for Frank ‘O Hara
I don’t know why I held my hand up like a cloth
when I should of peeled out its odd purple veins
and left them outside in a bouquet
for the sun to spill onto
I am ridiculous
I know you are dead
but I will drive you home
and pull out my hair to make you laugh
I will not talk about my own body
or cloak myself in the smell
of a feeble cucumber flower or a boat
I am so good at being alone
with this terrible wheezing sincerity
All I want for Christmas is for you to be a different person.
Or this: I want you to be one of those clumsy staccato-type pigeons
circling the fountain in the park, acting blind, shitting
into the same puddles it drinks out of. Making nearby babysitters
grow nervous. Stay Away! they say.
Also, I would like to take back the advice I gave you re: the GRE.
Since, you said, you were nervous not to have any positive recommendations
from college faculty, you can use this if you want.
Outside, it is not warm or cold enough to be difficult
or demand difficult words. On chat the other day you said this:
you have made it unlikely for me to find other girls interesting ever again.
I said geez. I feel like my stomach is in my ears.
I remember how you treated me like a sloth once
for wanting to watch Parks and Recreation
instead of painting your wall blue and red. Well, I like white walls.
And not because I am crazy. Amy Pohler is very funny to me.
I appreciate sparse environments.
I may like the movie Baby Mama better than Infinite Jest,
but not as much as I like small brown shoes or Goethe’s Faust.
I was willing to be sad for you then
the way some people are willing to be peed on
so their partners can feel pleasure.
In a dream the other night, I touched your face
and dropped my phone. After it shattered on the floor
I picked up the glass and started to eat it.
The battery bent impossibly when I put it in my mouth.