Elysian Feilds, Anchors, & Bein Nothin

I write in a coma  feeling glorious, writing in drug induced states.  

I learned a lot about writing reading Bukowski in the mid 70s, a  handmade paper edition of Ham on Rye, given to me by a girlfriend, Sue Bosley. What the fuck is an alter ego? Buk's was Henry *Hank* Chinaski

I'm a fan of  China, cheerleading the nation onwards, laugh.

习近平  Xi Jinping!

I’ve written 383 short stories, a few poems, a few are great, but most are good or partially good, and none are bad. 

I’m not an arrogant person nor am I well-balanced. 

Nothing feels better to me than eating ganja.

Hash is no drug, the Native Americans know it as medicine, for nausea, and depression, *Skins* pass the wooden peace pipe around at pow-wows as Fancy Dancers dance the Grass Dance.

The Grass**Dance is one of the oldest and most widely used dances in Native America. It was the job of the Fancy Dancers to flatten the grass in the arena before essential celebrations. They were groundkeepers, forefathers of modern groundkeepers at sports arenas and golf courses.

Anyway,

the Neanderthals skitched figurines of animals, families, and their world as they knew it on cave walls, mixing blood and berries, painting on grotto walls, B.C. graffitist. 

I have never met an anthropologist, it's a boring study. Few folks would recognize Russell Howard Tuttle, the distinguished primate morphologist, and paleoanthropologist. 

Kids aren't the only ones who love dinosaurs, Dr. Tubble knows a thing or 2 about Theropods.

Dr. Russell Howerd Tuttle is an obsessive Dinoasour freak, an editor on the staff of Anthropology Today, who makes it clear that,

the most popular Theropods of all time are Triceratops and my favorite— Tyrannosaurus or T Rex, not the band asshat, he was the badass of the Theropod world. 

Everybody has heard of Steven Wozniak, his name is in the dictionary.

I couldn't tell you fuck-all about Wozo, I don't know a thing about him, I have seen pictures of him, his chubby with long hair and has a triangular face.

Anyway, the hairy-bodied Neanderthals lived doltish lives, regardless, their experiences live in all of us. 

Would you say that?

Liberty's essential as is freedom— the bail bondsmen, bounty hunters, lawyers, cops, the long arm of justice, all, pull the rug out from under you and your world collapses when you know you're busted. That morning in front of the judge, feeling empty, wanting out, spending a night in jail* getting out and driving to Mexico, o yeaaaaah.

Lawyers, judges, juries, and courts are big on TV— suit-wearing gladiators, media sluts, and gamblers at casinos rolling bones like there's no tomorrow, it's an addiction ain't it?

It ain't me babe, oh, ah, a, please, It ain't me babe, It ain't me, It ain't you're lookin for babe *Dylan can't dance, 

walking forever in through black soil with  chicken skin

my hands were dirty and my soul and body were strung out, astra*traveling.

Can you remember being adrift, wading wiping your  daisy farm in the boroughs, half drunk and blind* I got my fortune read, got a lousy TaTToo, drinking like there's no tomorrow at the Salvadore Dali Disco & Bar, long-haired people trippin out are welcome. I'm  out there on beer and edibles, sucking down* oyster flesh, that tastes and smells like pussy.

Henry, you were a eunuch butlerette, a caregiver in the Imperial Palace of Bezing, a masseuse for Emperor Gāozōng of Qin and his wives.

We live in a swamp and there's nothing left to do but to pray to the Martians for help.

Does Rupert Murdock control the world? Obviously not— it’s a consortium of people, George Soros, the Guzmán-Zambada Organization, el Cártel de Sinaloa. 

I’m Henry Lucwoski and I ain't no VIP, I'm a nothin. If I told you that I enjoy bein nothin, I'd be lying. 

There's a demand for the networks to axe the unattractive femi-anchors. If they aren't fuckable that's it.

FOX's news jockeys ooze sex juice through the screen. I want to fuck the Negra anchorette. I'd mount her firmly, fucking her with everything in me, like there was no tomorrow. 

CNN, MSNBC, CBS, NPR, FOX, where you see the world through a contrary lens, THEIR's, where your opinions are fuck all.

I flipped the switch 100 years ago, I'm invisible, I'm a ghost. 

Life's a bore for some, but, thankfully there are proxies available, you can— become a drag queen, a sport fucker, go catfishing, get laid,

or, 

going to the beach and waveing a metal detector from side to side—scanning under the sand for pirate doubloons, finding pennies, bottle caps, used syringes, and bones.

I’m a lot of things, but I'm not religious, or political, both worlds strike fear into me. I'm the guy sitting in the back of the arena nobody sees.

I'll vote for the nominee who spreads freedom and joy throughout the universe, Beyoncé, JLo, Rosanna Arquette, or le Libertaire comédien famaou Richard (Pryor) Prieur in French

I'm in, are you?

Rosa, ultra-(editeD)

I grew up in a 3 bedroom apartment in the Bronx. My pa, Sambo Lucowski was a traveling salesman who sold sexy outfits to strippers with velcro zippers that opened with ease. Sambo was a workaholic, I think I saw him 5 or 6 times in my life. 

My mother fixed in Harlem flophouses, selling her pussy for fixes, what a waste, a beautiful lady who loved to fix. She died of an overdose during my sophomore year at The Bronx River School. 

I was raised by a Mexican nanny, Rosa who had hairy legs and underarms, a Mexican thing, uncommon in the USA, except for hippies.

Rosa was a hoot, she was a runaway train, smarter than most.

My advisor at The Bronx River School, Mr Dick was born with a bone up his ass that couldn’t be surgically removed. Dick signed me up for math and science courses, awful shit.

In his office, Dick, the dick-off, ignored me, looking down, shuffling through paperwork, refusing to look me in the eye.  I was street smart and the aggregate asshole wearing a cheap suitj with a bleached toupee on his head, braced on his head by special glue, non-allergenic stuff, and the kind.  

That evening in our apartment Rosa baked stuffed Mexican peppers. Her sister Margarita taught Spanish at The Bronx River School.

While Rosa and I watched M*A*S*H in the living room after supper, she calls her sister the Spanish teacher, and tells her to straighten Dick out.  

Dick was real nice from then on out saying,

Henry, we have an exploratory program at Bronx River for wayward honor students you’re suited for, 

gee thanks, Mr Dick, that’s square of you. 

Free, I organize the next semester, I loved  Modern American Literature and sculpture. I spent most my time in my dorm room, listening to rock music and getting high together.  

I had a great stereo system in my room, a Macintosh amp, and Technics SK-1200.

My Senior year I graduated in the bottom 10% of my class, I felt fucked over, deserving more for showing up. 

During the lunch hour, we’d smoke weed under the bleachers of the football and field hockey field, the home of the Bronx River Red Skins.

I rarely showed at school, it was an afterthought for me.

Rosa loved to smoke weed, baking angel food cakes loaded with the shit. 

By the early 70s, I attended Fiskel Community College, majoring in Modern American Literature, and creative writing.

I took the subway to Bleeker Street, then walked to Fiskel Community College, making it to class on time. The courses were taught by freaks who'd get loaded in the teacher's lounge.   

I had brought a couple stray cats home to catch rats— Rosa and I named them Bingo Star, and Paulo.

Rosa was a freak of nature, the Latin earth mama, and I wanted to fuck her in the worst way.

One day after school while showering— Rosa jumped into the shower with me, kneeling and grabbing my balls, then licking and blowing me until I cummed in her mouth.

Later that night, we were in the living room watching bullfighting live from Mexico City on UHF TV. 

Rosa was laying on the sofa half-naked with her legs spread, he bush was thick, matted, like coal. 

She was 32 and I was 17.

I’d bring hippy girls or hookers to the apartment and at Rosa's behest, we'd have group sex.

Then in 1973, I think, there was a knock on the door, a burly Mexican man pushes his way in, picks me up by the collar asking, 

were’s Rosa? 

She’s in the bathroom doing her toenails, I say,

The Mexican Hulk knocks the loo door down and Rosa shoots him with a Derringer pistol. 

The first responders and the cops show in no time, questioning me, and booking Rosa. 

The Hulk survived, moving to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where he and Rosa bought a square little wooden house with a giant mango tree in the backyard.

Everybody felt healthy eating mango pudding and paste.  

Rosa taught me that feelin free was a one-way street, forward.

And that, relaxing, at home in your own body, sitting in a comfortable chair, lighting a Cuban cigar, leading it burn but smoking it. 

These times are the best times in history, and it only gets better kiddo.

Fancy Dancer

Sherman Alexie is a lionized Indian writer and filmmaker; I doubt you've heard of him. 

And, for sure, nobody on X has heard of him.

Family, friends, and publishers convinced him to open an X account, and he only got 4o followers, because Tweeps are into horror, romance, and spy novels 

Sherman is a lionized writer worldwide. He's a card-carrying member of the Academy and Institute of Letters whose pin is in the desk drawer under a pile of papers.

In his book Superman and Me, he talks about learning to read when he was 3, reading a comic book, and associating the panels with the written narrative.  

One day, he picks up a book and looks closely at the words. It's hard, but he sees the words on the pages as though they were cattle corralled into paragraphs. Sherman says it like this,

I didn't have the vocabulary to say, paragraph, but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They had some specific reason for being inside the same fence.  

At the age of 3, the prodigy sees the world in paragraphs. In his own words saying, 

This knowledge delighted me. I began to think of everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small paragraph within the United States. My family's house was a paragraph, distinct from the other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south, and the Tribal School to the west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link us. Now, using this logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father, older brother, deceased sister, my younger twin sisters, and adopted little brother. 

By the age of 5, Sherman’s in kindergarten reading The Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck, laughingly, as his neighbors are reading Dick, Spot, and Jane.

Sherman, the wunderkind, was seen as an oddball on the reservation; Indian kids weren't supposed to be geniuses. 

In 1985 Alexie applied and was accepted to Jesuit Gonzaga University in Spokane, receiving an academic scholarship, the only Indian kid to make it to college from his reservation.   

His work focused on the troubles of Indians, life on the reservation, alcoholism, poverty, and despair, but he didn't cry about it, he wrote comically.

Sherman played guard on the Jesuit school's basketball team till his Senior year. 

One day, he calls the reservation to talk to his mom, who's in the bathroom, asking her,

is papa there? 

Henry, you know your father died 7 years ago. 

Alexie says, 

My mother laughs at the angels who wait for us to pause during the most ordinary of days and sing our praises to forgetfulness before they slap our souls with their cold wings; the angels burden and unbalance us and ride us piggyback. 

Alexie is also a filmmaker. He's produced and written screenplays for several low-budget films, including Fancy Dancing, Winter in the Blood, and Smoke Signals. 

All in all, Sherman Alexie is 1 of my favorite writers.