11:15 and Here's Your Poem

(3 January 1978 - to WPS)

hungrier never
than now
        the sounds
        of memories spinning
        into the sleep,
        the deep chasm.

the memories stir,
        the pain, the fire
        in the pit of my chest
        in the arch of my back
        in the swell of my breasts.

same-state consciousness
solemnly stoned
in a ritual
a burnt offering
        to blue eyes
        among casual gold

(he told me
I'd like you,
that we would share
the electric spell
of the born voyeur)

"and don't we
get along?"
you ask
        with a boyish grin
        on the tip of your pen.

I eat it all up,
I swallow it whole,
        and then grow dreams,
        dreams and weeds.

What does it mean?
How do I see you
        What do I crave?
        Your need? your scorn?
        a taste of the man
        behind the mask?
        (a born voyeur)

a simple touch,
a celebration?
        a conflagration
        of sordid passion?

I think
you are human.
        I think
        I am drunk
             I think
             I would like
             to know and be known
             (in several ways)
             by the man in the mask.

I'd like
to be honest,
        to be with you,

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