As Planned

courtesy of Frank O'Hara

because, at this point, it's been well established that his are the poems that I wish I wrote. And, because, well, it's been a awhile since I've posted.

It's been a strange few weeks. I'll write more soon, once I feel like reflecting.

In the mean, herewith:

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don't you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?