7:10 a.m. Monday morning...
Black crows flew in Henry Applewhite's dreams. Maybe it was a Poe thing? Redemption? Atonement? He crossed his chest, raised the knife above his head. He couldn't make up his mind whether to cut on a forty five degree angle or slice it horizontally? Butter toast. Ummm!Um! Henry decided to slit it down the middle. He was alone but he wasn't a winner like Fleetwood Mac—most of his drug dealers were dead.
He liked to smoke crack and reefer together. Many people died for his thirst. He shook salt over his right shoulder every morning to keep the darkness away. He was like a lame duck his seas was always red, black or green and filled with the crows of death. They were always around him; like the raven as the black bird that remained in his dreams, as the fair scavenger crow of death mystified and held out the door of sleep to his casket He used up most of his money to buy dope; he was on crack now, the secret that slipped in his brain by some big tit girlfriend: Tyra, thanks for the memories because weekend after weekend he was dropping off the moon. Sweet coffee awoke him as Honduran nectars awoke him to smells of jealous women. He bites the toast and chews down time as he steps on a filthy cockroach; just like him. Henry checked his watch. On time, cool. Marijuana smoke floated with musk cologne. He worked on his tie knot. He liked reading that Poe shit because death of loved ones was always in his life. The dude was crazy-obsessed with death like him and being a part of this F'd racist country. He died in the streets a broke-crazy Writer. O' so the Raven. He was weighed down with rejection. Stone cold rejection. Henry flew with the black crow. He checked his silk tie. It was seven-forty-five time to make money and Henry was going down like that.
Henry looked for his keys and briefcase. He had to fly the black crow underground. He hung like a vampire on subway straps, reading his Washington Post and not looking at you. He was lynched again going to some goddamn job. What you want a rock song? Maybe that girl you had last night in the Jungle Bar? Edie smelled like a hot and sweet Mexican taco. In his eyes she was a game of chance. He could still taste her in his throat like a bottle of tequila as he remembered she was honey on a stick.
Henry was clean and fresh. He scanned busted dog ass faces of people going to some goddamn job. All colors in his eyes. He trembled between the Asian girl and old fart of a guy with bald head and sunglasses. All stood on the bookshelves of misery. You welcome mama. Grin and photograph a sleepy black man hanging on a modern day lynch rope to his cotton fields taken over by city buildings with little blue, white patches of sky.
Something was happening, life is hard and the newspaper tells you half-truths about crime, politics and the destruction of the soul. All rise, and got off in front of KFC. No sense being worried with the rest of the Clueless in America. He shrugged and went to his office with women taking control. He was still glad being a man today. New rules of romantic combat in the work place. Henry stared up for a thunderstorm. Women held hands with their lovers sent him over the edge. He was lonely and he needed twenty bucks to get another hit of that coke-straight He wanted to stay home and nurse a comic book but he had to get to his research gig. Military dog that he was, love letters he wanted in this real life as he went in the Cody Building and died till five.
Henry was trying to work things out as he wrote a line of poetry under Colonel Bethesda. He was getting in trouble in front of the pigeons. He wanted to forgive everybody for having to go to some fucked up J.O.B. God help the world of Pocahontas fine women from various Gargoyle warped office buildings. He was through for the day as the dying yellow sun became a dropped ball behind helium green oak trees up and over Pennsylvania Avenue. Vacuum people strolled* reeled, churned towards buses and cabs marched towards comers like new release cuts: Open your nose smell three feet away perfume of loaded women descended with briefcases down stairs of justice, bureaus of evidence, trace evidence of no man, or a husband on pain killers and a search for law suit husbands from redheads, blondes, brunettes, afros go to mulish drinking holes with no charge like search warrants beating your ass in a cage. One more chance as he closed his notebook, not yet finished his poem, his great, great unpublished poem dangled out his ass.
