Feb 29, 1958

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 hooknosed

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 Creeley 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 wornout polygot

Swahili, and the rippling rythyms

of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.

On the Isle of the Queen

we had a long evening's conversation

Then he tucked me in my long

red underwear under a silken

blanket by the fire on the sofa

gave me English Hottie

and went off sadly 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 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.