D. April 9, 1553

having the flu and reading Rabelais
as the cat snores
and the bathroom toilet tank
hisses
my eyes burn

I put Rabelais down:
this is what
writers do
to each other.

for him, I
substitute
a tab of
vitamin C.

if we could only swallow
death
like that (I think we
can)
or that death could
swallow us
like that (I think it
does).

life is not all what
we think it
is, it’s only what we
imagine it to
be
and for us
what we imagine
becomes
mostly so.

I imagine myself
rid of this
flu

I see myself parading the
sidewalks among the cunts and
peckers
of this world…

meanwhile, the cat, like other
things, pushes too
close;
I move him
gently away, thinking, Rabelais
you were a
mighty mighty interesting
fellow…

as I stretch out the ceiling
watches me and
waits.

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