The Portable Henry Rollins by Henry RollinsThe Portable Henry Rollins by Henry Rollins

The Portable Henry Rollins

byHenry Rollins

Paperback | February 10, 1998

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Henry Rollins is an artist whose legendary, no-holds-barred performances encompasses music, acting, and written and spoken word.  As Details magazine said when it named Rollins the 1994 Man of the Year: "through two decades of rage and discipline, Henry Rollins has transformed himself from an L.A. punk rocker into a universal soldier.  His enemies: slackers and hypocrites.  His mission: to steel your soul and rock your world."

Rollins was frontman for the seminal punk band Black Flag, and since 1987 has led the Rollins Band, whose ninth album, Come In and Burn, was just released by DreamWorks.

As a spoken-word artist, he regularly performs at colleges and theaters worldwide and has released eight spoken-word audiotapes.  His album Get in the Van won the Grammy for Best Spoken Word Album for 1995.  As an actor, he has appeared in The Chase, Johnny Mnemonic, Heat, and David Lynch's forthcoming film, Lost Highway.  

From his days as front man for the band Black Flag and the current Rollins Band to his books and spoken-word audiotapes, Henry Rollins is the music, the attitude, and the voice that takes no prisoners.  In his twelve books, he has led us on a hallucinatory journey through the decades--and his mind--with poems, essays, short stories, diary entries, and rants that exist at "the frayed edges where reality ends and imagination begins" (Publishers Weekly).  For the first time, the best of his legendary, no-holds-barred writings are available.  This collection includes new photos and works from such seminal Rollins books as:

High Adventure in the Great Outdoors
Art to Choke Hearts
Black Coffee Blues
Get in the Van
Do I Come Here Often?

Plus never before released stories and more...
As a writer, Henry Rollins has self-published eleven books through his own publishing company, 2.13.61.  He lives in New York and Los Angeles.
Title:The Portable Henry RollinsFormat:PaperbackDimensions:320 pages, 9.2 × 6.2 × 0.84 inPublished:February 10, 1998Publisher:Random House Publishing Group

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0375750002

ISBN - 13:9780375750007


Read from the Book

All this writing in Pissing in the Gene Pool and Art to Choke Heartscame from one frame of mind. The two books were eventually put togetherand released as a single volume. A great deal of the material waswritten in Venice, California, in 1986. I was living across the streetfrom a very active crack house. Business was conducted day and night. Atone point, there was a drive-by shooting and apparently some girls died.The crack house folded soon after.I saw it on TV. An L-1011. Full-color footage. It looked like a rupturedtoy. The men were out with their garbage bags, picking up limbs. Therewas luggage, clothes, bodies, and big hunks of metal all over the place.I'll never forget the sight of that enormous plane ripped apart andgutted like a big foot had kicked it around. I wonder what that musthave been like. Picking up heads, arms, fingers, and assorted guts andloading them into plastic bags. I wonder if those guys go through thepockets of the dead, maybe get a little beer money. Why not? What thefuck is a stiff going to do with money? There must have been flies allover the place, being summer and all. Ask any fly and he'll tell you,there's nothing better than fresh guts on a summer day! The telecastturned to the chief coroner. He said that identification of the corpseswould take a long time. He said that most of the bodies were coveredwith jet fuel, a lot were burned beyond recognition. He asked that therelatives bring any photographs, dental records, and doctor's info(operation scars) that they had to help speed up the process. In a fewdays Time and Newsweek will have good color pictures of the twistedmetal and destroyed bodies. I dig those pictures; a few months ago theyhad some great color shots of dead bodies stacked high at the Belsenconcentration camp. But anyway, when those mags come out with thoseairplane pictures, I'm gonna buy 'em, yes sir. And I'm gonna say: "Boy!Am I glad I wasn't on that plane! Look at all those people. They'redead, naked, and burned up!"To me, she's not even human, she's some kind of a germ. A concoction.She is neurotic, nasty, and abusive. Pathetic is a word that springs tomind. When she is loud and drunk, it's torture being around her. Shetreats marijuana like some life-preserving drug. She is most lively whenshe has a chance to get "fucked up." Whenever she's spazzing out anddrooling over pot, I think to myself, "coke whore," but I change theword coke to pot. She doesn't bathe much, and sometimes the stench canbe quite noxious. I don't like being associated with her because I seehow nasty she is with people that I work with. When she comes into aroom, I either leave or try to get out of earshot of her. I hope shegoes on her painful little way and leaves my sight. Not a bone in mehates that girl. She has managed to turn off everyone around her. Shesure did it to me. I never set out to feel like that, no way. Now it'sat the point where it's totally irreversible. I avoid her wheneverpossible.I overheard some people talking. This girl was complaining about havingto shell out money every time her period came around. She said thatMidol and tampons should be given away in welfare boxes. I had neverthought of that before. She had a point there. What if a guy had to putout a dime every time he took a piss. It would be nothing at first, butafter a while those dimes would start to pile up and you might try andhold out to make that dime go a bit farther. Imagine saying, "Fuck, Ispent a buck on urine today!" What if you were into beer? What if youare out of $$$? What if you had to write a check? A credit card? What ifyou had to say, "Brother, can you spare a dime? I gotta piss." You wouldbe in bladder hell pal. Think about that!It's cold here, cold and raining. It's August but it feels like October.Even the air smells like autumn. Autumn time makes me think of workingat the ice cream store in Washington, DC. I lived in this really dingyapartment in the fall of 1980, and I used to avoid it as much aspossible. I would do this by hanging out on the street and working extrashifts at the ice cream store. I would spend a lot of time alone. Whilemy car still worked, I would go for drives at night with all the windowsopen, just to have the cold air wash over me. I would drive throughdifferent neighborhoods in NW just to clear my head. I later stoppeddriving as much because I started to enjoy walking more.I would go for long walks by myself. That made me feel old, gettingenjoyment from going for walks by myself. I'll never forget how theautumn air smelled that year. I spent a lot of time out and aroundbecause I only used the apartment as a last resort. At the time itseemed that everything frustrated me. I would work behind the counter atthe ice cream store, and the customers would just wear me down. I wouldtake orders all day long. I felt like an old shirt going through thelaundry over and over. By the end of the shift I was burned out onpeople, their talk and their bullshit. The walks did me good. It was sogreat to be outside when the air was clear and cool. Everything lookedgood.Sometimes I would get invited to a party or to go out to dinner by oneof them and I would decline. Part of me wanted to go, but those kind ofoutings always made me feel even more alienated than usual. Hearing themtalk made me feel lonely and hateful at the same time. Lonely because Ididn't fit in, never did. When I was reminded, it hurt. And hatefulbecause it reaffirmed what I already knew, that I was alone and on theoutside.I spent a lot of time feeling alienated and lonely. But with all of thatalso came a real solid feeling of independence. I came to enjoy eatingalone and spending my off time for the most part alone. I was walkingdown the streets here today, cloudy sky, on-and-off drizzle, and it allcame back to me in waves, perfectly structured memories. That was theautumn I remember most clearly. I was no longer in school, and it was astrange feeling for it to be autumn and for me not to be sitting behinda desk. I was more aware of each day and each night and all the time inbetween. Sometimes I miss that way of life. I enjoyed the nights at theice cream store. A place to be doing something that wasn't theapartment. I would walk home slowly, enjoying the street lamps, smellingthe cold air. The apartment was like a prison cell. I felt like kickingmyself every time I slept late. It was a long walk to Georgetown, but Iknew the sooner I got out of that apartment, the better. Damn, I waslonely that autumn. I wished for a girl I could hang out with. I neverreally did anything to meet girls, too shy, too fucked up. Autumn makesme think of women.At the ice cream store I would get one or two days off a week. But as Itook on more responsibility at the store, the days off decreased toalmost none. That autumn I almost always got Friday nights off. Fridayis my favorite day of the week. Friday night was either spent walkingaround until I got tired or spent at Mike's or Chris's house. We wouldsit around, drink Cokes, and play a lot of records. That became one ofmy favorite memories.I'll never forget how the depression and loneliness felt good and bad atthe same time. Still does. The sidewalks, the trees, the storefronts,they became my friends. Every time I would pass a house that had awood-burning fire, I would try to imagine what the people inside weredoing. Sometimes I felt so outside of everything that I wanted to die. Ifelt terrible, but then out of nowhere would come an overwhelming waveof relief and calm. It was my life! My depression! Good for me! The airand the leaves and the streetlights would smile at me and I would feelokay. I realized that autumn that yes, I was alone in this world,totally alone. Alone and on the outside, but at the same time I wasn'talone, I had myself. I was always alone as a child growing up, but thiswas the first time that I ever clicked on what it meant to be alone. Ifelt invincible. I felt as if I could withstand the longest winter ever.I feel uneasy when my mind gets crowded with memories that I can'tshake. I write them out of my system and hope it works. I runbreathlessly from one word to the next. Sometimes I think I'm dissectingmy brain into little pieces. When I'm forced into a frame of mind andtime by outside elements such as season or geographical location, itdrives me nuts. I feel I have to write a telephone directory-size bookto get it out of me.Nothing gets me like autumn, though, nothing. I can see myself walkingdown P Street right now, I can feel it. I can smell the fireplaces on OStreet right now. I can see the street lamps glow on R Street. But atthe same time, I can feel the consuming emptiness that paralyzed me andmade me sullen and cold. I can remember sitting in that dark apartmentthat reeked of paint and insecticide wanting out so bad but not havingthe slightest fucking idea where to go. Every time the air turns cold, Iam transported back to all those places. I have visions of thefluorescent glow of the ice cream store when it's observed from thePeople's Drug Store across the street. The place looks busy andcheerful. A lit glass cube in a dark, cold wall. It makes me feel likeI'm watching the world from the outside. Walking the streets on theoutskirts of earth. Alone and on the outside.How are you today? Are you climbing that ladder? They told you all aboutthat ladder. Climb that ladder and find that salvation. Sure is a hardclimb I bet. Arms getting tired? Sure is a long ladder. Faith, is thatthe word they used? Hope? I've been watching you from a long ways off.You're not climbing on any ladder. You're running on a treadmill.This summer has left me on an island all by myself. My mind goes its ownway, usually to the streets of my hometown. Walking alone on MacArthurBoulevard at night. Muggy, unmoving air. Watching the moths play aroundthe street lamps. I walk through the night, ill at ease and alone. Thesun will never rise on this street. MacArthur Boulevard is always darkand quiet. The street lamps are small yellow planets that keep me fromfalling into the distance. I feel the isolation. I sink inside myself sodeep that I turn into the most pathetic, lonely, ugly animal there everwas. Summer becomes a jail, a ship run aground, a ladder to nowhere.Summer brings back the thoughts of the girl and her house. I would feelso small that I would sink into the cracks in the brick sidewalk. Thesummer animal, I can never outrun or hide from it. The journey in mymind continues along, and I find myself standing in front of a housewith a roofed front porch on Beecher Street. I see myself and others Irecognize sitting on the porch, they are unmoving. They are statues.Suddenly I grow heavy, as if filled with water or sand. I grow tired,lazy, and thoughtless. Stagnant and breathless. I know what I am, but Idon't know what I'm supposed to do. When in doubt, I move. So I leaveand walk somewhere else, trying to walk out of the mouth or asshole ofthe summer beast that has consumed me. The sunsets are the worst. Theysink slowly and mournfully, burning and waving good-bye. I want to reachout and grab the sun and throw it back up high in the sky so I can havemore time to figure out this dilemma. I know that it's too late to turnto other shores. I wouldn't even if I could. The summer bores me out,turns me into a hollow carcass. Fueled by insomnia and a thirst foreverything. I turn into boneless limbo man caught in the middle. My skin turns to leather, I turn inside in. I seal off. Every pore, everyorifice. Underneath this leather exterior I scream, twist, convulse, andburn silently. I wonder to myself wouldn't I be better off far fromeverything that bears the least resemblance to this? You can change thescenery that surrounds you. You can run from the fists that pound you,but you cannot escape your feelings. I've crawled every sewer from hereto there and I've never done it. And I burn silently.I had a dream the other night. I lay on the floor and closed my eyes andthe creatures came to life: A snake is crawling along a desert trailthat parallels a straight, black paved road. The sun is going down butit's still quite bright outside. Over the horizon walking down the roadin the opposite direction is a woman. The two get closer and almost passeach other, but each stops just in time. They both step into the areathat runs between the trail and the road. The wind gusts suddenly, andthe snake is instantly transformed into a man. He has dark hair. He ismarked with scars and symbols, patterns of his tribe. The two walktoward each other and embrace. Another gust of wind comes and blows allvestiges of clothing off them both. The sun holds still for a moment andstarts to slowly rise, and as it rises it turns a deep crimson and givesoff a low, metallic whine. The couple are fully embraced and perfectlystill. Their bodies fit together like two parts of a jigsaw puzzle.Another gust of wind comes and blows the flesh and organs off the manand woman so all that's left are two skeletons locked in embrace. Theirjaws open and they start to grind into each other, bone on bone, toothon tooth. The sun is emitting a pitch that is making the ground rumble.The skeletal bodies grind together as if trying to destroy each other.Another gust of wind comes and forces the two to totally intertwine witheach other until only one is visible; this lasts for the blink of an eyebefore the image implodes and turns to a pile of sand. The pile of sandconflagrates with white-blue flame, and nothing is left. The sun has nowchanged shape, transformed itself into a double helix, bright red andtwisting. It sinks into the distance, and the rumbling quiets as thelight fades.I like my headaches, they're pure. The ones I've been getting lately arethe ones I like best. The pain jumps all over my head. Sometimes theycome out of nowhere. The pain rushes through my head like splinters oflightning. The pain is sharp and pure. I see cold blue shards in mybrain. They make my head expand, contract, and distort into vile shapes.The pain sometimes makes me squint. Like a bullet entering my brain andthen altering its normal path and wriggling about like a snake pluggedinto a light socket. Sometimes I think that something wants in, andsometimes I think that something is trying to rip its way out of myhead. Like a rising sun. Ulcerating. Burning. Destroying my brain cells.Spinning and aborting constantly. Maybe I harbor a colony of fugitiverats in my head, turning my brain into a ghetto and a rancid nest fordreams and hallucinations. They eat away at the center of my brainconsuming white and gray matter. Fortifying themselves, strengtheningthemselves so they can employ and embody plague and infestation. Thepain strengthens and educates me. Forces me to understand, acknowledge,assimilate, and enjoy pain and pain's by-products: vision and brutal,absolute forward movement. I like my headaches.I'm a multicolored man scar tissue. I'm a self-inflicted kind of guy,and I'm self-inflicting down the road. DRAW THE LINE! I'll fall short. Iguess I forgot to mention the overflowing cowardice, stupidity, andsheer unadulterated pettiness. But I'm a stranger in your face and mymood swings like a guillotine and my hands aren't connected to my headbone and I got crazy muscles and wavy eyes and I got an urge with noname I don't know what to do with it muscles, cock, brain,knife--whatever. I just want to do it.Me and Ian went for a drive in his car. We went over Key Bridge where Iused to walk home from work. We drove down M Street. We drove down RStreet, past the place where that black dude slammed my head against thewall of the alley and took my tape player, past the place where that doglooked me in the eye a split second before he got hit by a car, coveringmy shoes with blood. Past the block where a hippie girl put flowers inmy hair while her male companions turned over cars. Past Montrose Park.Past Jackson School, where I went for first, second, and third grade andgot beat and harassed because I was white in 1969. Got held responsiblefor the death of Martin Luther King. I could still remember hearing themchant: "Fight, fight nigger and a white, beat him nigger, beat him 'cuzthe white can't fight." I could still remember how my stomach wouldtwist and my head would grow light. Down Thirtieth Street, over to QStreet, past my old bus stop, past that apartment where that young whiteboy was raped and made to play games with that black dude. Back onWisconsin Avenue, past 7-Eleven, past the library, past the Safeway.We keep driving, we stop at Ian's parents' house. We park the car, wewalk to Wisconsin Avenue. Ian goes into the bank; I take a short walkover to the building that once held the pet shop I worked at for years.The building is a restaurant now. I walk behind the building to see theback steps, the steps that I walked up and down for years hauling outgarbage. The steps that I sat on and ate my lunch. The steps that Istood on and destroyed litters of sick animals. Cats, rabbits, you nameit. People would come in with their sick animals to have them put tosleep. Of course, we had no facilities for such things. Didn't matter tomy boss. He took the money and I took the animals on the back stairs andkilled them. Some, I broke their necks with a sharp twist. Others I tookand bashed their heads against the wooden rail. The move was smooth andswift. I used to go home with my shoes covered with blood. The backsteps. One time I went out to dump the trash, and I saw a guy gettinghead from a stripper from the bar next door. I walk back up the alleyand reemerge on the street. I look around me, almost every building inthe area has been torn down. I walk past the restaurant and look inside.A family of well-dressed people sit at a table, they look up and see me,their eyes swell up. I pull away from the glass and walk back toWisconsin Avenue toward the bank. I'm thinking about that family eatingtheir food, their feet tapping on the floor. The floor that acted as aroof for more rats than you will ever know. We had rats all over thatplace, ratshit everywhere. Piles of it stacked high and rotting intoevery two-by-four in the joint. A miniature ghetto of sorts. Upstairsfrom where the family eats is a room where my boss used to fuck hisboyfriends. One day he told me how hard it was to get the Vaseline outof the sheets.Keep eating, lady, the rats squirm, crawl, and shit below you. Neuroticfags fuck and moan above you. You're surrounded, entrenched in shit,sweat, and Vaseline, eat up, sleep tight. It gets so twisted, sodistorted, that I lock myself out of my own house. I look at myselflooking at myself, inverse to inverse, turning inside out and the otherway around.I'm going to wait until the ghosts come out again. I'll see my boss walkthrough the rear wall, naked, heaving, smelling of shit, complaining ofthe sheets and how bad he hates "the niggers in this city." That was oneof his obsessions. He had a huge dog that he trained to hate blacks too.He would say, "Tannis, don't you want to eat a nigger?"There's ozone in the air now. I'm sitting in a room with an open window.The ozone air comes flowing in gently. So gently, I might just drift offwith it. I get lonely when the ozone comes out. The smell of it makes meremember lonely times, always. Gray, cool, and empty, leading to acave-in. I've been to that window ledge before. I never jump, I neverhave the guts. I just sit in a chair and contemplate my body fallingthrough the ozone. Thinking of girls, thinking of how it never works.Never. And then you die or just go to sleep . . .I go out on the street. I hear the cars and the people, but that's notwhat I want. I want to hear jungle music. It's all lies out there. Ithink I understand the difference between dirt and filth. The dirt isclean and the filth is filthy and it's everywhere. It rips at my eyes. Ican keep a better grip than a lot of people I know. And when I make aneffort, I can maintain out there. But sometimes I get pushed and mybrain goes into automatic pilot and I feel like kicking and walking astraight line right into their diamond minds. But you know you can't dothat. You will never touch their minds. That would be like punching atthin air. If you're going to get all the way into it, you might as welltake that straight line right into their flesh. You know what I'mtalking about. With a smile on your face speak the internationallanguage: dirt and filth.The noise comes in, crowds me out of my brain. At first, the sound ofchildren laughing mixes with the sound of rain. The sound of thechildren fades out and is replaced by the sound of gunfire. The gunfireremains at a steady pitch as the rain fades. Now I hear the sound ofpeople talking, laughing, screaming, crying. Reminds me of when I was inthe hospital. All night long they would scream for their medicine, theywanted to get better. The old woman in the room next to mine soundedlike she was being cooked alive in her bed. The whole place wasscreaming. Made me think that I might lose my mind in there. In there,out there, I don't know the difference anymore. The sound, I can't shutoff the sounds of their voices. When I'm all alone in my room I canstill hear their voices screaming in my ears. I know that I am to blamefor letting them in. I want to get better myself. I'm not running fromanything, I'm just trying to free myself from their sounds. If I don't,I'll become accustomed to them and that will be the end of me. The soundof rain, pelting down on boxes holding the dead. The rain mixing withdead children. What I see, what I hear. The whole place is an insaneasylum. A screaming shit house. Gunfire off in the distance. The bodiesare falling, crying, trying to get better, doing anything to get well.'And you know how bad the emptiness feels when you're full of it. Theyfill you with emptiness, and then they come to get their pay. They wanttheir pay, but they don't want what's coming to them.It never fails. My weaknesses are always strong enough to knock me tothe ground. My weaknesses are the greatest weapons I have when I turn onmyself. It won't always be like this. I'm getting better every day.Maybe someday I won't want, I won't be such a sucker. It's all one biginsane asylum, a screaming shit house.The sound of children splattering, sounding like gunfire. For everyvoice, a bullet. For every scream, every prayer, every day, annihilationinside my room.S&D Vacation Package Pt. 1: Organize leisure air tours during wartime.Vacationers who could afford it would be flown over battle sites andwould have the opportunity to drop napalm and bombs on the villagersbelow. I can see them now. Wagner's The Valkyrie blasting through thequad system. Fat white tourists dressed in polyester pantsuits and thosesilly Hawaiian shirts sit in their seats, each with his own personaltrigger. "Can we do it now?" they ask.A smiling stewardess gives them a knowing wink and says, "Soon, verysoon.""But I want to drop fire now! I want to kill now! I want to incineratenow! Now!" says a fat balding man."Calm down honey," his wife says. "You heard the stewardess. We'll be inbombing range soon. See honey, the music's starting and everything."Soon they are dropping fire on the cities below. The conversation in theplane resembles one that can be heard in a boxing arena on a good night.The vacationers come home with pictures and souvenirs. Some pose withcharred dismembered bodies. They smile and give the thumbs-up to thecamera. Some are wearing strings of ears around their necks. The womenall want their pictures taken with the captain. People will come backwith their own stories about the number of gooks they killed, each willexaggerate like crazy. Each will have a story about the one that gotaway. "One of those little bastards was hiding in a rice paddy. I was soplastered on those goddamn huge drinks they were serving that I missedhim. Madge blew the little son of a bitch right out of the water. What awoman."I used to think that red, blue, green, and yellow were my friends. For awhile there I thought that lines could go in circles if I wanted themto. I know better now. Black and white and the straight line are myfriends. Inside my room I am free. Colors burst forth anytime they wantto. The lines go wherever they please. Outside of my room I am not free,and that's where the black and white are by my side, and that straightline is my chosen direction. I know what it does to you. I know how itmakes you feel. There is another side to this blade and I know that onetoo, and I am tired of playing games with you. Thank you for all thegifts. I'll return them one of these days.It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on tosomething or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like somekind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wantedto be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings werewrong and it makes you feel so small because it's so hard to keep itinside when you let it out and it doesn't come back. You're left soalone that you can't explain. Damn, there's nothing like that, is there?I've been there and you have too. You're nodding your head.Cold outside, cold inside, the smell of grease and disinfectant. Theguys behind the counter look like they hate everybody who comes in. It'sone of those jobs that you get, and all the while you're tellingyourself that it's just temporary until the right thing comes along.It's one of those jobs that when you look up, you would swear that theclock hasn't moved a second since you looked at it an hour ago. The kindof job that you realize you've been at for over a year now. Sure, youhate it, but it doesn't feel as bad as it used to. The brain numbsitself to everything except hate and the ability to take orders. Butthen again, who the fuck am I to say anything at all? For all I know,these guys might think that waiting on a bunch of meth dealers andwhores is quite a great thing to be doing. Nobody understands anybody'sanything.Labels on records. Why not labels on booze? For example, a label thatran like so: Warning: Use of this product can cause vomiting, blurredvision, loss of control, loss of memory, severe headaches, dry mouth.Prolonged use of this product can lead to a dependency on this product.Prolonged use of this product can lead to the destruction ofself-confidence. Prolonged use of this product can lead to the totaldestruction of self-respect. Prolonged use of this product can lead tothe destruction of the soul.I found out what there is for me. Nothing. Nothing I can see. There areonly things to learn from and forces to make myself aware of. My brainis on a different wavelength now. Names, faces, I don't remember them.They don't matter. More and more, day by day, I break from them. Thereare no answers, just a lot of questions. No, scratch that. I don't haveany questions anymore. No questions, nothing to explain. I can't talk tothem. They have proven that to me over and over. I used to think that Icould talk to her, but sometimes I don't know. Sometimes when I talk toher I think that I'm being quietly laughed at. That's how I felt today.I held the phone in my hand and stared at it. Finally I just hung it upand walked away. Those phone booths are almost like coffins. I wonder ifanyone ever gets buried in them.Sometimes I think of myself as this guy holding on to a propeller thatis going full speed. My body twists and turns as I hold on for dearlife. Pulled along. In motion but not really in control.If I close my eyes, I can see myself and this propeller go ripping by,the propeller cutting a path through dense underbrush and tree limbs.The propeller does fine. My body gets mangled as it slams into treetrunks, branches, and bushes.I need to make friends with the machine. I need to understand the power,to harness it and direct it, not be dragged along by it. I need tobecome one with the machine. I've got to stop holding on to the monkey'stail. I must get on the monkey's back.I can see it in your eyes. They're wet like a dog's. You're looking fora leg to climb to keep you from drowning. Your hands reach out,clutching for something solid to hold on to. You're weak and in need.You want something to hold so you can have something to blame. Don'treach out to me. I'm drowning too.Take my no man's body and point it toward the sun. Going home. You gotme feeling like a hole dug in the ground. I got to fill up the hole. Ifill it up with dirt. You got me feeling like a hole dug in the ground.I open up my window and I take a look around. I see killers looking backat me. Killers walking in the sunshine. Dirt hole man. Dig it. Dirt holeman. Pass me by. I got nothing to give you. Pass me by. I'm diggingmyself. I dig myself. I dig my hole alone. Don't want nobody in my holewith me.

From Our Editors

From his days as front man for the band Black Flag to his current Rollins Band, books and spoken word performances, Henry Rollins is the music, voice and attitude that speaks to a generation. The Portable Henry Rollins is a collection of his best raw energy writing including exerts from Get in the Van, Black Coffee Blues, High Adventure in the Great Outdoors and Solipsist. This work also contains some new photos and never before released stories. Rollins is legendary for his no holds barred style and this collection of short stories, poems and journal entries are brutal, honest and engaging, embarking his reader on an illuminating journey through the decades.