1o Minutes

Lyrical, a smile on his face, the fat cat, doing whatever he was doing without a care, his soul semiopaque, no long hidden.   

At home drinking with people big and small, downing swigs of Souther Comfort from a gold flaked flask with a red tongue and lips logos on it. 

Henry the dream machine flying with angels parallel to the ground, everybody eating Sunday diner on main, never-the-less, 

painfully excited, watching everything, dancing with Molly, begging the straw-man. 

Nothing on his mind, in the now as he felt feeling the wind on his face, dancing with the devil, doing a nose dive, losing to the devil. 

Writing flow of consciousness, 10 minutes and out poetic prose. Breaking ground, new word form on the edge looking out, breaking the mouth. Quick thrills, jolts to the body, nothing to think about.

Henry saw it as "Lazy writing," having told all his stories, nothing left, writing on nothing.  

With a monkey and a duck on his back, coming home, cooking cocaine and opium together, loading it up, popping it. Nowhere at all, nowhere, no-place in no time. Standing alone and chanting out loud for 10 minutes today.  

Mr Moon

Henry  could hardly recognize it,  wanting none of it, disjointed, spurious, a mensch and clown,  feeling fooled.

Henry Lucowski and Jackie Gleason,  old moon-boys  from somewhere else. 

Bone-Tired Mr.  Moon,  hungover and coming down,  heading into darkness, 

Old Bill saying, “ When  radio waves and moon-beams breathe, dream and write Henry, dream and write,  go to nature, sound off and preachify son."  “ Write stories in the sky.” 

Writing is a slow process Henry thought— your work must have form and level. 

Laying in bed at night tweaking, Old Bill writing stories in his head,  never  the same,  wanting to finish another story.

Henry never working overtime,  full of inspiration,  trying to say something,  wondering when he would get his check.

Henry and Old Bill junked up and listening to Ray Charles on the Colored Radio, asking his baby not to go, partings part 1 and 2. 

Henry’s work somewhere between short stories and poetry, deep stuff, blind soul healing the rage. 

Not knowing much and  knowing he didn't have to do it anyways.

The Beat Hotel

In The Beat Hotel— Colonel Bill and Alvah Goldsplat—  Flaming Blue Meringue pie washed down with decanters of Moroccan Coffee and clove. “Cock Sucker Blues," By the Rolling Stones on the colored radio, WBXR,  shaking off layers of raw-hide and croc-skin. 

A  Marrakech boy siting on Alvah’s lap, Alvah reading him the Torah and Howl,  stuff from future and centuries past.

Out back on an old sofa, Bill loaded his shotgun, blowing up  beer cans, watermelons, baby dolls and old TV set.

Henry chanting with Bill, poetic stuff from dreams.

Saying—

“ Embrace all that’s dark and wicked Henry, meet them head on son, lie down and hold them tight kid, it’s the stuff of dreams”.

Mainlining a speedball, lapsing into dreams full of color, living the Life of Pi, planting Gospel Trees. Knowing there’s no place like Nashville and Memphis rock n roll, tossing seeds to the wind, two straw men asleep at the wheel. 

Chuck Berry singing “I Love You," On out of focus radio, wooly stuff loose and free, it was a  summer afternoon in New York City,  Hippy women bathing naked in Orchid Sea, a beautiful day full of rainbows.

“Isn’t it a Pity," By George Harrison playing on  Colonel Bill’s radio the room began to sway as the celling parted and rained down powdered cocaine, bathed in white light. 

 Old Bill whispers to Henry—

“ Remember Henry words belong to no one and break the law when you write”.

Jazzed on a Speed-ball

Henry Lu a man of few thoughts, not caring much for the future or the past, all choked up and trying to say something.  

Mathew Mccnaughhey, a  performance and soliloquy at the Oscar Show,  just a kid confessing on stage, replete in his tailored white tux, red hair all curled and sparkling. 

“Everyday I need someone to look up to.” (Being on top and looking down).  “It’s lonely up here,  I need God to look up too, I’m all alone, talk to me God!” And so on. 

Henry Lu looking for his shotgun and puking all over himself… pucking for Mathew Mccnaughhey,  letting it out,  getting rid of it in the bucket, purged, running through the flames, dancing. 

It’s 12 o’clock in Manhattan,  Colonel Bill out and about in Central Park with a shotgun and a metal detector looking for the pusher-man. 

“ Henry I don't write much without a fix,”And, “ I’m a lazy writer and I’m hungry, why I could mainline a mix of lightning bolts and razor,  (bleeding , juice flowing again, segment and  paragraph). 

A blind genius sees the world in black and  shades of white, jazzed in a Harlem living room, greased, Bach on electric piano. 

“Writing is art Henry, the writer paints with words, it’s been said before,  blind soul and perspiration, like a speedball.” 

Later, by midnight fixing on a paradisiacal and glorious vision...”