sucks, but here it is—
Henry’s in bed, listening to Freddie King on a colored radio station somewhere in Georgia— slow-moving Texas blues, sweet and blue as rainfall.
On the fast track again— writing to get out of himself in busted-up form, a splash of color, and a crapshoot.
He’s lazy, writing’s a dull itch needing to be scratched.
Henry didn’t like people. In the old days the pikers knew their place at the gaming table, today anybody with an ache and a blog is a superstar— way too much self, self, and more self, everywhere.
Andy Warhol, the crimson prophet of the brewing yuk-factor.
Everybody will have fifteen minutes of fame.
There's a line of faceless yuks hanging around the block of 231 East 47th Street tripping over one another like spawning Mackerels with hard-ons for fifteen minutes of fame.
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