Sleeping At Lunch

I dreamt I was Frank O’Hara.
I softly kissed Larry Rivers on the forehead
and it was again Rachmaninoff’s birthday.

I took a walk along the familiar path
where I once stopped to type something up,
a poem perhaps or maybe just a note for you.

I detoured down to the apartment where we all lived,
that foul address. God, we were happy when we left!
I remembered a story Joe told and how it made me smile
through the haze of the lumped-together smoke.

I made my way back from lunch to the museum.
Mike had made a cake because they had all forgotten me,
but the cake was no good because Mike is not a baker.

And then I woke up. And I remembered having
been him, but not having been him. Imagine!


The Poet

As I look into the face of a man
33 years postmortem, enough time for Jesus
Time enough to realize -- to gain beliefs.
He isn't watching over

			he is part of me.  I can
feel it in the way his eyes were blue and in
the way he was Irish -- not fully, but enough.
O'Hara -- O'Hara -- O'Hara.

			I praise him leaning
on a door or a wall.  I praise him wired with
energy... too much energy.

			He made me an insomniac.
He got away with it.  If I make dots on
the paper -- salty wet dots, it's realization,
it's discovery!  it's wow!  And maybe I should
go to a movie, buy some flowers and a new
typewriter -- to peck away at in my own way.
I long for lunch poetry and Joe LaSueur.

Come Frank, I am waiting.


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