The Iranian Princess Little Tree came to stay for a brief 48 hours. One of our secret rendezvous. Just the two of us in this tiny New York city apartment.

There is something very special about our connection, even though there is a fifteen year difference in our ages, there is just something there that is sacred and karmic in it. we have never had a physically romantic relationship. It has always existed in platonic way. a very loving friendly ... God how do you describe that... like brother and sister except that you also love each other in the other way... But since our last meeting over the summer in Miami beach things have changed for us a bit... we are more accepting of our infatuation with one another. Still best friends... like children, more like college kids or something like that... but now we have begun to accept our mutual love for one another. With this strange unspoken underlying understanding that we will never be able to take it anywhere more than this... but still willing to explore it anyway.

We have to spend most of our time indoors as always, especially here now in New York, because of who she is and who I am. If we are seen it could be very dangerous for her, for me, and for some of her family who still live in Tehran. Imagine, the ex-Princess -- or should I say ‘the exiled-Princess’ I ask her -- being seen on the street, un-covered, and holding hands and kissing the American anti-God anti-government rebel and raconteur who calls himself Fishy. It would not be good.

Three days of getting inside, going deep, neurons firing, making love -- The embassy is closed she says. Lying there naked. Except to the ambassador... she laughs. only the ambassador can enter the embassy... and I enter her..., coffee in bed, bottles of wine and cognac, crackers and cheese, chocolate, long walks down frozen New York streets and sidewalks in the middle of the night when we think we can get away with it. Beautiful brownstones and fancy shops passing us by.  Puffs of smoke from my cigars walking with us. and she always with that eager curious enthusiastic smile about everything...

Walking around the apt naked, just covered in blankets all night... don't look at me... in between long romantic and short-burst love-making sessions... don't look at me... o.k. I won't. laughs... burying ourselves in the other’s kisses.... licking each other like ice cream, in between reading passages from this book of poetry by a friend of ours, Dan coppersmith, The Elusive Here and Now. more chocolate. More wine. More making love. Lots of laughter, orgasms intertwined with tears. Tears of joy. tears of longing for what we will soon miss. Once more. as always.

Where to begin. Dear Juliet I dedicate this one to you. though you will never read it. Juliet does send me one of her brilliant yet brief epitaphs, something about whispering into my ear in the early morning hours before dawn that I have secret lover for all time that I can always run into the warm and welcoming arms of. I take it to be her regardless of whether that was the intention of her message or not. I am madly in love with the potential of Juliet and do not feel threatened by it at all because we are separated by well over three thousand miles and entirely different lifestyles. So it is indeed a secret love that can never sour as long as we never take any further than where it is now. perfect. pure.

The poet, our drummer of course, came into town tonight. the first of the guys. tomorrow morning the rest of the guys pull in. we go to the apocalypse lounge to meet some of his friends. East village. Walking around that I feel down there as though any minute you are three yards from an impending drug deal going down from all sides. A grungy area that when I was a younger man I cherished, and now feel more comfortable admiring from afar. Perhaps, I remark to the poet, that as you become older you simply become more uptown, and that's just the way it is. regardless of the plausibility of my words ever ringing true enough to become prophecy, it has certainly happened for me. I couldn’t feel more comfortable on the upper east side, even though I couldn’t look more east village if I tried. This is the dichotomy of character that I have lived with all of my life. but now I am very comfortable in it.

If you are a person who drives, as most of us are here in America, you know that homey comfort you get from getting inside your car. especially if you have a car you really like. It becomes a part of you. and when you are inside of it you feel as though you are in your second home, your home away from home. in New York you don't have that because you don't have a car in New York. Some people I hear, but most don't. you don't drive anywhere but instead you just walk or take a cab or take the subway everywhere.

Where to begin. Dear Juliet I dedicate this one to you. though you will never read it. Juliet does send me one of her brilliant yet brief epitaphs, something about whispering into my ear in the early morning hours before dawn that I have secret lover for all time that I can always run into the warm and welcoming arms of. I take it to be her regardless of whether that was the intention of her message or not. I am madly in love with the potential of Juliet and do not feel threatened by it at all because we are separated by well over three thousand miles and entirely different lifestyles. So it is indeed a secret love that can never sour as long as we never take any further than where it is now. perfect. pure.

The poet, our drummer of course, came into town tonight. the first of the guys. tomorrow morning the rest of the guys pull in. we go to the apocalypse lounge to meet some of his friends. East village. Walking around that I feel down there as though any minute you are three yards from an impending drug deal going down from all sides. A grungy area that when I was a younger man I cherished, and now feel more comfortable admiring from afar. Perhaps, I remark to the poet, that as you become older you simply become more uptown, and that's just the way it is. regardless of the plausibility of my words ever ringing true enough to become prophecy, it has certainly happened for me. I couldn’t feel more comfortable on the upper east side, even though I couldn’t look more east village if I tried. This is the dichotomy of character that I have lived with all of my life. but now I am very comfortable in it.

If you are a person who drives, as most of us are here in America, you know that homey comfort you get from getting inside your car. especially if you have a car you really like. It becomes a part of you. and when you are inside of it you feel as though you are in your second home, your home away from home. in New York you don't have that because you don't have a car in New York. Some people I hear, but most don't. you don't drive anywhere but instead you just walk or take a cab or take the subway everywhere.