i dreamed of allen ginsberg last night.
he was in a whorehouse somewhere in america,
wondering what to do
with the vast array of T&A
that was on display in front of him.
and i was right there too,
fourteen years old
and long past childhood
with bruises and lipstick and bright blue mascara
and judy garland cheeks.
i saw him,
bearded and balded,
trying not to listen
to the southern accents arguing
through marlboro breath
and absinthe teeth
but looking at me with those smiling small sad eyes
full of befuddlement and buddha
and he stepped towards me and held out his hand
somewhere in a whorehouse in america
and i led him gently to my room and closed the door.
his hands were soft and his beard was soft and it smelled like tobacco
and he held me in his arms and he couldn't understand when i told him
that this was the safest place for me to be, here among the old and haggard whores
who reeked of perfume and sloppy sex and all the old men who passed through
and paid me well and sometimes extra and who didn't ever hurt me all that much.
and then allen ginsberg held me even tighter and we smoked a joint together and he read me
a poem he'd not yet written and we laughed at the clouds that formed inside the rose red room
and everything suddenly made sense.
but then i was gone
and he was still there,
in a whorehouse somewhere in america,