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.
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.
Let me sit in decided peace.
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,
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.
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.
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
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.
My first poem on the blog! You might want to read the post before this (“The Return”) for an update on the blog itself.
I am awake
at three in the morning;
I can see the two of you
stretched along the opposite wall;
You, David, are holding
the other with an arm
across her chest
sink against the wall,
your feet drawn up,
out from the covers.
You’re holding onto
in cold moonlight.
Hi everyone! Namely, myself. Since no one checks this blog anymore, which I understand, as I have stopped updating it.
I decided a while ago I should put some of my writing up here so friends and family, those who also write and those who don’t, can stay current on my work and also keep in touch (for those of you in different states of the union) through the comment board. I like this better than posting on Goodreads–it’s easier to index everything.
So, from now until I change my mind again, I will use this blog mainly as a place to display and discuss my writing and other creative things. Personal information (besides being pretty boring) is incidental.