The most difficult part of beginning a new story is beginning— the rest flows.

Writing to me is simply thinking through your fingers. 

I didn’t say it Isaac Asimov did— duck soup with teeth. But, I could think through my fingers for an eternity and never write a sentence of science fiction. 

I'm not disinterested in the stratosphere, occasionally I gaze at the stars like an ant looking up at a giraffe. 

But, my take on outer space is twisted, look for yourself, here’s a bit from a story I wrote a couple of years ago, Missiles, Fruit Flies, & Psychosis—

Further out in left field, let's mix Heaven with rocket science. 

As the Discovery shuttle jets through the outer regions of the thermosphere, it blows spent rocket fuel and ghastly smoke out of its propelling nozzle. 

The astronauts are altitude sick, puking spent residues of their wet food lunch into paper barf bags, unaware their craft is soaring uncomfortably close to the doorway of Heaven because it doesn’t show on the radar. 

The intrusion rattles the Angels, the sentries at Saint Peter’s Gate— Like Roman warriors, the Seraphim execute a simultaneous action. God’s Guardians lock arms, forming a circle around the thrusting craft, flapping their wings, generating a strapping force, and pitching the rocket out of Heaven’s sphere.

I don’t think you can call this science fiction, moreover, it’s an example of what happens when the working wheels of humankind enter the realm of Heaven uninvited— as you would expect God and His Guardian Angels have the last laugh on the hapless Homo sapien sapiens. 

There’s a recent snapshot of Madonna attending the student fashion show at the eminent art school Central Saint Martens in New York City.

The one-time material girl, who was materialistic before it was cool, is wearing her hair in double braids. A hairstyle I’m partial to, more than partial really— my heart goes boom, boom, when I see a woman with double braids. 

While Sean Penn was married to Madonna in the eighties, the couple visited his longtime pal, Charles Bukowski one afternoon, who was living in his two-story house in San Pedro, California with Linda Lee. 

The newlyweds show in a limo— as they get out a neighborhood kid spies Madonna and in no time there’s a mob of striplings standing in front of Bukowski’s house, hooting. 

Buk walks outside in his bathrobe to see about the racket— his neighbors weren’t aware he was a world-famous author because they were strictly whitebread.

One of the rug rats walks up to Buk, who's standing on the driveway, tugs on his robe, saying excitedly,  

Uncle, it's Madonna, Madonna's here.

The scene humbles Bukowski as he realizes his grapefruit-size balls only beguile a few, and when it comes to groupies, Madonna wins in a walk.

I couldn’t find a thing on the internet about the Bukowski, Penn, and Madonna meeting. So I made the preceding scene up, impetuously adding the bit about Buk's balls, nervous it might not go over.

As a jazz buff, I couldn't name one of Madonna's songs, but I’ve been falling for her for a couple hours now— regardless of her age and the nip and tucks, that fucking face dogs me to the bone. 

She owes her plastic surgeon one for the chiseled features, and those kissable lips, because the doctor created a masterpiece.

I followed @Madonna on Twitter half an hour ago and got a notification she followed me back—  my heart jumped, then I realized it was a copycat profile, without the blue verification badge. Going on to message me, a Janus-faced Nigerian says he's sending me 6000 dollars, seconds later the account disintegrates before my eyes, melting away, busted by the Twitter police, and banned.

I’m gonna steady my machete and say goodnight to the Queen of Reinvention.

It’s a new day and I’m back to not giving a tin shit about Madonna, the way it’s always been.

Here's a list of nine writing styles I'll loosely cover at this time, without a shred of seriousness. 

Comedy, drama, horror, realism, romance, satire, tragedy, thriller, and fantasy.

Horror— does nothing for me, take the worst nightmare you've ever had, do you want to relive it? Daily life is enough of a horror show. 

Comedy— most comedians aren’t funny, particularly stand-up comedians. 

Take Ricky Gervais’s stand-up hit, Supernature, it leaves you flat. 

Ricky’s introduced by Warwick Davis, his dwarf pal, can I say dwarf? Announcing, 

ladies and gentlemen, here’s a man who doesn’t know why he’s here, RICKY GERVAIS!

Indeed, why was he there? 

Gervais's handlers should have let Warwick do the stand-up routine, people are gaga for pygmies, going stark mad when they dance.

Or Seinfeld, maybe he and Larry David think being Jewish is a ticket to funny paradise. I never got it, there was nothing funny about the sitcom Seinfeld. And, the show had canned laughter, which is odd, like the guys in the control room are letting you know it’s time to laugh even though the bit is dying on the vine.  

Romance— honestly I don’t have a romantic bone in my body, my relationship with my girlfriend is habit that's all. Good sex for us has been over for a long time, and our conversations are limited to the dogs, what did you eat, and where are you going?

But of course women crave romance and men just wanna fuck. Take a long-term marriage when wifey, out of desperation, dresses like a whore to turn hubby on. Proof that romance is a fading commodity, headed downhill at the alter. 

Satire— now, that moves me, here's the dictionary definition.

The use of humor, irony, exaggeration, or ridicule to expose and criticize people's stupidity or vices, particularly in topical issues.

Have you met many stupid people? You won’t because there aren’t any, and by chance, if they admit to being stupid, trust me they don’t believe it.

Most stupidity is a put-on. 

Take the Southern Belle in Gone With the Wind, who’s wooing a gentleman caller, oozing diffidence, trying to reel the guy in, falling over everything he says, as though she doesn’t have a thought in her head. Who in reality is wicked smart.

As for people's vices, only a few divulge the secrets of their nasty fantasies. I'd rather hear about their fetishes and eating disorders.

Anis Nin made it clear in her writing that her primary concern in life was cuming. That was fifty years ago and things haven't changed, people still love to cum, OH GOD, DON'T STOP, OH MY GOD I'M CUMING.

Fantasy— take Disney's animated movies, favorites like Bambi, Pinocchio, or The Lion King, all of them are tragic, even the puppet Pinocchio was duped into a life of sin by Happy John, making a few bucks, then cursed by the Blue Fairy for lying about money with a nose that grew when he lied. His reality was a freakshow, blame the puppeteer.

Realism—  real writing about people's lifes. Personally, I don’t want to know the details and don’t want to look too closely.

Thrillers— there are too many Hollywood action films that are remakes of the same basic plots. Take Top Gun Maverick, can you believe they're digging the dinosaur up? It's all about money, like most things. Val Kilmer is half in the grave and the makers of TG 2 or Butt Wipe 2, are reviving his character using an expensive camera with 6 lenses.

The film has as much chance as pigs do flying at winning the Palme d'Or at Cannes.

If you’re looking for cheap thrills, go home and role-play with your old lady. Dress like whoever you want, a plumber, maid, bellboy, nurse, milkman, or your favorite Muppet. I liked Oscar the Grouch who lived in a garbage can because somebody thought he was deposable. No wonder he's a grump.

I’ve plum-tuckered out folks, time for some red curry soup and rice. 

They Killed, Henry, John Berryman & Me

Fading away on tramadol and ganja takes my pain away; Lord, take me to the Upper Room  

John Berryman wrote Dream Songs— here's number 1,

Huffy Henry hid the day,
unappeasable Henry sulked.
I see his point,—a trying to put things over.
It was the thought that they thought
they could do it that made Henry wicked & away.
But he should have come out and talked.

All the world, like a woollen lover, once did seem on Henry's side
Then came the departure.
Thereafter, nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don't see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, we survived.

What he has now to say is a long
wonder the world can bear & be
once again a sycamore. I was

kicked off the stage by the MC.

In the face of every motha fuckin thing in the world They Killed, Henry, John Berryman & Me

John Berryman, high on something, scribbling a poem in the English Department,

remembering, 

a hot, mixed-up, cockeyed day in Chinatown at the opium den, dreaming of wooden ships, the god Neptune and flying fish.  

Catnapping in a rusty bed, he's pulverised by cockroaches, mosquitos, and lice magnifying 1000 times in the coterie of his dying brain,

he told the screws to mix his ashes with tobacco, and Bougainvillea pedals in a tin of Prince Albert Tobacco and to place it in the trunk of a Cadillac sedan because in his words,

there won't be a body this time.

The street people follow the cheerleader to Wicker Zoo where she hands the gorilla a hand-rolled Cuban cigar.

King Kong lights the blunt and blows a mighty ring of smoke around the moon.

All in all, it was a lovely remembrance just south of Elysian Field,

where all things meet. 

Jesse

During the summer of 78, it was so hot in Chicago, you could fry an egg on the sidewalk.

I was making 3.25 an hour working at the downtown Montgomery Wards as a stock boy. 

I worked with a Mexican guy, Jesse Valdez; he was 5ft 3 with a black pompadour, wearing pointy-toed shoes and tight pants. 

He was funny wise, saying shit like, 

if you're talkin to a chica and ur polla's hard, it means you can fuck her.

I lived in a one-bedroom apartment in the Loyola University neighbourhood near the el, riding it to Monkey Wards every morning.

After work one evening, I buy dinner and beer at El Pollo Loco for him. After we eat, he says, 

ah, Henry, let's go to my place, 

okay.

We walked six blocks to his three-story walk-up, then walking up three flights to his room 

His room was closet size, seven feet from the elevated train tracks. We squeeze in, him on the radiator and me on the tiny mattress; he has some pot, so we smoke. 

The sounds are deafening; train wheels give off a high-pitched squeaking sound; the air smells like burning rubber and rust.

Jessie had ripped off a Barbie Doll from Wards, he says, 

watch dis Henry.

He tosses the doll out the window, and it straddles 

the highly charged and lethal third rail, burning to a crisp in seconds.

After a few months at Wards, we were bored shitless; there was the time Jesse smashed an Easy Bake Oven to bits with a baseball bat or when he'd strip down a Ken and Barbey Doll and bend them into sexual positions like puppets.

One day we had lunch in the cafeteria; Jesse was in love with a server named Butterfly, he wanted to titty-fuck her, saying,

I'm gonna come down on that chica's titas, fat girls. Thank you to fuck 'em, Henry.

Butterfly lived in the Evergreen Trailer Camp, somewhere in Cicero. 

During the bus trip to her place, he says, 

dude we should bring Big Caesar with us to be sure we satisfy Butterfly, I tell him,

I see so you're planning a love-in.

At Butterfly's trailer, we knock on the door, and she opens it. 

She's working on a wade of bubble gum passionately saying, 

I hope you boys are up to the task.

Inside the three of us are talking at the kitchen table.

Jesse pulls out a pint of mescal, passing it around when Butterfly says, 

did you all boys bring the Spanish fly? 

Sure we did it's in your drink.

After a few drinks, Butterfly falls out of her chair onto the trailer floor, Jesse says, 

she's ready man, 

and we jump her, and Jesse says, 

back off Henry, 

I thought this was goin to be a love-in.

I need some downtime with Butterly, Do you get it, amigo?

That morning, we show up for work, we run into the store manager, John Blow, and he says, 

We gotta video of you boys bustin' up merchandise in the warehouse; security will escort you out of the store. 

Uma Kline Meets Henry Bukowski

I remember the summer of 78, bits and pieces of it anyway.

I lived in the basement of the Sparkling Angels Condominium. I was the janitor. 

I loved the basement place; friends called it the bunker.

I had an electric plate and oven; I could cook anything. 

In the morning, I'd make Swedish pancakes with Loganberry sauce and wash them down with hot green tea. 

By 11 am, I'm lying in bed smoking devil weed, fiendishly reading Alan Ginsburg's poem Howl.  

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz

At midnight, I go to  The Skank Bar. Sitting at the bar, I order a Bud Light and a bowl of clam chowder. 

A Germanic woman sitting alone in a booth walks to the bar asking, 

are you Henry Lucowski the writer? I've read your work in The Village Voice and The Bronx News, 

thanks, I don't get many positive reviews, tell me about yourself.

Okay, I’m Uma Kline; I’m an actress currently performing in the off-off-Broadway play Velvet Kinks at The Steppenwolf Theater.

Henry, let's go to my place and have a drink. It's not far, we can walk there, 

great, The Skank Bar bores the hell outta me.

As we walk, Uma grabs my hand; her hand is warm, her warmth is appealing. 

Reaching The Chelsea Hotel, home to an A-list of literati who've lived there over the years: Mark Twain, Herbert Huncke, Quentin Christ, Leonard Cohen, and so on. 

We ride a cage elevator to the 11th floor and walk to Uma's room; it's a rectangular room with a painted concrete floor, purple wallpaper, red velvet curtains, a black leather sofa and an antique bed.

Uma's on the bed, and I'm on the sofa; after a few drinks, she lies back on the bed  

She lies on her back and opens her legs, takes off her panties, stroking her large blue clitoris. 

In a New York minute, I jump on the bed, landing with my head in her muff.

She knows every position in the book, after balling we fall asleep in each other's arms

I wake the next morning, noticing a note written in lipstick on the mirror reading,

See you tonight at The Steppenwolf Theater; the tickets are  under your pillow; love you, Ulma.

That night, I was paralytically drunk in The Skank Bar, falling off the bar stool and landing on the floor. I never saw Umla again.