Issue 42, Winter-Spring 1968
for Frank O'Hara
Switch on lights yellow as the sun
in the bedroom...
The gaudy poet dead Frank O'Hara's bones
under squares of grass
An emptiness at 8 PM in the Cedar Bar
Throngs of drunken
guys talking about paint
& lofts, and Pennsylvania youth.
Klein attacked by his heart
& chattering Frank
Faithful drunken adorers, mourn.
The busfare's a nickel more
past his old apartment on 9th Street by the park.
Delicate Peter loved his praise,
I wait for the things he says
Did he think me an Angel
as angel I am still talking into earth's microphone
—to come back as words ghostly hued
by early death
but written so bodied
mature in another decade.
of yr own loves, personal
memory feeling fellow
Poet of building-glass
I see you walking as you said with your tie
flopped over your shoulder in the wind down 5th Avenue
under the handsome breasted workmen
on their scaffolds ascending Time
& washing the windows of Life
—off to a date with Martinis & a blond
beloved poet far from home
—with thee and Thy sacred Metropolis
in the enormous bliss of a long afternoon
where death is the shadow
cast by Rockefeller Center
over your intimate street.
Who were you, black suited, hurrying to meet,
for the charming solitary/ young poet with a big cock
who could fuck you all night long
till you never came,
trying your torture on his/ obliging fond body
eager to satisfy god's whim that made you
Innocent, as you are.
I tried/ your boys and found them ready
sweet and amiable
with large sofa apartments
lonesome to please for pure language;
and you mixed with money
because you knew language enough to be rich
If you wanted your walls to be empty
deep philosophical terms for Edwin Denby serious as Herbert Read
with silvery hair announcing your dead gift
to the crowd whose greatest op art frisson
was the new sculpture your big blue wounded body
made in the Universe
when you went away to Fire Island for the weekend
tipsy with a crowd of decade-olden friends
Peter stares out the window at the robbers
distracted in Amphetamine
and I stare into my head & look for your/ broken roman nose
your wet mouth-smell of martinis
& a big artistic tipsy kiss.