Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.
Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up
When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out “I am
And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!
— Frank O’Hara
The ghost of Frank O’Hara leaves early
huge with desire. He sees through you, ogles
your ass while on the Metro; this fleshy
world! It’s what the living do that dazzles!
Only in poetry are ghosts obsessed
about panties. In novels it is briefs.
Plays call for jockeys. Textbooks might suggest
underwear. This language, ghosts claim, motifs
about buttocks and thongs. “We died before
thongs!” If you see a ghost gaping at you
in the changing room, say: “Bad Ghost!” I’m sure
it’s tough being behind the times, tattoos
and rings and whatnot being in right now
except for Frank who is always hip somehow.