5435. FRANK O'HARA IS READING

FRANK O'HARA IS READING

Frank O'Hara is reading 'I'm Having a Coke With

You'. I am puking up Whitman  -  in between these two

things, a world spreads its gulf wide open as I wonder why

I am here. What does any of this mean? He is staunchly

talking, his cigarette going on, his mouth moves and those

plenary, soft and luscious words come out. He likes to talk 

of moments and pleasures, and I realize these are things I

really dislike. Does this Irish fireplug ever get up, finish?

-

Frank O'Hara is reading 'The Day Lady Died'. My shoes

are hurting and I'm watching his face. He said he wanted to

be at the Five-Spot again, leaning against a doorway while

some jazzboy flamed away in his shirtsleeve reverie. My

God, I think, my God sometimes this gets so boring. It is

outside again  -  sleet and rain and snow, pretend. The

cold air blows in through the doorway. I shudder.

-

What's worse? Frank O'Hara is reading again. What's

worse  - this time it's movie magazines. Like an old

whore in a beauty parlor seat, he pages through the sludge

of fashions and glamor, crying anew for the stupid dead.

Montgomery Clift. James Dean. Marilyn Monroe. It goes

on, the list, and what the fuck? Who cares. He reads like

this forever, that catty, gay mouth, with its gossip and fun.

It's all almost dreary enough, but I love him forever for it.

Frank O'Hara is reading again.