Henry's Dream & a Song

Henry’s cell phone didn’t ring much. In the day (some day, in some time frame, most likely in the past) a phone call often lead to an romantic event—a date, a good meal, long nights of passion. 

Occasionally things would fall into place with just a dash of protocol if you were lucky—the meal a wash and the sex even quicker—

Was life losing its thrill value in the age of social media?  

Dreams still marvelous for Henry, a turn on for him. He dreamt about anything, dreaming at any speed and in any color—dreaming about sultry Negro ladies dancing in a red poppy fields wrapped in banana leaf. Dreaming about baseball, Negro fellas with big fingers catching baseballs in their caps and whisking them about, playing hialeah in Cubano nights, drunk on Havana Club.   

Or— a Chinese gal in a third floor loft, the walls full of paintings and photos of red flowers, a feng sui arranged dust covered open space— she,  sharing love and jasmine smiles for gold coins. 

Dreams aside, living still a boon for Henry. The head-stuff was the best, he was there allot, it was his place. It (the head-stuff) was the easiest thing in the world, playing out in slow motion. 
  
 In the final count—Henry wasn’t “ Back “  he was ”Never there”. None of it was his, he never wanted it anyway. The others, the big folks, the ones who wanted it disparately could have Henry’s share. 

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.”   Henry Miller

My Work is Awful

Henry,feeling beastly, burning up inside, cravin, dope, junk. 

Did u see the film, “Night of the Iguana?"

The Reverend T. Lawrence Shannon, in exile, pursued by a Lolita, breaking down in Mexico, outside of Mexico City, on the bay somewhere. 

Henry didn't care for Lolita's he preferred beautiful middle aged women.  

He, Henry, the writer, writing graphically, paint on the page. 

Henry loved the Little Walters, Dylan Thomas's, Jack Kerouacs, William S. Burroughs, and the Hunter S. Thompsons of the world. 

There were more than a few on the list, they were super heroes, all dead of course; including, Charles Bukowski, James Carver, Francis Bacon and Ernie Banks, true champions of the the poetic, paintin, blues and sports world, a lengthy list. 

They lived in a Century  where g-ds roamed the desert plains, loaded carrying little, outcast in their own way, outside of the world, breaking down allot of the time. 

Henry, hardly the best, surreal, just a touch, fragrance of dried flowers and incense, great ganja,  vagina everywhere,  Henry loved it all.  

A lot of folks loved Henry’s stuff, an elite few, the high rollers and king pins. 

Henry,

—oddly out there, craving human touch and connection—

The Soul Maggot

Henry laying in bed at 6 am, just awake from a dream. He dreamed he was a full-blown narrative writer who worked at it. 

He had a taste in his mouth of what he wasn’t and what he was, but overall he felt like a slothful and sullen shadow of a writer.

The soul-maggot was eating him from the inside and he felt shameful and inadequate. 

William F. Burroughs called it a parasitic being—

Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.

After reading Burrough's take on it he was, point blankly, a matter of factly, without prevarication, scared shitless and wondering—should I be worried? 

Henry soul-bound and circumscribed saying,

I don’t give a shit! 

I don't give a shit! was the salt of the earth,  the armor the dreaded soul maggot couldn't penetrate.