Frank O'Hara

Has some great moments. I so desperately wanted to post some of his collected thoughts to speak volumes of poetry about this awful, uncomfortable dress I'm in. When did I grow out of it and yet begin to fear my body without it? Have the seams segued that completely?

O'Hara's got some great fortune cookie entries and that poem about critics, about oranges and sardines, about rich ostrich eggs all deserve their turn in the sun; however, what I want is something more pointed tonight. So it is back to Plath country we go, to the pages where I still used those light aqua Bic pens. High school never really went away in romances, you know.

I put a Thomas Eakin photograph into a deep, white frame. It's nice to look at lithesome boys long and bare before the jump into dark water. This picture reminds me of that giddy moment in ... was it "Howard's End" or "Room with a View"? Eton boys with pure legs by the wooded swimming hole. As Mark Strand said: "It is yesterday. It is still yesterday."