Frank
O'Hara
Man,
you did a lot before
we
spilt you at 40
for
it all to be the randomness
of
your aesthetic
What
does this mean for us?
Are
you asking me to deduce things?
One
gasp in your fortunate day at
the
nerve center of the empire,
you
made a hiccup about why you,
Polloc
buddy, didn't paint,
and
the echo of the noise drew me into
your
500-page collection
The
devil does not
randomly
collect,
though
it's part of his sales spiel
that
he was just in the area
This
poem is going nowhere
because
I wanted one about you
when
I was exhausted from reading