Is Blogging Creative Writing?

 

I’m a guy who didn’t go to college who writes anyway. I don’t know shit about MA programs at universities. 

I’m uneducated but people like my stuff, I get 1000s of hits on my blog. 

Every  body wants to write.

Write about your life, pissing in the alley as a tranny walks by watching

After a gummy my mind wants to write like Cy Twombly

draws and squabbles with pencils on shopping bags.

flow of consciousness shit—

many people prefer to sleep with their toes out and exposed to the air, others bury their feet in the blanket.

All the problems of the world will be solved.

I was one of the kids who drank out of a house hose.

sex is fast movie so you have to pay attention or you will miss something.

do you love your sex partner 100%, or let’s say 66%?  Do you feel like laying in bed planning life, or marriage, after you've gotten you rocks off?

Lucowski you’re a blogger —  if you had what the MA crowd has, you'd write short stories, novels, haiku, plays. People with MAs are cut from higher stuff.

Let me give you some advice Henry, if you don't have a MA, don't write, or write if you want, but burn your work with the leaves in the background.

What's a fucking story? I'll write one for you — 

Julie and Dicky went to see Gone With the Wind, as they shared popcorn, watching darkies brutully whipped by southern whitebread.

Dicky gets a woody and realizes he wants to marry Julie, so he says?

Julie, I love you, will you marry me?

Julie says yes, joy radiates throughout the theater. 

Sad to say, the Gods didn’t care about Dicky’s majestic proposal to Julie. The Gods hate people. 

The mighty divinity laugh at the neopyte lovers, splashing mead in the clouds, knowing Julie is going to fuck the whole thing up when she tells Dicky,

marriage is a big step in our lives. Let’s have a big wedding, with a band, and lot’s of expensive booze. We can get a wedding planner, they’re not much, 

Dicky farts and excuses himself to go to the bathroom, instead, when he gets to concessions he runs for dear life, Dicky never saw Julie again.

Is that a story ending?

I know an old pharmacist in Harlem, Art, His pharmacy is made of wood, hardwood floors, cabinets, ceiling fans, there's a  cedar Dime Store Indian at the front door.

Art's a voodoo man from Baton Rouge

He has a complete line of voodoo paraphernalia for his Wigan customers— Mugwort, Jasmine Root, Lucky hand Root. 

And Rastafarian and Wall Street Executives go to Art’s for Thai stick, fruit flavored ganja, Humboldt Country, and so on.

Louis Armstrong was Old Al’s regular customer in the early 40s, the great one bought weed and Seena natural laxative.  

Weed for Louie was like junk for Keith Richards, it fogged the bullshit of society keeping the two feeling safe inside.

When I listen to expansive music I wonder how the fuck they can do it? Coltrane, Monk, Charlie Watts, Bill Evans, Art Pepper. 

Where's the sound come from?. The august ones are gifted, not by the Gods, it comes from somewhere else, inside them.

If your work has something special a publisher will contact you.  As for publishers, I was reincarnated for a day as a cockroach and Marshal Schuster stepped on me, I was in the urinal.

Hey Mr. Publisher man, I got hundreds of short stories, there not all good, but some are great, Mr. Publisher man says, 

Go fuck yourself cockroach. Don't bother us.

This is a blog, there is no storyline or plot in it. 

Short story writers, journalists, novelists, playwrights, and haikus are the royalty of the writing world.

Neither Bukowski nor Kerouac were hippies, they hatted hippies. They didn’t care about the Grateful Dead and neither had a MA.

Kerouac wrote at his mother's house in Massachusetts, and Buk wrote in his tree-lined ranch house in Santa Ana. 

Bukowski was more productive than Kerouac. 

Kerouac would go on benders, then write for long periods, while Buk would write every day, drunk or not.

My best friend Andy told me to stay on anti-depressants. He’s my voice of reason.

In that I don't have a MA, I will call myself poet blogger.

That's it for writing retired on applications, now I'll sign  Lucowski the poet blogger.

I want to end this work with an MA-certified ending, a summation if you wish.

You all know my life has been a train wreck of romantic episodes, death-defying espionage, and killer clowns.

But I made it— today I drive the kiddy train at Coney Island.

 

Dream Girl Warehouse

After my best friend Slim died there was no reason to live in New York. The winters were remorseless. 

And, you know the I Love New York bumper stickers, LOVE? Say it again motha fucker, yeah, there're a few nickels and dimes of love there. 

I was broke, needed to pay rent, there was no ganja available in the city, something to do with a NARC crackdown, so I had to get a job.

I went to answer an ad for working security for Burns. 

I'm sitting at Captain Dick’s desk, he looks like a WWE wrestler,  with a square-shaped head, and a flat-top haircut. 

In the 80s people didn’t use computers much and Dick tells me, 

give me your social security card. 

He calls the 9th precinct and asks for detective Bud Marrow saying,

hey Bud, how's the wife, how about a drink later at Louies, anyway, can you check your files on Henry Lucowski, Social Security number— 362456876? 

Ok, Dick hold on, 

It took a long time but the detective comes back giving the OK,

the kid’s clean, Dick says thanks telling Henry, 

you look like a good kid to me, you don’t smoke that shit do ya? 

Oh, no sir, 

I’m gonna put you on the night shift to start, at Dream Girl Sex Toy Warehouse, it’s in Queens, my secretary will give you your uniforms, and lucky for you, no hats, laugh.

You'll need to relieve the day guy at 5PM, then he'll show again at 8AM to sign the workers in. 

What a motha fucken dream job and trust me I was going to take full advantage of it.

The first night I brought cocaine, weed, and Jack Daniels, walked the floor, doin my job, amazed at the different kinds of sex toys, and assorted loungery. 

Most of the sexy stuff was stored in large paper boxes but they had a lot on display— there were double-cocks, electric dildos, strap-on dildos with balls, dildos without balls, squirting dildos with syringes attached to a tube that would shoot fake cum out of the penis. 

There were all kinds of lingerie, string-like straps that wrapped around the tits and ass, pussy cut-out panties, nurse's uniforms, and maid outfits, you name it. 

I got so worked up looking at the sexy stuff that I had to sit down and cool off. I sit at my desk, snorting coke, and drinking Jack. 

The next night I bring an old pal with me, Trickie, a hooker.

Around midnight I unlock the warehouse gate and sneak her in. She was gorgeous, with a perfect body which she liked to show off wearing tight clothes. 

We were snorting and drinking at my desk and I say to Trickie,

let's play a card game, we draw from a deck, and the lowest card has to do what the winning card tells them to do.

I pulled the high card and was in for a challenge. 

Let's try the syringe dildo, the one with the hypodermic attached to a thin plastic tube that inserts in your pussy.

Trixie got turned on before we started, the idea got her really horny.

Holding on to the rubber cock and the syringe took dexterity, but I pulled it off, inserting the thin rubber tube deep into her vagina with the tip of the rubber prick inserted partially in her pussy.

Finally, I let go, inserting the fluid in the hypodermic, and when the fack cum splatters into her pussy she goes insane, screaming ungodly.

Then out of nowhere Captain Dick shows, saying, 

Lucowski, get that slut outta here, and come to the office and dropped off your uniforms in the morning. 

The party was over, laugh, but it was sensational and worth getting busted by Captain Dickhead. 

Captain Dick didn’t pay me for the 2 nights I worked. Who cares?

After a waffle at The Waffle House, I go to central park for a walk. 

It was 1980 and the calamity of John Lennon’s horrid death at the hands of a nut case wannabe, who should have had his dick and balls cut off, hadn’t happened yet.

I sit at a bench and watch the ducks, they didn’t have a care in the world— no taxes, wearing suits of feathers, all the food they wanted in the world. They'd have a dream life if it wasn’t for fucking hunters.

I knew goddamn well I was sick in the fucking head. All I could do is hawk ganja for a living.

Thankfully, the new FDA boss decided to declare war on crack, like it was Satan himself. The FDA prick couldn't do nothin about weed, it was out of the box— cops walking their beats smoked it, wall street guys, hookers, hot dog vendors, you name it.

So crack was the new devil, lucky for me, I was back in business and as if the Angels were looking, I scored a kilo of Thai stick, the one that was the size of your baby finger wrapped in tiny threads of bamboo and soaked in opium

The Thai stick sold fast, I made so much money I could live for a year without working.

I decided to take a trip up north to Vermont, buying a used RV, a small house on wheels.

Instead of parking at a proper campsite, I hooked my RV up at Vermont Freedom Campground, a nudist resort. 

There was a nice lake there you could swim in nude, and people took it for granted that everyone was nude.

I stripped down like the rest, feeling self-conscious because I uncircumcised.  

At night the nudist sat around campfires—  partying nude, there was plenty of weed and booze around. 

Another perk was wife swapping, since I was alone I got in on threesomes. 

There’s nothing like walking naked in the forest. Suddenly you feel the skin of your whole body. That's what the nudist said anyway.

I lasted  2 nights at the nudist colony,  the nudist were self-righteous, like naked Nazis. 

I parked my RV in Burlington at Fletcher’s Free Lot, nobody cared. 

The town was full of college kids from the University of Burlington, loaded with bars. 

I was broke so I got took a job at a bar, the Whiskey Room, all I did was make Irish Coffee night and day— adding one tablespoon of brown sugar to a hefty measure of Irish Whiskey, filling the class partially with a shot of hot coffee, then pouring half whipped cream over a spoon to top off the drink.

I began hitting the booze, swigging from bottles of stuff I liked— Grand Mariner and Jack Daniels, just picking them out of the rack and gulping.

I’d be loaded by quitting time and would rip off bottles hiding them in my overcoat. Eventually, I got busted and canned.

I sleep that night in my RV, still, with a bundle of cash from the Thai stick, deciding to head out to Taos, New Mexico, thinking about going to the Lama Foundation and becoming a guru. Being a guru was a good hustle.