wandering in the cage
languid conjecture during hours of moil, trapped in the shadows
of the father.
sidewalks outside of cafes are lonely
through the day.
my cat looks at me and is not sure what I am and
I look back and am pleased to feel
reading 2 issues of a famous magazine of 40 years
ago, the writing that I felt was bad then,
I still feel
and none of the writers have lasted.
sometimes there is a strange justice
grammar school was the first awakening of a long hell
meeting other beings as horrible as my
something I never thought
when I won the medal for Manual of Arms in the
I wasn’t interested in
I wasn’t interested in anything, even the
girls seemed a bad game
to chase: all too much for all too
at night before sleeping I often considered what I
would do, what I would be:
bank robber, drunk, beggar, idiot, common
I settled on idiot and common laborer, it
seemed more comfortable than any of the
the best thing about near-starvation and hunger is
that when you finally
it is such a beautiful and delicious and
people who eat 3 meals a day throughout life
have never really
people are strange: they are constantly angered by
but on a major matter
totally wasting their lives,
they hardly seem to
on writers: I found out that most of them
there were schools, establishments,
groups gathered and fought each
there was literary politics.
there was game-playing and
I always thought writing was a
animals never worry about
Heaven or Hell.
maybe that’s why
when lonely people come around
I soon can understand why
other people leave them
and that which would be a
is a horror to
poor poor Celine.
he only wrote one book.
forget the others.
but what a book it was:
Voyage au bout de la nuit.
it took everything out of
it left him a hopscotch
skittering through the
the United States is a very strange
place: it reached its apex in
and since then
for every year
it has regressed
it is 1930
in the way of
you don’t have to go to the movies
to see a horror
there is a madhouse near the post office
where I mail my works
I never park in front of the post office,
I park in front of the madhouse
and walk down.
I walk past the madhouse.
some of the lesser mad are allowed
out on the porch.
they sit like
I feel a brotherhood with
but I don’t sit with them.
I walk down and drop my works
in the first class slot.
I am supposed to know what I am
I walk back, look at them and
don’t look at
I get in my car and drive off.
I am allowed to drive a
I drive it all the way back to my
I drive my car up the driveway,
what am I doing?
I get out of my car
and one of my 5 cats walks up to
me, he is a very fine
I reach down and touch
then I feel all right.
I am exactly what I am supposed to