one thirty six a.m.

I laugh sometimes when I think about
it,
say Celine at a typewriter
or Dostoevsky…
Hamsun…
men with feet, ears, eyes,
men with hair on their heads
sitting there typing words
while having problems with women
while being puzzled almost to dementia
by the actions of the masses…

Dostoevsky gets up
he leaves the machine to piss,
comes out
drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
the roulette wheel.

Celine stops, gets up, walks to the
window, looks out, thinks, the old fuck
died today, I won’t have to make any more
stops there.
he paid his bills.
it’s those who don’t pay their bills,
they live on and on…
Celine walks back, sits down to the
machine
is still for a good two minutes
then begins to type.

Hamsun stands over his machine thinking,
I wonder if they are going to believe
all these things I write?
he sits down, begins to type.
he doesn’t know what a writer’s block
is:
he’s an overprolific son of a bitch
damn near a magnificent as
the sun.
he types away.

and I laugh
not out loud
but all up and down these walls, these
dirty yellow and blue walls
my white cat asleep upon the
table
covering his eyes to the
light.

he’s not alone tonight
and neither am
I.

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