Yeats, Angels, The Stones, n Astro Traveling

I’m alone in bed looking at the ceiling, life is glorious, straight no chaser, goin downhill fast, burning up, I'll take it all at once.

My work is sui generis, feral, and full of beans.

Writing in first person isn’t easy because everything in me wants to tell a story.

Some time back I wrote a bit; Writing in First-Person Confessional, and it was nothing but a fucking story about Dorothy Parker, you know, 

Razors pain you,

Rivers are damp,

Acids stain you,

And drugs cause cramps.

Guns aren’t lawful,

Nooses give,

Gas smells awful.

You might as well live.

My read on this famous quote is that Dorthia was down, shaking it off using her mind-blowing wit.

I’m gonna strip bare ass naked for you; I’m a tetrapodomorph fish in the sea living at zero gravity buoyed by water.

Deep 6’d and afloat. 

Sluts hound me at Soi Cowboy, selling blow jobs,  nymphos begging for shots, you know I always give in, asking

Who’s gonna suck me off? 

I”m scared shitless** how bout u? 

Posted on Twitter a few minutes ago with an Angel selfy. 

I love Angels;

when angels fly free so will we. 

When I think of Angels I think of Yeats. He knew Angels more than most,

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

Going to Heaven is easy for most. 

Those with good hearts are guaranteed a spot in the After Life. When they are ready, their souls ride a moonbeam to Heaven. 

Scoundrels like Stalin, Saddam Hussien, Pol Pat, Mao Zedong, Gaddafi, The Iceman, Hitler, any of em; don’t go to Heaven. By contrast, their souls evaporate into desert dust and they're lost forever. 

Onwards, I couldn't guesstimate how the Rolling Stones do what they do. The Gods play through them, they invented gunpowder, and control the weather and the CIA; their tours are circus-like, rows of semis, pulling the band's gear from the airport to the stadium while the boys sleep.  

I know fuck all about the Stones, the CIA, or the weather for that matter. I’ve lived in Thailand for 20 years and don’t get the Weather Channel, I’ve never read a spy novel, a Fredrick Forsythe, or a John Le Carre, having no interest in the genre, you'd have to drag me over the coals to read the shit. 

I’ve never met a Rolling Stone, but I met Muddy Waters more than a few times in Chicago blues clubs; he always had a pretty girl on each side of him while sitting at a table sipping champagne.  

The only thing I know about the Stones is what I see on TV or computer. 

One thing's sure, Jagger/Richards are prolific composers as were and are, Ray Charles, Muddy Waters, Elton John, Miles Davis, Frank Sinatra, and Harry Nilsson.  

Elsewhere, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet ambiance is Astro-traveling through the universe on light beams at 5000 MPH looking like sparks spewed from Roman Candles.

More about me:

Well, I’m a sensitive person, but I have only cried once in my life at the time my old man Victor Lucowski kicked it having dick cancer.

I’m overly sensitive to the heat, criticism, and nasty looks. 

Those who dare give me the evil eye will be reincarnated as a Cucarachas or worse in the next life.

I can’t handle being bullied, I shrink at the thought of fighting back, thus, internalizing my angst for days on end, until I feel safe to come out of my hole.

Thus surfacing I sharpen my antennae, walking forward and wavering slightly from side to side. 

Black Angels, Rich vs Poor, Martians & Cosmic Consciousness

 

Every writer on Twitter says if you write you have to read.

I got into it with one gal on Twitter, not a blowout by a long shot, asking her how she figured Hunter S. Thompson could focus on reading bearing in mind that his writing day began with the aid of acid, hashish, and Bloody Marys. 

Hunter was particularly fond of; Ann Rand, Henry Miller, George Orwell, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tom Wolfe, William Styron, and J.P Donleavy, never the less once his career took off like a bat outta hell, he took a blow torch to his book collection, incinerating it.  

I stopped reading some time ago when I could no longer download the digital library, Internet Archive; writing rabidly for the fuck of it anyway.

I’m alcohol-free, but use edibles as a sacred kinikinick when working, faithful that my prayers will reach the Great Spirit.

Hemingway said to write drunk and edit sober, I guess for him getting loaded while working stimulated his mind's eye. 

Truman Capote reflected on the Dick Cavett show that you can't write drunk, how right he is.

I listen to music relentlessly on the computer, recoiling between blues, rock n roll, and jazz, but I couldn't tell you a thing about Taylor Swift, Beyonce, Lil' Flip, or Drake.

Many writers listen to music before kicking off work, warming up; Steven King listens to Metallica, and Anthrax while writing; both bands suck.

Growing up I went through some rough patches; doing time,  short time, for breaking a window after being bounced like a beach ball from the Beach Ball Bar in Newport Beach. My old man Earl Lucowski paid a lawyer 800 beans to get me outta that one; for 2 days I laid face up in the top bunk, transcending incarceration in deep meditation while astral traveling.

Everyone's a slave to something, there’s no escaping it, shit like;  chocolate, booze, dope, love, passion, Netflix, gambling, and so on.

I’m a slave to sex, going to Thailand and getting hooked on trouble-free sex, staying in the country for 20 years, committing carnal sin after carnal sin, and in consequence being smacked down by God with impotency. 

I take current events seriously, luck has aided and imbedded mankind to dodge the bullet of nuclear holocaust.

We're lucky to be here now. 

There are boatloads of rich folks in the world; dicks behind the wheel of lavish vehicles unmindful of the indigent on the road.

God loves the little guy.

Most of the well-heeled's driving impulse is to make money, wallow in it, and build walls protecting them from the indigent.

Wealthy rappers are a phenomenon, they can shove their moolah in Whitey’s face if they feel like it, and why not, considering what Black folks have endured over the centuries?

People listen to every known genre of music on YouTube, and pop music is it at the top of the list; rock n roll, soul, blues, rap, jazz, and Black folks are the nitty-gritty behind it all. 

And as baby Black Angels fly through the Mesosphere they push satellites aside with the power of their wings.

Are there Martians? Of course, there are.

Can Martians live in peace in the Anthropoid’s world? I think so. 

When  Martians and Anthropoids couple on Earth they will instantly pinion on every level.

Martians will marshal peace, hexing Earth, triggering cosmic consciousness, purging war, poverty, and death.

It'll be Heaven on Earth.

I Got a Complex

When I was 10 I couldn't stomach vegetables. When pees were served I’d grab the lot of em; chucking em under the diner table.

My old man, Leonard Lukowski, would jump up red-faced knock me on the floor; kicking me in the ribs until my ma, Dorthy would say,

stop it, Larry, you’re gonna give the kid a complex.

At night my next-door neighbor Gino and I would peep; busting out of our houses through the bedroom windows and roaming the neighborhood looking for partially open shades.

We were fucking shameless; we’d get as turned on watching an old lady strip as a hot teenager.

I was the only gentile in my junior high class. The Jews were top students and I made Cs and Ds, this was expected of goys.

There were some perks having Jewish classmates; going to bar mitzvahs was a gas; dance with teenage yentas, clinging tight, dancing chest to chest, getting loaded on Manischewitz.

I was fuck up my freshman year in high school so my parents sent me to New York Military Academy, where Trump went, he’s older than me, but we heard stories about him; a rich guy with a funny haircut who was on the debate and golf team, laugh. 

I graduated from military school at 18, a Private graduating by a whisker, making tracks for New York City with a few bucks in my pocket.

I lived in Hotel 56; a vagrant shithole, and wino paradise.

During the day I worked at Urban Pour; stocking liquor and doing deliveries, arriving at 9 AM and ducking into the walk-in freezer; jugging 3 cans of Fosters rapid fire.

I’d make deliveries shit-faced, driving a Ford van loaded with booze; there were eye openers behind every door: women with bulbous tits in see-through gowns wanting to get laid, pit bulls ready to attack, old ladies living in houses with carpets reeking of urine, and lonely people pleading with me to stay and have a drink.

In the evenings I’d go out; wearing a blue pin-strip suit, bought off the rack at Goodwill, Fruit of the Loom Ts, long hair in a man bun, and painted eyelashes.

I was a regular at Georgy’s Bar in The Bronx, and my drink was Absinthe; it was the holy fucking trinity, distilled with wormwood, anise, and fennel. The shit sent me to the moon. I'd close Georgy's; hallucinating, blind drunk lost, making it back to Hotel 56 at 4 AM when the garbage men were doing their rounds.    

On days off I'd go to Central Park, loading a mini-back with a bottles of cheap wine, reefer and a straw mat; roaming the plains of the park, camping under American Elms.

In no time I'd be high as a fucking pig on Ripple and reefer.

Out of nowhere, a Black kid walks up to me, he couldn't have been older than 10; I was keen on Black children; young’ns overflowing with esprit and high-octane personalities. He says, 

I'm Pigeon how bout you?

Henry.

Pigeon sits down next to me sayin,

mista, pass dat Ripple over here.

I oblige, passing the bottle which he drains in 1 mighty swig.

In a split second, Pigeon places his little hands on his stomach and spews on my straw mat.

I figured he was a street kid and could handle a drink, but the big gulp did him in.

Holding his hand, we walk at a snail’s pace to 9th Street, hailing a taxi, getting in the back where I ask,

where do you live Pigeon? 

Queens he says, 

what's your address? 

He pulls a piece of well-worn paper out of his pocket and hands it to me, it reads, 

2570 Jamaica Avenue, Room 604.  

It's a 20-minute drive, I pay the hack, Pigeon says,  

Mista Henry come meet my mama, 

He rings 604 and the front door buzzes open, we walk in; there's graffiti on the walls, and the place smells like mildew and garbage.

The elevator is out of commission; we walk up 6 flights of stairs to a 1 bedroom apartment. Pigeon’s mama’s standing with the door open and she asks, 

where u been boy? And, 

who’s the cracka?

I say, 

I’m Henry, and she says, 

I hope you ain’t no perv cause I’ll bust ya up motha fucker,

no ma’am, I’m straight hetero, what’s your name? She warms up some saying, 

Suga darlin, come on in then, Pigeon go to your room you look pasty- faced.

I sit on the sofa and Suga sits next to me, we eyeball one another; she takes off her dress, she’s meaty in all the right places.

We get it on in the usual ways; missionary with a pillow, doggy style, 69. 

2 minutes later I cum, trying to pull out, failing, some goes in,  some spills out. Then Suga says, 

short time be 100 dollas darlin.

The fuck hand nothin to do with love.