Last nite I dreamed of T.
S.
Eliotwelcoming me to the land of
Sofas couches fog in
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbowscurtains on his windows, fog seeping inthe chimney but a nice warm house and an incredibly sweet
Eliot he loved me, put me up,gave me a couch to sleep on,conversed kindly, took me seriousasked my opinion on MayakovskyI read him Corso Creeley Kerouacadvised Burroughs Olson Hunckethe bearded lady in the Zoo, theintelligent puma in Mexico City6 chorus boys from Zanzibarwho chanted in wornout
Swahili, and the rippling rythymsof Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queenwe had a long evening's
Then he tucked me in my long red underwear under a silken blanket by the fire on the sofagave me English Hottieand went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am gladto have met a fine young man like you.
At last,
I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind?
Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his manna?
What English Departmentwould that impress?
What failureto be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.
S.
Eliotwanting to be a historical poetand share in his finance of Imagery-overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.
S.
Eliot would've been ashamed of me.
