1959

Frank O’Hara rarely staying put reports 

piecemeal material to breathe in 

and wafer through before coming on to 

the next episode, only to discover 

multiple more episodes in keeping with 

southerly winds about to wind down

to full-frontal loneliness or 

loveliness, what do I know? I’m eight 

and tend to make decisions despite 

my sentence to childhood, deferring to 

irrational adult decisions 

forecasting humdrum optical delusions. 

Meanwhile butterflies are wet with 

the result of procreation. Welcome 

to just one color in keeping with 

standard operating procedures, 

the triangular yield sign of 

the partial cross to bear in mind, 

the slow poke grisly and the lumbering 

black bear, hungry for something in the wide-

open tent as tentative as this urban 

open-and-shut case of solipsistic 

lack of inclusion minus consequence.