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2004-01-12

Arthur Rimbaud
B. 10.20.1854 Charleville, France / D. 11.10.1891 Marseilles
Cancer and Gangrene

Not a word from my pen since my Friday night at the Bowery Poetry Club, where the comedienne Reno spelled it out more clearly than I’d yet heard, how fundamentalist Christians are sending all the money they used to squander on Falwell to Israel instead. Apparently, they believe that once the Jews have all the land from the Mediterranean to the Jordan, free and clear of Arab darkies, then Jesus will come.
At which point, of course, he’ll consign the Jews to a place in hell right next to the Arabs and I guess they can build fences in hell and the Arabs can be bitter and weak in hell.
My mood was not improved by my decision to read the New York Magazine cover story about lesbians—I should say, my attempt to read it, for it could only be skimmed. The companion article, on the phenomena known as “bois,” was well-enough written, though. I received the information. Bois are women, usually but not invariably young, who choose to resemble twelve year-old males, to screw lots of women they meet on the internet, to call those they screw “bitches,” and to hold menial jobs. Many bois also elect to have their own breasts cut off, if they can get their parents to give them the money; although my friend Michael tells me of an enterprising boi of his acquaintance who held private fundraising parties.
And yet at times I’ll think, “I should go out more.”
The capper, courtesy of this morning’s New York Times on-line, came with the news that multitudes of gay men are going to bathhouses WHICH CONTINUE TO EXIST in Chelsea to smoke crystal meth for three days straight while giving each other syphilis and AIDS. Doctors are saying it’s just a matter of time before so many people get addicted to crystal meth that this sort of thing starts happening all over the city.
I picture a cheerless, breast-less, crystal meth-addicted Federal Express courier coughing blood into the aisle between us on the Q train.

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