for Doug Powell 

Here in this drag city, ain’t nothin’ going on

              but the rent. I don’t want

                           to be a freak, but I can’t help

               myself—I am alive with love, tripping

on the moon, coming out of hiding

               all evergreen and searching for sunset

                           people. Right on target, Doug, I got

               the feeling to use it up and wear it out, to get

away from the visitors burning with fire

               and maybe this time dim all the lights

                           right in the night and run away too

               blind to see it. I know there’s something

going on—a private joy, a new attitude

              of brighter days—that leaves me feeling

                          lucky lately, the power shame-free wicked

               game I love to love. Mercy, I got my education in

cha cha heels, bolero, unexpected lovers and I.O.U.

              souvenirs, more and more, the hitman higher

                         S.O.S. fire in the sky. In my house, the dominatrix

               sleeps tonight and you are in my system, walking

on music, showing out. Take your time. Enjoy

               the silence. Remember what you like, Angel

                        Boy, one night in a lifetime, a walk in the park. My heart

              goes bang thinking of you. I can’t help it. That’s

the meaning in the bush, together in electric dreams.