Frank, Stop Staring Please

Written on the back of a paper plate.

Frank, Stop Staring Please

After drinks, Frank O’Hara starts to look kind of creepy–
staring from the cover of a book of collected poetry, in
black-and-white and green-and-black frowning.

Especially when seated on the shelf next to the toilet
Frank, looking, why?
You want more privacy when you are drunk.

Stop staring!
I stayed in Boston! I will write on the backs of paper plates!
I will write at a cold iron coffee table at Cardullo’s
in Harvard Square, I will make them famous
I will start the Boston School

And all my friends will go to the school.

Let’s high-five, let’s move to New York. Let’s move to Brooklyn.
Let’s not, let’s stay, screw Brooklyn, pastrami sandwich.
Just do not stare, master poet.
Down feather.

Let me sit in decided peace.

Breakfast In Love

The first in a while. I appreciate feedback!

Breakfast In Love

Sipping a small cup of coffee (small thank you)
,little espresso chocolate crumbs cleared away under his spot,
the spot where his second cup goes, the one that will give him
a tummy ache, the king of motherfuck picks up snotty-rags,
listens to some accordion music, some melancholy piano,
a bicycle gearbox ratcheting. He thinks about love.
He thinks about the kitchen table. He thinks to himself,

“King,
you are a little prince.
You are a small man,
but you are in love.”

He finishes his coffee. He eats a chocolate.
He cleans the kitchen table. He feels bigger.

DVD Cover Draft 2 (final?) DVD Slipcover Take 2

Second draft. The final draft and running order, hopefully.

Film Fest DVD Slipcover Draft 1

For our school’s annual student film festival.

Film Fest Poster Numero Due

First draft of another poster for the SCAN film festival.

Film Fest Poster Numero Uno

I posted a draft of this earlier, but I thought I should put up the final.

To Alan Hurst

Written early on this semester.

To Alan Hurst

There are these feathers.
Tiny, white, down feathers,
that I often see floating around my head
as from nowhere.

My professor,
a gray old Englishman with a hound’s jowls,
stopped me as I began reading aloud
a poem by Ginsberg. “Don’t forget,”
he said, absently wiping a tear from his cheek,
(from his old, leaky eye)
“to read the title. The title is a part of the poem.”

One day he said,
“I love Frank O’Hara.
He is my favorite poet.”
He told us how Frank O’Hara would scribble his poems
during lunch hour, on a napkin
or the back of a menu.

I wish a dash of inspiration would come to me
sometime over a mugful of soup:
or as I observe these little white down feathers.
I wish those feathers were inspiration.
I could inhale one and cough out a title,
a downy puff of cleverness, a wet
ink stain
on the page, from my lungs to your eyes.
Alan would say: “Check!”

I could read the title along with the poem,
Then read the rest aloud.