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Personally I will admit I have never understood the desert-poet, well-except for the magic-carpet, Aladdin's tales, and the "One Thousand and One Nights", always a fantasy of mine. I have to tale-her a tell-tail every night, or be relegated to anonathon of tale's end. The woman of veiled-mystery in a tentament of flowing garbled-cloth, her whys all-that not-apparent, black-eyes not-averted. She stills me.
Of-course I had the poet make me some leather-thong sandals which I wore with socks and was very happy-with for many years - as long as they lasted even into San Francisco years. But these boots were a shepherd's coffin-garb. I looked-like a bread-dough foot-man of ma'am's female-fashion. Poetry of a Greek sandal-maker. I remember sitting inside his shop near Christmas day, and beggars came like trick or treaters, for a little-coin to every shop in every street, and he gave them-all something. Impressed-me. We probably disguised-discussed philosophy. What was poetry, all tinkle and bells, or could be-got by some shoe-maker's trail to the land of the sand-hill-piper, with flapping-flags in the wind, to mark the where's otherwise-lost in sifting sands of rhyme. I thought like a writer. This was a writer's tour. This was a Hemingsayesque mini-skirt.
I wandered and walked the streets all night. I tried imitating a homeless bum, sleeping in an outdoor chair of a shuttered-cafe, some enclosed and darkened grand-Piazza, but the chair was not comfortable-enough for me to sleep. I got bored. I am really not imitating-him anyway. I am not-sleeping. If he noticed me, dream-me or not, he-might never I-know. The city was closed up. I was the only one-out still-standing. I probably
window-shoped lights in lit-theater. These Italian women were oh-so sexy, in their abodes of manakin window-dressing prostitution.
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