Sometimes instead of conjuring the flower’s design I see its name instead in white reflective letters, because of all the signs in Denver that say Dahlia Street, Magnolia Street, etc.
At the end of each month I’m going to post my favorite text messages I’ve received:
1. “I want to smash my car into a pyramid of teddy bears.”
2. “I just watched two dudes tow an old sink from the ocean.”
3. “I took a homeless man to my 8th grade dance.”
Thanks, friends. What happened today? I watched the deleted scenes from Wet Hot American Summer with my brother (we didn’t watch the movie), ate the fluffiest biscuit ever at Lucille’s for brunch, drove my brother to the airport (sad!), and worked on my dissertation. Now I’m staring at the destruction that is my apartment from a weekend of company/guests and procrastinating by reading Frank O’Hara. Here is a poem I loved of his when I first read it in 2003 when I was a wee undergrad:
They say I mope too much
but really I’m loudly dancing.
I eat paper. It’s good for my bones.
I play the piano pedal. I dance,
I am never quiet, I mean silent.
Some day I’ll love Frank O’Hara.
I think I’ll be alone for a little while.
That second-to-last line should destroy you. Here are some other O’Hara lines I like:
“I am the light mist / in which a face appears”
“I first recognize art as wildness”
“silent, listening / to the air becoming no air becoming air again”
“to become a way of feeling
that is not painful casual or diffuse
and seems to explore some peculiar insight
of the heavens for its favorite bodies
in the mixed-up air”