my tiny lake-pool of subconsciousness
invites me to swim

so i jump in
and i pass all the brutes and one-legged monsters
and politicians with sweaty hands
all the unlocked doors with mysteries behind them
and half-smoked cigarettes from
everybody i ever cared about

it is very nice to smoke a blunt with a boy
(or a man)
who knows all the US presidents
and not to lip the tip
and can spell necessary without having to look it up

but still
i will leave even that
for a nice dip
in the rushing waters
past the filing cabinets of my brain
where the gypsies enter
and the beatniks roam