Taking a Self-Survival Course, by Dennis Cooper

Men boat him to an island

so moist it seems to have risen

like a big bathing cap from the waves.

John bites down on his tongue

and shivers through his blue Cardin.

They leave him pale and girlish

on the skinny beach, with his

handful of matches, plant book,

and smouldering Kennedy eyes,

talking their big stupid heads off.

Night drops fast. He sleeps under

dead leaves; his hair grows foul

as the malty earth. Next day he strips

to underwear, makes himself a leaf

crown, and by Thursday joins the beats.

When the boat returns on Monday

it finds a boy to be reckoned with,

cured of cigarettes and snobbery.

The men clap him on the back like

he’s choking, fierce in their affections.

John squats down with the other new men,

all so proud they haven’t washed.

On the distant N.Y. dock he spots Jackie

and the reporters, happy as uncles to see him.

Finally he has something to tell them.

From “The Dream Police” by Dennis Cooper. (Grove Press: $16; 134 pp.) 1995 Reprinted by permission.