From the desk of Henry Parkway

My CD player believes in this record like a kid believes in a dream. I hate being strapped to this seat but when do I get the time to take in the nothing. The nothing that exists in poetry. I am sick of words. And levels of ambivalence push me to write about nothing. I, like an eye, seek an iron eye in the yellow band sunset sifting corn and barley over middle America, chilling and waiting for the groove in my sentences. Senseless is what I am going for. Achievement is something that graduates gets. Rewards never motivate A to B. And when nothing lives in my space, my space in the troposphere, my fingers try to find semblance of similarity and vision from heart rather than iron eyes. And so Henry practices...

... Ask another asshole after an acupunturist ambled amically along, before bitches blow below belts bewitching bison but begging comfortably callous. Can communication carry cadence? Could condoms care concerning cunts? Did dicks delineate downtrodden drudgery? Do dunks defeat dolphins? Every etching expressing exactly everything….failure. Fuck freezing furrowed filibustering filanderers. Get going Gil. Great grief grows grass grandly. Home hunters howl humorusly in inexplainable, incoherent, interior, interdependent jeeps jarring just jangling kelp. Kill kevlar keeping ketchup kind. Loop lust laugindly leaving love lorn laces licking lips loud like leaches lean living life mad making money. Matchbook meters mall movies meant misery not never. Negative NANCY. Nut. Open ownership over opulence. Only owls purr pubescently. Put peace pleasantly perfect. Quick queer. Quails query quints. Rest right renting real Ramadas. Righteous sandals seek solid sanctuary. Situations sell sooner than tall trees. Trick trades trivialize truth under undead ulcers. Very very victorious veal victimizes valleys which welcomes well wishers where witches xerox xlyphones. Xanadu yearns yelpingly. Zane.

Henry demands more air time... I fight him, he wins.

...This part of Henry’s mind will be non edited. An experiment, if you will, touching gracefully on the idea that writing like music can flow. The scene has now been set. And those of you with a short attention span, like me, might benefit from giving up. Because life is too short to read this piece. Crows scream in the background beckoning me outside and to my death. They stop and I hear the silence of a dead musician in my speaker. It occurs to me after reading the last line that life’s also too short to write it. But since I sit on a plane, with absolutely nothing else to do but breathe, it‘s a good time for an experiment. The guy next to me is cool. But fuck him because this is all about us. Me and you. How far can you get? I may be starting to lose you because I feel like I’ve lost myself. Closing my eyes, the keyboard becomes home to my brain like this music is home to ears. Ears of fashion that hear with blessed and rapt attention. Sit back and whisper to me because I can hear you. Your energy flows through me like a piercing novel touches a reader. Let us wonder together what hill I will be walking down while you are reading. What are you up too? Have you brushed your teeth today? Yeah, it just got weird and it’s gonna get weirder. Deep breath, deep sigh, deep ocean underneath a deep sky. Deep trenches on land that reach deep into this deep universe. Think. Drink. Sink into a hole and ponder the effortless spinning of the planet, where your ass sits. Touch it. Go outside and touch it. Right now. I will still be here. Like a lump on a throat of a person that felt their heart drop because it broke and it’s really broken like weeks are long in recovery. Frightened like a little rabbit feels when he sees a treatening combine coming to rip the wheat from the earth. So that it can feed the humans. Bread. Fingers like lakes that people fly above reach me and speak to me like laughter in the heart of a child. Like there is nothing else but learning happiness. Learn and look and listen and live like lampposts in 18th century Boston. Be there like I am. Like the memory of some dead human that was there. Where do you live? I am dreaming of it right now. I take myself through patches of fog in my selfish and humanistic mind trying to open my heart like a desperate boxer on the ropes of, and hanging by a thread, off a cliff, dangling like a tooth, decaying into death like a body in a box in the ground. Death. Close the story, dude. It’s over. This is the end of the piece for me because I have a short attention span like a rat. Cheese. Bless jest like a best friend. Rent space in my head and take me to lunch like a laser in your eye. Fry. Fly to speed your mind like words traveling around in cyberspace as transient as clouds that roll by in seclusion. Lonely. My heart as it breaks again and again. Love, I fall in like days of a week. Hazing sleepy love cautioning me to speak minds on microphones in coffeshops. No spelling errors yet. Peck. Finger peck. Darkness in the cabin. Darkness in the city. Is it night or day where you are? Home or work computer? Labtop? Mac or PC? Not that it matters anyway. It‘s just a bunch of dust that found out how to be controlled. I say it sarcastically like I wonder if God really gives a shit what I write about. I heard a comic say God is a faggot. I laughed so hard. It‘s hard not to laugh at this society, this culture, what people hold as important, who is popular and why. Fucking all laughable. I know none of this makes sense. But somehow those with the short attention spans, like me, may get little pieces of it and get little pieces from it and it only has to be a couple of words. But read it slow so that you can try and digest what you have missed because the article is over.

In late August I sat back down in my room at home and I tried to write but for some reason the idea of Molly couldn‘t leave my mind. And the time that we have spent together is so fleeting like a good memory of childhood. It seems so real but completely ungraspable like being in front of a really tall wall with Molly on the other side. Impossible. But my mind won’t let her go. Her memory in my brain is sweet incidiousness. We went to Yankee Stadium and some tourist stopped me to take a picture. They had seen me perform the night before. That’s better than a college diploma.

So I sit back with a grimace and a groan and stick my nose in this fucking lap top. I get so overwhelmed by my own misery at times that all I can do is remember. I think of the wall in Silver Lake where Elliott Smith posed for the Figure 8 cover.

I read the wall yesterday and the line that stood out to me was, “I’m a junkyard of false starts”. Is that what I am? Introspection burns. I feel so lazy lately and uninspired and everything just seems sadness in summer. This journal is like my jounral but I publish it for some reason.

It has taken me a long time to get back on this stand up train. I kinda slacked in August. But finally, this weekend I had an audition for the Las Vegas Comedy Festival. It was held in a conference room above the Best Western in Pasadena. It was the type of room where many a porno has been filmed. You could basically see the cum dripping off the walls. And if you closed your eyes, you could see a midget with a banana dancing naked in the corner.

Not my fault but it was not my best performance. I ended on this joke. By mistake.

Science!!! What has science ever does for us? The internet that is useless? Whatever. Fuel efficient cars! Who cares? Solar power? I’m snoring. When is science going to do something useful like cure alcoholism... or at least herpes.

And promptly shouted, “I can’t believe I waited for an hour for three minutes of time and ended on that joke.” Which as a statement, got the biggest laugh of the performance.