The Guru

Henry reading feedback on his last story ”No Rainbow.”  A history professor from Columbia wrote that the story left him hanging and he wanted to know why Henry didn’t go to Yagur’s Farm?  And why did the Greek bartender get so angry? 

Henry is no hero, he’s weak, he didn’t go to the farm because the bad vibes shook him up, and the Greek bartender had issues, he was psychotic, an alpha-male on steroids.  

A few years ago Henry took a bus trip to New Mexico, he had an aunt in Taos who painted pet portraits.

The bus pulled into Taos at 10PM, Henry checked into the El Camino Motel, a dump with a neon sign in front, a few miles out of town.   

He got settled in his room, and downed a pint of Mescal, watching rodeo on TV. In the morning he would hitch-hike to the Lama Foundation, Baba Ramdass’s commune. 

Henry up early, he ate some tacos for breakfast at the local diner, then walked across the street to the liquor store and bought two fifths of mescal.

He walked out of town a mile or so and began hitch-hiking, waiting an hour until a Dodge Polara Wagon pulled over and stopped on the shoulder of the road. Henry walked to the car, opened the door and got in, eye-balling the driver, a young long haired Native Indian guy, drunk. 

The skin put the peddle to the metal and made tracks down the highway. Henry asked him his name, he said it was Ugh, short for Ugly.  

Henry pulls a bottle of Mescal out of his pack and passes it to Ugh, saying that he is going to the Lama Foundation, Ugh says, “Let’s go!”  He didn’t talk much. 

They pulled off of Route 66 turning onto a dirt road, the Dodge spreading dust clouds in the air. Henry could see a couple of long haired guys wearing jeans and collarless Nehru shirts up ahead, it was the front gate of the Lama foundation. Ugh stopped the car and rolled his window down, the guards saying "Today Baba Ramdass will speak, no alcohol or drugs allowed," Henry surrenders one of the bottles of Mescal, he had another bottle under the car seat, Ugh driving slowly to the parking area. 

Ugh parked the Polara and the two walked to a large Geodesic Dome, the floor inside lined with Native Indian blankets. There were hippies everywhere, bra-less long haired women spirit dancing, guys playing wood-flutes and bongo drums, Henry and Ugh getting drunk, passing the bottle between them.  

Baba Ramdass enters stage left chanting Vedic prayer,  hippie girls run to him and hang Lotus garlands on the guru. It was quite the scene Henry thought. 

Ramdass now lecturing the crowd on vegetarianism, renouncing drugs, alcohol and sex. 

Ugh jumps up on impulse and runs to Ramdass, leaping on him, kissing him wildly, then puking on the guru. In seconds security is pulling on and beating Ugh, Ramdass quickly exits, soaked in vomit, shaking. 

One of the security guys confronts Henry and says, “You and you friend have to get out of here now,” he gave Henry the keys to the Polara.

Henry goes to the parking area,  security dragging Ugh through the gravel, his hands tied behind his back with twine.  The security guys open the rear car door putting Ugh in the Polara.  Henry wanting to get away quick, before security called the sheriff.  

Back at the El Camino Motel, Henry lets Ugh sleep it off, later that evening bringing his sick friend some tacos. Ugh eating the tacos, feeling better, Henry asking him what happened? Ugh saying  “It’s the Native Indian curse, devil alcohol.”

Ugh tells Henry that he is on his way to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. He says he is the son of the medicine-man Crow Dog, and that Native Indians believe getting drunk cleanses the soul. 

At 11 PM, Ugh thanked Henry for helping him, walked out of the room, got in his car and drove away, Henry never saw him again. 

After a week in Taos smoking dope and hiking daily in the Sangre Del Christo Mountains, Henry bought a bus ticket back to New York City. He never contacted his aunt, the pet portrait painter. 

Burroughs Snubbed Me

Henry in a different room, using different type-set, superstitious and wondering if he could write? He was on a roll— his last 4 stories with over 100 hits a piece. 

He had written 10 stories dealing with night-time walks in Queens.  Henry afraid to break out of the pattern, opting for the tried and true. 

Saturday night in Queens, Henry bolted out of his apartment at 10pm. As usual going to Chaim's Deli for a snack, needing fuel—Espresso mixed with Arak, mustard sardines and raw onion slices on pumpernickel . 

Eating quick, in and out of  Chaims in 10 minutes, lighting a beedi, inhaling the night-air, eyeing a group of hookers up the street, card carrying cock-suckers, doped-up to the max, jazzed. As he approached the group one of the girls says “Hi Henry,” he says “How’s tricks baby?” she saying, “Oh Henry you're a doll,” heart-felt chatter and yak.

Henry moving down the street past the hookers walking through the Bowery,  bypassing the bums, green at the smell of puke and piss. The bums barely hanging on to the last rung of life, uncaring, good for nothing, he hated them. 

Heading uptown to The Museum of Modern Art.  Ruby (Henry’s regular waitress at Chaims) had mentioned that William Burroughs was going to read at the museum tonight. He could see a herd of punks with fluorescent hair in motion, shaking, snorting something at the museum entrance. This must be it he thought.

Walking in like he owned the place, the reading was in the basement, a bunker far from the modern art.  There was a roped off area at the rear of the cement hall, Henry walked in telling security he was a reporter for The Columbia Times. There was a buffet of sorts, rye-bread, cold-cuts, some cakes and fruit on a long table. Henry could see William Burroughs standing and holding court, a paper plate in hand, talking to some literati. He approached William Burroughs and said “ Bill Burroughs nice to meet you,” the colonel took a look at Henry, sized him up and did an about face and walked away. 

Henry didn’t hit it off with Burroughs, He (Henry) sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, in the audience as William Burroughs was introduced by a local poet, a guy they called Antler. The colonel getting down to business reading a poem—

I was standing by the wax before dead whistle stop already

cross the red moon terminal time scarred end.

he strode towards the actors in the city "Here he is now"

obsidian morning sniffing quivering need masturbating afternoons

spitting blood dead rainbow flesh he moved as sharp as

on the iron streets fish smell and dead eyes water reeds

scarred metal faces running into the mines liquid typewriter

So on and so forth, Henry thought Burrough's poetry was odious, then one of the punks hands him a baggy with clear liquid in the bottom, Henry says, “ No thanks mate I’m in NA, off the stuff.” 

Henry nodding out some during the reading, then waking as Burroughs rants  “ His sphincter shuddering, in Tangiers junked—”

Nothing was working here tonight from start to finish, Henry out the door, not staying for the big finish, thinking it would be better next time.  

Pull my Daisy

Henry in a different room, using different type-set, superstitious and wondering if he could write? He was on a roll— his last 4 stories with over 100 hits apiece. 

He had written 10 stories dealing with night-time walks in Queens.  Henry afraid to break out of the pattern, opting for the tried and true. 

Saturday night in Queens, Henry bolted out of his apartment at 10pm. As usual going to Chaim's Deli for a snack, needing fuel—Espresso mixed with Arak, mustard sardines and raw onion slices on pumpernickel . 

Eating quick, in and out of  Chaims in 10 minutes, lighting a beedi, inhaling the night-air, eyeing a group of hookers up the street, card carrying cock-suckers, doped-up to the max, jazzed. As he approached the group one of the girls says “Hi Henry,” he says “How’s tricks baby?” she saying, “Oh Henry you're a doll,” heart-felt chatter and yak.

Henry moving down the street past the hookers walking through the Bowery,  bypassing the bums, green at the smell of puke and piss. The bums barely hanging on to the last rung of life, uncaring, good for nothing, he hated them. 

Heading uptown to The Museum of Modern Art.  Ruby (Henry’s regular waitress at Chaims) had mentioned that William Burroughs was going to read at the museum tonight. He could see a herd of punks with fluorescent hair in motion, shaking, snorting something at the museum entrance. This must be it he thought.

Walking in like he owned the place, the reading was in the basement, a bunker far from the modern art.  There was a roped off area at the rear of the cement hall, Henry walked in telling security he was a reporter for The Columbia Times. There was a buffet of sorts, rye-bread, cold-cuts, some cakes and fruit on a long table. Henry could see William Burroughs standing and holding court, a paper plate in hand, talking to some literati. He approached William Burroughs and said “ Bill Burroughs nice to meet you,” the colonel took a look at Henry, sized him up and did an about face and walked away. 

Henry didn’t hit it off with Burroughs, He (Henry) sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, in the audience as William Burroughs was introduced by a local poet, a guy they called Antler. The colonel getting down to business reading a poem—

I was standing by the wax before dead whistle stop already
cross the red moon terminal time scarred end.
he strode towards the actors in the city "Here he is now"
obsidian morning sniffing quivering need masturbating afternoons
spitting blood dead rainbow flesh he moved as sharp as
on the iron streets fish smell and dead eyes water reeds

scarred metal faces running into the mines liquid typewriter

So on and so forth, Henry thought Burrough's poetry was odious, then one of the punks hands him a baggy with clear liquid in the bottom, Henry says, “ No thanks mate I’m in NA, off the stuff.” 

Henry nodding out some during the reading, then waking as Burroughs rants  “ His sphincter shuddering, in Tangiers junked—”

Nothing was working here tonight from start to finish, Henry out the door, not staying for the big finish, thinking it would be better next time.  

Shrink

Henry lounging on the balcony of his 10th floor apartment in Queens, watching the parade of stiffs going to work below on the street, happy he didn’t work. 

He had a mix of stale popcorn, ashes and peanut shells in a paper bag on his patio table. He started tossing handfuls of the mix into the air towards the stiffs on street level, chanting Vedic verse, blessing everything, feeling holy. 

Henry out the door at 10 AM headed to the welfare office. He never went out in the day, but this was official business, things bureaucratic took the piss out of him.

The office was in downtown Queens, he had been there many times. Henry queued and sat down in a hard plastic chair, row 14. 

He wore Ray-Bans because the florescent light irritated his eyes.  Henry felt the gray unremarkable environment was doleful. Jails, schools, welfare offices— desolate and glum.

Number 103, his number flashing green in an electrified box on the wall. Henry smiles at and nods hello to a attractive black women at a small metal desk. She looks at him and verifies his name and case number, Henry Lucowski, #3459875. Then saying “Mr. Lucowski we have reason to believe that you have lied to the board about your mental health for financial gain. You know we have eyes everywhere and we have been watching you. Please go to the psychologist’s office, room 534.” 

Henry nods and makes his way to the 5TH floor queuing again. 2 hours later Henry enters the psychologist’s office and sits down. The shrink a witchy women, middle aged, humorlessly goes to work, a bad sign he thought, serious business. 

“Mr. Lucowski  how is your mental health these days?”  Henry says “Oh, deteriorating by the minute,” She then says, “Mr. Lucowski have you been taking your medication?” He nods yes, lying— he would give the medication to Ruby at Chaim’s Deli, he didn’t know why she wanted the stuff.    

“Mr. Lucowski take this test and return it when you're finished.” 

It was the usual, Rorschach test, the ink-blots and a series of multiple choice questions like—

Which does not belong? 

A- Henry

B- Irwin

C- Fredrick

D- Grasshopper 

Or, 

Did your mother? (Choose answers or answer that apply) 

A-  Drink excessively

B- Make you wear a dress

C- Punish you harshly

D- Dance naked in the living room

Henry siting down in a plastic chair, the test pages on top of a hard bound book, on his lap, using a pencil, trying to be neat.   

He knew he had to be careful not to test too crazy, the welfare cops could lock him up in Rikers Island. It was a delicate balance, He knew the drill. 

Henry had been in the Queens Welfare Office all day, from 10 to 5.  7 hours in the comfortless world of the system, depressing, it felt like jail.

His SSI reinstated, corroborated  by the shrinks at the welfare office. 

Henry soldiered-on, still free in the world of the stiffs.   

The HIgh-Road

Henry in his apartment, sitting, looking at his lap top and thinking he wanted to eat. 

He ordered a bowl of potato-leek soup and a Bud-Light. Chaims was empty, it was the end of the month, allot of folks in Henry’s neighborhood broke.   

Henry tipped  Ruby something, his regular waitress at Chiams. On his way out Chaim says to Henry, “What about them Mets?”  Henry shrugged and walked out the door. 

Henry not flush so a massage was out 

He was bone-tired of the bars on the Bowery, green at the smell of piss and puke, done-in at the sight of bloodied bums hitting the pavement.  

He walked for an hour or so making his way to Times Square, quit the show, drag-queens, junks and midnight cowboys. A lady-boy wearing tie-died overalls and a multi-colored wig says, “Wanna party?” Henry asking her if she had Cocaine?  She says “Dear I’m a professional cock-sucker, don’t insult me.” 

Henry thinking —  great, a gratified cock-sucker. 

Henry eyeing the marque at the New Amsterdam Theater notices a John Cocteau film “The  Blood of the Poet” is playing.  Buying a ticket, slouching as he walks to the front row, sitting down, then walking slouched over with a bottle in his hand to the front row. He the wild Turkey mixed with Robitussin out of his vest-pocket. The mix just right the slow moving, cartoon-like, surreal Cocteau film. Henry enjoyed the ongoing motif of suicide and violence, and a scene where a young son escapes his mothers whining by levitating and hovering on the ceiling.  

He figured the film was a Cocteau opium dream.

He took a taxi home, done-in from the Wild Turkey and Robitussin mix. 

Henry opting for the high-road tonight, passing on a “Professional blow-job,” going to an art film instead. 

Escalaphobic

Another day another story.  

Days of Heaven, Johnny be good, Henry in his apartment on Thursday afternoon, he could hear music at street level— angelic harp and acid fused trip music, Moroccan pipes of pan, Hari Krishna  hippies chanting, jumping up and down in the  opium fields and canyons of New York City.

You could still find magic in the city Henry thought,  it was July 3, 1969, his birthday.

He planned to go out in the evening to celebrate, alone. Henry superstitious, believing it was bad luck to tell people it was your birthday. 

9 PM, peeking outside to see if it was dark, then heading out. 

Henry walking down 10 flights of stairs  to avoid the elevator because he was escalaphobic— the elevator scared the shit out of him. He wondered what was holding the god-damn thing on the side-rails? What would happen if it busted lose, broke free from the hinges or cables and fell free? He wondered if there was a big spring that would cushion a free-fall at the bottom of the elevator shaft? 

On street level he felt safe again. First stop Chaim’s deli for a bowl of matzo ball soup and some cream soda, sitting in a booth eyes down not wanting to make eye contact, afraid someone would wish him a happy birthday. Fat chance the waitresses hated Henry, he never tipped. 

Leaving Chaim’s happy to escape the place.  Siam Massage was a few doors away from the deli.  He told the cashier he wanted Sweet Water, a hill tribe gal.  The two old friends walked hand in hand down a dark hall to a marquee covered with Indian prints. The tent had a mat on the floor and smelled of Frankincense. The pair got naked and sat on the floor cross legged, then snorting coke and drinking Thai whiskey.  Henry laid belly down on a mat and Sweet Water went to work on him. As she massaged him he felt like he was falling down into space, then he fell asleep. When he woke up she was snorting lines of coke off the angel tattoo on his chest, then she blew some coke in his nose with a straw,  Sweet Water was a laugh he thought.

Henry tipped Sweet Water and made his way to a dive in the Bowery, Suicide Hall. He would sit at the bar and watch the bums drink cheap wine. It was a real show, they would talk nonsense to one another, get in fist fights, fall off bar stools, piss themselves, or just die in place. He admired the bums because they were on full throttle all the time and didn't care about anything. 

Later that morning the bums would pass out, piss their pants and vomit some more inside boxes or on park benches.  The 9 to 5 stiffs on their way to work would walk by the bums, not caring, too busy thinking about the stock market, the Mets or sex. 

Henry home and in bed by 4 am always, sleeping till noon, happy he didn’t have to work like the stiffs. 

Sam Lee's Laundry

Henry’s last story, “Easy Boulevard” only 50 hits at Busted on Empty—busted flush, a clinker. 

Siting in a booth at Chaim’s eating pickled carrots, noshing. Thinking that his work was full of old man talk— moaning on page about his peculiar despair, a romp down the Via Delarosa, mugged by Romans.

Folks tired of Henry’s junk, the jitter and jive.

Leaving Chaim’s, no tip, out the door— the waitresses didn’t like him, very few cared much for Henry the strange-bird, people avoided him. 

Lighting up an Indian Spirit, inhaling the stuff— muzzy, walking the best he could. Drinking Jack Daniels from a pint, just a warm-up, heading to Junk Street, looking for a kick-start.

Henry static but moving, doing the pelvis grind for some camp-followers, enjoying the side-show, whores on parade in line, desperately in need of this or that,  wanting just enough to get through. 

Henry walking through the Bowery now, passing dive-bars, The Cripple’s Den, Suicide Hall, The Flea Bag, carefully walking around drunks and pools of urine.

Henry hated the Bowery,  the bums a spastic army that puked all over everything and themselves. 

Junkies puked in their rooms, hiding from the world. 

Henry on Junk Street, ducking into Sam Lee’s Laundry scoring two eight-balls of coke for 60 dollars.  The Chinese laundry had an opium den in the attic. Henry would go home.

He took a taxi home to avoid the bums. Later, sitting in his apartment on a pink sofa with his feet on a cheap coffee table, listening Ray Charles and Little Walter, snorting, drinking, smoking some--- 

For a few hours despite it all, Henry was the king of the world. 

Easy Boulevard

The drill was the same, plugging into You Tube, putting on headphones, formatting Text Edit, setting the caps— American Typewriter, large print. 

A good story got 200 hits at Busted on Empty, a bad story got 50. 

Warming up —Henry, sit ups and recitations, nothing much mixed with blah, blah, blah.

Henry waxing bullshit for hours in his head, writing it down, walking out the door of his Village apartment for some air.

Lighting up, taking a deep hit, feeling the night air, then just feeling— in his stride on Easy Boulevard. 

Chaim’s Place for a bowl of borscht with sour cream and horseradish. Chaim’s full of stoners, it was in and out, hit and run for the employed and the religious. 

Easy Boulevard a place for nobody really, a dead end for losers and a temporary destination for those just passing through—  everything written down in the blind man words. 

Henry at 58th and Easy Boulevard— feeling something coming on, a storm—knocked down dead in his tracks, on his hands and knees— cocooned in white and blue light— Tabula Rosa, Hare Krishna, OM!

Henry eyes wide open, down on the sidewalk, a loaded camp follower squatting beside him peeing, she letting loose with a cascade of golden sprinkle. 

Henry the happiest man in the world—

Tabula Rosa, Hare Krishna……OM!

Breath

Henry’s last story “ A Peculiar Vision” was written in March— four or five months ago. In the dry time Henry thinking daily or nightly that he was finished, nothing else to say, dried up, kaput, time to off himself like Hemingway or Tennessee Williams. (Williams out in a kind of slow booze and dope fizzle, not a bang really.)

Simply put, he had nothing to say anymore, he was empty inside, there was nothing there, just some shit and a little blah, blah, blah. 

He was sick inside, his head thick, abandoned, neither robust or spiritual. 

At nights Henry would walk to  Seventh Street, the greatest show on earth— Whores and strumpets, sailors and sinners, here and there, chanting mantra forever—Henry could find some peace here. 

Come little children into the arms of Jesus, let him embrace you and lift you up!

Walking the dark and cold streets, through the city canyons, Henry felt poetry at work around him, perfuse, passing through it all. Silent whispers and breath keeping it all going.

People on the streets, just shadows to Henry and he invisible to them. They had breath enough to make it to the next stop he thought. Enough breath to pass the graveyards and slaughter houses, enough to make it home tonight—Henry was no different he needed breath too.

A Peculiar Vision

Henry looking at photos in a lazy way, breezy, feeling lovely, gazing the work of great photographers. 

He liked photographers that were on the lip of it, the ones that had a freakish and peculiar vision to share.

Folks like Diane Arbus, Robert Maplethorpe, William Eggleston, Robert Frank and Man Ray to name a few. 

Viewing their work transported Henry to queer places, lonely corners in small-towns and ghost-towns.  A world at the other end of the orbit: Carnivals, freak-shows, asylums, chemical-factories, subway tunnels and garbage-dumps. 

Henry loved the hip photographers, the lost and broken ones, the truth sayers, the spark-plugs transferring—a momentary vision worth a thousand words. 

He liked the black and white film “Cocksucker Blues,”  a  two part film by Robert Frank. A junk trip full of raw meat, bouncing hippy-girl breast, chickens and goats, all of it in the isle and seats of a 727. 

In “Cocksucker Blues”  Robert Frank magnified everything using grainy film shot at odd angles. In editing he cut the film up, splicing in queer ways, making the film look more insane than it's reality really was, allot of people liked it that way. 

Robert Frank and other peerless photographers gave a wide birth to day to day parallel strata like it was a rampaging Rhino.    

"How I hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity."   William S. Burroughs  

Henry loved the part of all art that didn't conform.

Writing is It's Own Reward

Henry thinking—holy fuck come on people! Nobody reading his stories @ Busted on Empty anymore—

Henry’s last two stories only eighty hits between them, he was averaging two hundred hits per story before—he didn't know why people were losing interest in his work.

Why keep writing?—There was nothing  in it for him. 

Henry old, his body ached inside and out, weedy and weak-kneed,  everyday a endeavor.  

Booze and dope a temporary fix.  Henry— a life of misdirected addictions, he was fragile and bedazzled.

Nothing he loved worked anymore, the magic evaporated.

Henry wasn’t grousing, this self-depreciating expose— an exercise  in literary method. 

Literary method a phrase he invented a few seconds ago, it was his method of checking his wits. 

His work neither apropos or spot-on. 

Henry didn’t write for money or glory, none of that for him— he wrote because he wanted to be read.

Writing is its own reward.

– Henry Miller

Henry Junked on Beer

Henry drunk some, at it again, listening to the Rolling Stones, junked on beer.

Lately, unable to write without a drink, needing to get mildly intoxicated to pull it off.

It was months between stories,  Henry lazy, uninspired. 

The other day a fan of his work, John May, sent him a SMS on Facebook.  John said he loved Henry’s stuff—John loved all the real stuff out there—Bukowski, Hunter Thompson,  William Burroughs.

John asked him why he didn’t write more, Henry could only say he felt tapped out, in a vacuum. Ten years of writing and not a word from anyone, John was the first.

Henry was a big fan of Herbert Hunke—

Hunke a Times Square and Coney Island junk/ hustler for allot of years. Hunke junked the beats for the first time, Burroughs took to Junk like a pro. 

Burroughs wrote on Junk, way out there,  cranked up, it moved him, he was on the moon. He could see the future.

Henry wrote on beer like Bukowski, Junk too much for Henry. 

Bukowski saying—

“Stay with the beer,  beer is continuous blood, a continuous lover.”

Bukowski, Indian cigarettes, beer and wine, late night writing sessions with Beethoven and Brahms on the radio.

I was fairly poor

but most of my money went

for wine and 

classical music.

I loved to mix the two 

together.

Henry like a steam engine moving slowly down the track, rolling steady. 

Writing was music and melody, splashing paint on paper, it got easier.

Fools Paradise

Good luck Henry plenty of juice, gassed, feeling warm inside. 

Sunday afternoon, laying in a bed, room dusted with white energy.

Blind with clear vision, junked up, in the gut of the volcano.

Rattling the bones of collective soul, upward and out, going to Mars. 

Mars silent, still and empty for a million years. A nice place to go.  

Astral projecting,  hitching a ride on an angels back, Sitting cross legged like Geronimo on red Martian hill. 

Looking to the sky, star objects imploding and exploding simultaneously, kaleidoscopic.

Henry transported, moved, powerless, orgon energy, getting off on Mars.

Looking down from far above, the Earth a fools paradise.  

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.   

Dying, Vile and Verbose

Writing, creative writing is like herding cats. Unlike a homework assignment for wayward Henry—the stuff surfaced when it was good and ready, coming from somewhere between the cranium and the navel.

Henry googling chronic pain and fatigue, his daily condition. Filing the resulting hooey and blah blah in the wastebasket of the mystery of medical science or —fucking doctors just don’t know shit and, be patient  Henry in a few more years you will be dead. 

Death a sovereign remedy and elixir, the best LSD trip imaginable or nonbeing and nothingness in the cold stark earth. 

Dying for days, months or minutes, most of it long arduous minutes. Dying, vile and verbose, pain with many faces; cold and hot, sweating and gasping, choking as you shake, dry heaves or salty spew, begging for Mama’s helping hand. 

This was the stuff of Henry’s life gone down.   Carousing maggots, drunk and feasting on rat carcass. An Inglorious fanfare, a death march, a parade without audience.

Henry the eloquent carper, the majestic party poop. Far removed from the crowd with no way back.

It was his and he owned it he thought.

Junk Speak

Henry the huckster  — eyes wide open running a hundred miles a hour into the freak show, eyes wide open. 

He didn’t have anything to write about—a Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson would off themselves now, but not Henry, he was a truly courageous.

Henry a stranger to success in art and life, no Hemingway, no Hunter S. Thompson, no reason to off himself—no reason to write.

Writing was habit for Henry, it was constitutional, not unlike washing yourself or eating, something done without much thought. 

Henry felt nothing inside, there were no itches to scratch, feeling thick through out, like  
a spinal tap was attached to his neck, downward, numb.  

A story, this story, as a mono-dimensional protestation. Base, shameful, tiring and not required. 

Henry watching William Burroughs on Youtube—the old Colonel was spot on, “Junk Speak”  truth sayer and dragon slayer—

‘You must learn to exist with no religion, no country, no allies. You must learn to live alone in silence.’

William Burroughs

The Brewing Yuk Factor

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.