I laugh sometimes when I think about

Say

Céline at a typewriter

Or Dostoevsky...

Or Hamsun...

Ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes

Ordinary men with hair on their heads

Sitting there typing words

While having difficulties with life

While being puzzled almost to madness

Dostoevsky gets up

He leaves the machine to piss

Comes back

Drinks a glass of milk and thinks about

The casino and

The roulette wheel

Céline stops, gets up, walks to the

Window, looks out, thinks, my last patient

Died today, I won't have to make any more

Visits there

When I saw him last

He paid his doctor bill;

It's those who don't pay their bills

They live on and on

Céline walks back, sits down at 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 a prolific son-of-a-bitch

Damn near as 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 on the

Table

Hiding his eyes from the

Light

He's not alone tonight

And neither am

I