It occurred to me today that people (and also poets) don't really like Frank O'Hara. Sure, they like his poems and his bon mots. They like the way he managed to zip around like a fart in a windstorm in American literature. That was sort of hot. He is the closest thing we have to People magazine in literature. Even today.
Sure, we have a couple of Talk Soup poets and maybe a few Robot Chicken poets out there. But I just don't see a People magazine in the current gen.
Maybe the lil tyke is eating his or her chocolate granola bars just now each morning, and powering up the dread flippancy we still miss.
But we don't like Frank. Nobody likes him really. Dapper people make your apartment feel funny after they leave. You don't know whether to spray Renuzit or go for a walk.
And there is an aftertaste of which you will want to rid yourself.
Well you know what I mean.
Later you'll want to scratch yourself, and who knows what else and if that wit is lingering about like a Jovian cloud with the scent of a cologne they stopped making forty years ago, it will be difficult.
Turn on the ceiling fan. Wave the newspaper around.
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