Last nite I dreamed of T. S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house
and an incredibly sweet hooked nosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creely Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the zoo, the
intelligent Puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in worn out polyglot
Swahili and the rippling rhythms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay
On the isle of the Queen
we had a long evenings conversation
then he tucked me in my long
red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on a sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went sadly off to his bed,
saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to 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 Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T. S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last night I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T. S. Eliot would have been ashamed of me.