One of the many blessings of living with the M*ster is finding poetry books all over the house. There is nothing so cozy as sitting down for a spare minute and entering the world of a poem.
Case in Point, or its Not Always About Cars
Recently she swept away my soggy copies of alumnum periodicals and swimmer's mags, that were by the washbasin and replaced them with the Selected Works of Frank O'Hara.
Sitting reading Frank!
Poems clutter my aunt Maggies mind
Reading about Frank! writes his poetry!
cuz he don't care what them critics think!
They are dogs!
Because when Frank! writes his poetry
That is what he is doing!
he's not thinking about them
he's thinking about YOU
The person between the pages
he cares about you!
And not them!
Even when the ants
(ha ha, I made a clever rhyme!)
Are crawling all over the
hairdryer laying in a heap with
the dirty towels
Its all about Frank!
Aren't we lucky?
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Life in Santa Cruz
I could say to those Ants, for which there are more than a few,
"Get a Grip on yourself! Good God!" when they walk in, when they walk in like they own the place,
mocking me, mocking me and my hairdryer. I was walking down Water Street, made it through and the loathesome Ocean intersection, passed the $6.95 hair cut-place, the men their moustaches fervent as usual, asking "When's it gonna rain?" expecting ants, feeling frustrated already, but commanding the rain anyway. Oh! it's too sunny and bright on this December 3rd. My summer taxed and prefering more discouraging cold mornings that come with December.
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