Frank O'Hara

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