Almost empty tonight, I weave through the museum's hallways to where a waits in a Transformation Mask waits in glass case. Its face, slit down the middle, may have the head of a boar or a bull, or else, when Paul (Bowles) first came to see me there he exclaimed, 'This is Bill (Burroughs)'s old room! When he occupied it empty Eukodol bottles, garbage, and manuscript pages littered the floor. The pages blew into the garden with every breeze. Madame swept them away with the trash. Hundreds of pages must have been lost. When Paul inquired about the pages, Burroughs muttered laconically in a similar way a calf with the head of a man is engendered, or a lamb with the head of a bull. This type of monstrosity sometimes occurs in this way, that is, by means of coitus between different species, or by means of an unnatural type of copulation opens to another rift of darkness.

A person could become
an animal,
an animal
could become a human being.
There was no difference: All spoke
                   the same language.

I ride home through a slow cold drizzle, passing half-completed condos, brick facades not yet attached. These days they're prefabricated, the skilled hands of the mason, my grandfather's trade, given way to prostheses. Who'll live for these lives lived out?

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