poetry room is upstairs.

for naomi's boy, who loved peter.

bathtubs filled with

bubbles & beat

&indian snippets

are important

as anything else:

the faucet drips jazz

and i am sudsy prose,

letting my mutilated

childtoes play with

white soap beards

forming foaming at the tiled ridges,

liquid santa's

lapping, hidden chins.

candles are lit, yes

romantic shadows smoking on

the water

confettied with

candied ashes of the poems i HATE

or the letters i LOVE

too much to

be

REAL, like this moment is

REAL,

and the smell of wax

on

flesh--filters into my

neurons, digging

dig it?

because let's face it:

the burning

wakes me.

and all the fairy boy-a-sleeping diary entries

make my skin

itch

for

passion that

is that perfectly

animal-crazy.

thank you, allen,

namaste.