Strep throat and a poster of The Divine Miss M

Strep throat and a poster of The Divine Miss M, finally halved by damp. Fever all through the night. Signed playbills in the garbage on Second Avenue. Blepharitis, gingivitis, conjunctivitis. Arthur’s new boyfriend, bland as an intermission Merlot. Unable to get to orgasm. Gym crush AWOL. Gallery launch where everybody wears a mask of the artist’s face, including the artist, and we are encouraged to ask one another, ‘What was the inspiration for this crap?’ A pain in the rib that turns out to be shingles. Arthur’s boyfriend the boyfriend no longer having disapproved of A’s habit of stealing library books. Bloods. Temporary drip. Thrush. Meds. Spy Dustin Hoffman on the street near Radio City. Tiny! Bus journeys up, down, and across the island like a signum crucius to visit friends on different hospital wards or the same hospital wards and New York looking so fresh and hot and exciting out of the window but also somehow out of reach. Very Frank O’Hara. Sex with the Russian for the final time. Blood in the bowl. Finest martini of my life. Discharge. Everyone moving out of the West Village or out West. Brain zaps. Taylor Mead drunk and regaling on a bar stool at Julius’. Vivid dream of flying over the Manhattan Bridge. Wake up sobbing. Needles in the elevator at The Toilet. Fungus. Sylvester live. A brown lesion. Strep throat and half a poster of The Divine Miss M.