The Moon Filled the Sky

On Sunday morning Henry went outside to walk his dog,  Blue, walking past the garbage bins on the driveway Blue began to sniff   like a police dog. 

Henry, curious to see what was inside the cans took off the lids, the cans were full of lotus pedals and the garbage had evaporated. The aroma was saccharine, Henry watched as the flowers turned into doves and flew into the air … It was a miracle he thought.

And the moon filled the sky…

It was the beginning of the days of milk and honey Henry thought, he was feeling like Mose or Bob Dylan, prophetic, then wishing for something sweet down the road. 

Something exquisitely beautiful like being in the literary vanguard, (A  movement of contemporary artists on the cutting edge of a new literary style.) 

Henry beyond trying to write like heroes write,  adrift somewhere and on his own. 

Enjoying what writers enjoy,  being able to go anywhere in the universe without leaving their study. 

Henry flying with angels playing conga drums on his computer keyboard as…

The moon filled the sky.

Life as a Cottonwood Tree

Henry flying with angels a couple of decades ago, looking for a landing pad or a warm and safe place…. reaching his mother’s womb at some point, liking it in there.

It was one of those times when $1.99 seemed like more money than $2.04…

When the Doctor delivered infant Henry he got to feeling that life from here on was going to be a uphill climb.

And Holy Moses if drudgery and pain wasn’t the nature of waking reality and the material world to a tee, it was as though a flash, a two decade flash illuminated Henry that very moment.

Henry felt his journey through life was a death march run by corporate America and US.gov.com.

If his life was a mighty Cottonwood tree, burgeoning  with leaves as eureka moments giving breath,  in the autumn of his life the leaves disappeared one by one.

And below the Cottonwood tree there was a river, this river cascading  through his life past,  death and beyond.

And so it was for Henry as he continued to write feeling his work was unlike  others, the others having sold out,  politically and grammatically correct, yet;  jejune,  plain vanilla,  dishwater, a literary community of panderers. 

Henry the writer's writer, choosing to live in it anyways.

Stuff of the Gods

On Sunday Henry turned on the TV to watch the news about the coup in the country his was living. The TV was shut down by the military, they didn’t want news spread that ran contrary to the party line, he felt like he was in a Orwellian box of some kind, with Asian politics moving more and more to the right.

Thinking,  “Oh what the hell,  I live in my head and don’t give a hoot about politics.”

Henry enjoying detachment as an outlet, realizing that the world of dreams was for him, after all, it was the source of most spiritual life and inspiration. 

Henry cared little about  things out of the realm of dreams  and spirit, never looking in the mirror, throwing on unmatched clothes, never washing behind his ears, bored sexually, caring little about extras, existing only to hover in the spirit world.

He counted steps as he calculated angles thus taking the most expedient route from A to B, this allowed him to spend less time in the material world and more time up on the magic mountain. 

On Twitter Henry followed other authors, wondering why they all wrote the same? Romantic horror spy thrillers, where were the Bukowskis, the Burroughs, the Hunter S. Thompsons? Was something wrong with Henry? Or did his writing style set him a cut above the rest? He would prefer to believe the latter. 

After all Henry was writing about higher stuff you know, the stuff of the Gods…