Oh Frank O'Hara We Love You Get Up!
Outside, the traffic is behaving just like the fruit flies that are
Hovering over the basket of molding tangelos, the only
Fruit with noticeable hard-ons, so of course when I saw them at the market I
Resolved never to buy regular oranges again. Louder than the horns
And the screeching of tires is the center of myself, which is much like a
North Shore tea party that Jackson Pollock unexpectedly shows up to. Oh, how to
Keep up with these days that flicker on the walls of this dervish world? If
Only we could pin them down and trace their light so we could study the
Hieroglyph of the future nearing. What would we see?
A fish? A cross? The labarum monogram of Constantine? Or perhaps a
Regal barkentine with a bulldozer tied to each mast. But wait. "Is this poetry," I ask?
Ah, Frank, what are we to do now that you are gone? Rise up and
Wipe that petrified dust off your grey suit because nothing
Else in life matters but words, words, words! Not even death.
Luckily, they still serve bubbly gin at the Cedar
On Wednesdays and liver sausage sandwiches at The Equestrian. It must be
Very uninspiring in the earth's underground mausoleum, not
Even a single fruit fly to write about. Tell me, how do
You, from down there, compare the poplars to aspidistra
Or see the "bearded man suspended by telephone wires from the moon?" It's
Unfortunate, like this hangover, as physical as it is metaphysical.
Get up, Frank! We need you! We don't care about Lana Turner.
Enter this world, again, ascending the open ground on an ox-cart and
Tie us more Gordian knots with your typewriter. The city is deliberately
Ugly and waiting for you. Come on! "A glass of
Papaya juice and back to work!"