Henry looking at a blank page early Sunday morning at Wah Wah coffee shop. The same paltry fat chick, same place everyday, first to get the newspaper, sitting on it so no one else could read it. It was the little stuff that chafed him.
The day hot as hell, Henry barefoot on asphalt in Devils’ Square making mental reverence to German soldiers frying eggs on the decks of their tanks in the Sahara, wondering if he could fry up an omelet on Devils’ Square asphalt?
Waiting for the fat chick to surrender the newspaper, fat chance, hoping she would drop dead soon, visualizing it.
Later Henry stuffing his nose full of high octane Bolivian Cocaine, needing the inspiration here, plugging in the jute box, listening to “Rocks Off” by the Rolling Stones and later Roy Buchanan. Trying to get his mind off the woeful and onto the higher stuff.
Out of dire need Henry aligning himself with great poets.
“Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. “
From “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas…
Life a prison for him and many, toiling in green chains…
Henry at the end of the grand experiment too, his green chains wilting and turning brown, wanting to say something.
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