Frankly I believe
Frank O’Hara ruined
poetry forever in the best
of all possible ways simply
by taking off its clothes
and then running over to it
with a drink in each hand
poetry was growling like a cat
something about you must meet
Morton Feldman’s music
music’s final foreskin
and then I will take you home
to one of our many houses
one of our many rooms
and fuck you silly
so that now all my novenas
happen in parking lots
and on ocean liner
dance floors far
far from harbors Frank
where we are fucked
and can’t go home
except you’re there.
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