Sunday, March 29, 2015

It's the Horse Butt That's Properly Lit





Thanks for the Kind words re: this. That's how I did things once. I stopped. I've started again. I've theories why both the stop and restart. If I write about them I'll write about them that way and if I do write about them that way I'll post them here, not there. That? A whole separate though related set of theories. Second use, this post, new tag Mememe.















POLITICAL THEORY

Jessica Fjeld

In a famous painting of a founding father
and the back end of a horse

it’s the horse butt that’s properly lit
groomed out        smooth       an immortal peach

Who can say what it means about revolution
that the horse’s tail emerges as though it had no bones in it

no chunky mechanics of the living
And the horse is not well muscled

but has been living in the rich grass
swollen like a birthday balloon



Saturday, March 28, 2015

Born Eighty-Five Years Ago Today





Click tag for lots more. Yes, I did the first anniversary of his death earlier this month, I'll only do his birthday from now on per my sillyass bleggal rules, (which I will spare you this post).



Friday, March 27, 2015

First & Probably Last Draft: Two Poems Written in a Bar Before a Swans Concert

Born Eighty-Nine Years Ago Today






MEDITATIONS IN AN EMERGENCY

Frank O'Hara

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

          Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

          Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?

          I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

          Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

          However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh.

          My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I am curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

          Now there is only one man I love to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How discourage her?)

          St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am I to become a legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus—the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the filth of life away,” yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.

          Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

          It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

          “Fanny Brown is run away—scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too. —Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her. —I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds.” —Mrs. Thrale.

       I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.







   
RHAPSODY

Frank O'Hara

515 Madison Avenue   
door to heaven? portal
stopped realities and eternal licentiousness
or at least the jungle of impossible eagerness
your marble is bronze and your lianas elevator cables   
swinging from the myth of ascending
I would join
or declining the challenge of racial attractions
they zing on (into the lynch, dear friends)
while everywhere love is breathing draftily
like a doorway linking 53rd with 54th
the east-bound with the west-bound traffic by 8,000,000s   
o midtown tunnels and the tunnels, too, of Holland

where is the summit where all aims are clear   
the pin-point light upon a fear of lust
as agony’s needlework grows up around the unicorn   
and fences him for milk- and yoghurt-work
when I see Gianni I know he’s thinking of John Ericson   
playing the Rachmaninoff 2nd or Elizabeth Taylor   
taking sleeping-pills and Jane thinks of Manderley   
and Irkutsk while I cough lightly in the smog of desire   
and my eyes water achingly imitating the true blue

a sight of Manahatta in the towering needle
multi-faceted insight of the fly in the stringless labyrinth   
Canada plans a higher place than the Empire State Building   
I am getting into a cab at 9th Street and 1st Avenue   
and the Negro driver tells me about a $120 apartment   
“where you can’t walk across the floor after 10 at night   
not even to pee, cause it keeps them awake downstairs”
no, I don’t like that “well, I didn’t take it”
perfect in the hot humid morning on my way to work   
a little supper-club conversation for the mill of the gods

you were there always and you know all about these things   
as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes   
it isn’t enough to smile when you run the gauntlet
you’ve got to spit like Niagara Falls on everybody or
Victoria Falls or at least the beautiful urban fountains of Madrid   
as the Niger joins the Gulf of Guinea near the Menemsha Bar
that is what you learn in the early morning passing Madison Avenue   
where you’ve never spent any time and stores eat up light

I have always wanted to be near it
though the day is long (and I don’t mean Madison Avenue)   
lying in a hammock on St. Mark’s Place sorting my poems   
in the rancid nourishment of this mountainous island   
they are coming and we holy ones must go
is Tibet historically a part of China? as I historically   
belong to the enormous bliss of American death