XXII

from Spring and All (1923)

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.

Frank OHara, Poem

Lana Turner has collapsed! I was trotting along and suddenlyit started raining and snowingand you said it was hailingbut hailing hits you on the headhard so it was really snowing andraining and I was in such a hurryto meet you but the trafficwas acting exactly like the skyand suddenly I see a headline LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!there is no snow in Hollywoodthere is no rain in CaliforniaI have been to lots of partiesand acted perfectly disgracefulbut I never actually collapsedoh Lana Turner we love you get up

SONG

I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab

which is typical

and not just of modern life

mud clambers up the trellis of my nerves

must lovers of Eros end up with Venus

muss es Sein? es muss nicht sein, I tell you

how I hate disease, its like worrying

that comes true

and it simply must not be able to happen

in a world where you are possible

my love

nothing can go wrong for us, tell me

Avenue AFrank OHara

We hardly ever see the moon any moreso no wonderits so beautiful when we look up suddenlyand there it is gliding broken-faced over the bridgesbrilliantly coursing, soft, and a cool wind fansyour hair over your forehead and your memoriesof Red Grooms locomotive landscapeI want some bourbon/you want some oranges/I love the leatherjacket Norman gave meand the corduroy coat Davidgave you, it is more mysterious than spring, the El Grecoheavens breaking open and then reassembling like lionsin a vast tragic veldtthat is far from our small selves and our temporally unitedpassions in the cathedral of Januaries

everything is too comprehensiblethese are my delicate and caressing poemsI suppose there will be more of those others to come, as in the pastso many!but for now the moon is revealing itself like a pearlto my equally naked heart

WASHINGTON SQUARE

That arch bestrides me, French

victory! the golden staff of the savior

with blue lids. The soldiers filing

at my feel hiss down their drinks

and are savagely decorated, savagely

turned, their gentle fathers torn to medals

in the air. Gold falls upon them, because

there is no love, and it is not the sun.

Jane and Mark flutter along the plaza

underneath the fainting gingko trees

and are cheered by pearly uniform horses,

still, at parade rest. The guns ejaculate

into clouds abstractedly, and the day

is in danger of passing without wickedness.