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Yesterday was Frank O'Hara's birthday, or, well, the day he believed was his birthday; his actual birthday was the 27th of March, but his parents lied about it his whole life to hide that he was conceived before they got married. Anyway, he's my favorite poet (although I am also fond of Anna Swir), and it is a good thing that he was extremely prolific from a very young age, because he was hit by a car when he was 40. It is likely this feeds into my baseless and continual superstition that my youthful promise will soon be cut short by the intercession of A Vehicle.
Frank O'Hara called his poems "I do this, I do that" poems, because he pretty much wrote them while at his job working the front desk at the MoMA; they're basically diary entries. For a little while, I've been thinking about doing a month's worth of daily "I do this, I do that" poems, even though most of them would likely be no good, mainly because I think it's perfectly disgraceful that I call myself a poet but have only written maybe twelve poems in the last ten years. Admittedly, this is because I tend to mull over every single word for months at a time, and because I am not counting songs I've written (which I also don't have many of). Hence the beauty of "I do this, I do that." I am thinking I will attempt this project in August, if anyone wants to join me.
I did write an "I do this, I do that" poem last night, partly because I was thinking about Frank O'Hara, and partly because Ciro has started going to a Boston open mic, and I miss that kind of thing. And partly because I heard some really juvenile poetry a few days back, which always has a combined effect of making me horrified as I assume that my poetry sounds that bad to everyone else and making me uppity as I think I could do so much better.
Anyway, the title (which I stole from Ciro) is "Late Nights Driving Around the Same City Block."
My reliable clothes
My old standbys
Are holing.
In the shoulder
in the armpit
in the crotch
in all the bent places
never on a seam.
Too many years
of itinerant paychecks
and hoarding.
I wouldn't know now
what to buy if I
had the money
which I don't
or the time.
I just want a closet
with shirts and some
trousers, or a backpack
And a dress
And the right professional hair.
Frank O'Hara called his poems "I do this, I do that" poems, because he pretty much wrote them while at his job working the front desk at the MoMA; they're basically diary entries. For a little while, I've been thinking about doing a month's worth of daily "I do this, I do that" poems, even though most of them would likely be no good, mainly because I think it's perfectly disgraceful that I call myself a poet but have only written maybe twelve poems in the last ten years. Admittedly, this is because I tend to mull over every single word for months at a time, and because I am not counting songs I've written (which I also don't have many of). Hence the beauty of "I do this, I do that." I am thinking I will attempt this project in August, if anyone wants to join me.
I did write an "I do this, I do that" poem last night, partly because I was thinking about Frank O'Hara, and partly because Ciro has started going to a Boston open mic, and I miss that kind of thing. And partly because I heard some really juvenile poetry a few days back, which always has a combined effect of making me horrified as I assume that my poetry sounds that bad to everyone else and making me uppity as I think I could do so much better.
Anyway, the title (which I stole from Ciro) is "Late Nights Driving Around the Same City Block."
My reliable clothes
My old standbys
Are holing.
In the shoulder
in the armpit
in the crotch
in all the bent places
never on a seam.
Too many years
of itinerant paychecks
and hoarding.
I wouldn't know now
what to buy if I
had the money
which I don't
or the time.
I just want a closet
with shirts and some
trousers, or a backpack
And a dress
And the right professional hair.
