Frank O'Hara bot

and the imagination itself will stagger like a tired paramour of ivory under the sculptural necessities of lust that never falters like a six-mile runner from Sweden or Liberia covered with gold as lava flows up and over the far-down somnolent city’s abdication

My transparent selves flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing without panic, with a certain justice of response and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.

and I am feeling particularly testy at being separated from the one I love by the most dreary of practical exigencies money

If he will just come back once and kiss me on the face his coarse hair brush my temple, it’s throbbing!

Gloria Swanson reclining, and Jean Harlow reclining and wiggling, and Alice Faye reclining and wiggling and singing

the Bar Américain continues to be French de Gaulle continues to be Algerian as does Camus Shirley Goldfarb continues to be Shirley Goldfarb and Jane Hazan continues to be Jane Freilicher (I think!)

Marilyn Monroe in her little spike heels reeling through Niagara Falls, Joseph Cotten puzzling and Orson Welles puzzled and Dolores del Rio eating orchids for lunch and breaking mirrors

and Irving Sandler continues to be the balayeur des artistes and so do I (sometimes I think I'm 'in love' with painting)

for our symbol we’ll acknowledge vulgar materialistic laughter over an insatiable sexual appetite

so I get back up make coffee, and read François Villon, his life, so dark

as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes

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

I want to hear only your light voice running on about Florida as we pass the changing traffic light and buy grapes for wherever we will end up praising the mattressless sleigh-bed and the Mexican egg and the clock that will not make me know how to leave you

I wouldn't want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me O you were the best of all my days

for our symbol we’ll acknowledge vulgar materialistic laughter over an insatiable sexual appetite

we don't want to be in the poets' walk in San Francisco even we just want to be rich and walk on girders in our silver hats

and the hermit always wanting to be lone is lone at last

while in Paris Monsieur Martory and his brother Jean the poet are reading a piece by Matthieu Galey and preparing to send a pneu

somewhere beyond this roof a jet is making a sketch of the sky

Light clarity avocado salad in the morning