An old Poem, but I still like it.

This is probably somewhere in here, but I got a request:

Also, my NEW book, LEAVENWORTH STEET, will be out in the next two months!!!!!! Will have more info as it comes. . . .

Back to the poem!

A Letter to Neil

Dear Mr. Gaiman: Thank you for your gift

of the Sandman. Your stories have changed me;

now I see us all as anthologies, collections

of tales threaded together. I am sure I have my

own wing in the Dream Lord's library, the resting

place of all fables, even the ones that live and die

in one short daydream. I have my own collection

of trinkets, mementos, and souvenirs. Sometimes

I tell my mysteries like Cain, spearing them down

as a warning to the captured listener; sometimes

I share my secrets like Abel, breathing them out

to scatter and grow in the reader's fields.

I am a shopping-mall poet looking to make

my own boutique in the world. I have a teacher

who tells me of other woodcutters (because that's

all poetry is; the filing off of prose until only

the poem remains. I will admit that some cut

too deeply while others just knock on the wood.)

and the tales of the few words they left behind.

I want to thank you for your image of Death,

a beautiful elfin-girl who gives you a nudge

in the end and says, "excuse me, but you need

to go over here now. By the way, how has your

trip been?"

I remember the first day I saw her on your pages,

when she met her dream-king brother at a fountain.

I remember the walk they took as she went on her rounds,

and old song Morpheaus thought of as she moved

through the day "..... death is before me today,

like water to quench a thirst.....," or something like that.

I remember her warming-smile. It was one of the things

I thought about three years ago when the AIDS-volunteer

gave me a positive reading. It still is something that comes

to mind in the mornings as I count my pills.

I share your stories with my friends, some have

bodies and fluids that betray them bit by bit

because they are swimming in this plague too.

They learned about the day Morningstar gave up Hell,

locked all the doors and shushed sinners and demons

away. He registered his complaint of still paying for

his fall three billion years ago, and gave the keys

to Dream. We laugh at the little ironies as we take

study drugs. (There's enough of it right here on earth,

thank you very much.)

Your stories open deep wounds, bring new facets

into the light, and poke fun when we get too serious.

No wonder you have such wonderful artists to draw

these tales. I never knew my childhood love-affair of

comic books and muscle-clad heroes with flowing capes

and far-fetched powers would bring me to your corner

of the medium. You have given me faith in my own tale;

I can appreciate each chapter that made me what I am.

Thank you again, Brian.