My bedroom is a sacred place now - There are children

at the foot of my bed

Last year when I wrote you my last letter

(the beginning of my future poetry)

I acknowledged who you were for the first time.

I didn’t call you by any other name

I let you know that I knew the true nature of your heart-

that it was evil

that it convinced me that darkness is real

that the devil is a real devil

and that monsters don’t always know they are monsters.

But projection is an interesting thing

after you burned the house down

you tried to convince me that i was the one holding the matches

You told me that I didn’t know what I had done

You said I don’t know who I am

But I do know who I am.

I love Rose Gardens

I buy violets every time someone leaves me

I love the great sequoias of Yosemite

and if you asked my sister to describe the first thing she

thinks of when she thinks of me

she would say

woodsmoke

I’m gentle

I’m funny

when I’m drunk

though I haven’t been drunk for 14 years

I go on trips to the beach with my friends who don’t know

that I’m crazy.

I can do that.

I can do anything-

even leave you

because my bedroom is a sacred place now

there are children at the foot of my bed

telling me stories about the friends they pretend to hate

that they will make up with tomorrow-

and there are fresh cut flowers that i grew myself

in vases on nightstands hand-carved by old pals from Big Sur

and the longer i stay here, the more i am sure

that the more i step into becoming a poet the less

i will fall into being with you

the more i step into my poetry the less i will fall into

being with you

the more i step into

my poetry the less i will

fall into being with you

the more i step into my poetry the less i will

fall into being

with you

the

more

i step into becoming a poet

the less i will fall into

bed

with

you.

In the hills of Benedict Canyon