are we recording?

yes?

with that the withered concierge told me

“we don’t want your type around here

too white”

regardless I made love to a cultural icon

away from the conference table

out of sight of the knowing grins

I made her smile

and as  ziggy played for time with no

reason nor rhyme

there and then I decided to hide this story in a

cavernous nook of paradoxical sleep

where, upon the urging of such a fleshy

buffer, heart shaped and full of youthful willing,

I can throw away my own key

in that difficult third dream territory

tissue stained in second-hand indulgence

of the many hands which came before me

all not sleeping through til they break the day