(Cut-Up of Frank O’Hara and Emily Dickinson)
Alive two fold – stepped in immortality.
Asiatic tendencies, the faint tribal accidents,
broken. You called me on and off I guess.
Life is fantastic. I am not the birth. I had faint
hope for altered blue eyes, dead.
Surrounding the parlor commonly precise,
and fitting to be alive. There is no chance
a Persian Bourgeois pain could be
unselfishness and lean and view your sweet
yellow cocktail glasses. Oh my mouth
on my hand! Neither Emma Bovary nor I know
which door because I do not own
the mise en scene glory, and at my graveyard
with a veil of breath I am alive
because a chance to be cold – it grew hair
among the street of our fingers end and ran naked
down the mosques. Was it Art?
Opening near a glass across France,
we threw sand in a room full of morning.