. 

The following morning, after a first-rate breakfast of kool-lade and rancid salami sandwiches, I’m driven to the holding lot to get my car and the dick behind the counter says, 

that’ll be 350 mister, 

the rigs not worth that much so I tell him,

keep the car its  yours.

So, I hitchhike back to Milwaukee on Highway 11 because it’s illegal to hitch on Federal Highway 43.

In no time I get a ride from a farmer driving a rig with baskets of apples in the back, planning on delivering them to the Saturday farmer's market. 

He’s an old guy looking just how you’d think a farmer would look, overalls and all, so he says, how about an apple son? 

Sure I say, 

he hands me a Gala apple; I bite into it and juice spills down on my face and chest, the taste is out of this world. 

The farmer drops me off on Locust Street and I walk west to Suga’s Place in the hood for sweet potato pie. 

Inside I sit at the counter ordering coffee and a whole pie, eating it all, then a black girl walks in, a tall girl with a butt you could balance a champagne glass on. 

She’s sitting in a booth, uninvited I sit down across from her and she says, 

Did I say you could sit here, boy? 

How bout I buy your meal, what’s your name, girl?

Willa Mae, 

I’m Henry, 

your’e cute Henry. 

Willa Mae orders catfish, black-eyed peas, greens, and cornbread which she shares. 

When we finish eating I spring for a Veterans cab back to my place.

The cabby's a local legend with hair to his waist and a scraggly beard. Pooch drops us at my second-floor apparent, we walk up the stairs, and in no time Willa Mae drops her drawers and I fuck her standing; her pussy smells fishy and I like it.

We cum, then Willa Mae calls her brother to take her home, and we exchange numbers.

I think I fucked most of the women on the East Side that summer, I felt like Will Chamberlain.