I haven’t forgotten you really, I am just busy with my political career at the moment, but don’t worry that shall be over soon and I will be back here with you dear blog pumping out the crapola once again….here’s some more pictures:


Happy Birthday

Frank O’Hara. b.1926 d.1966.

American Poet

Here’s a poem:

Meditations In An Emergency

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious
as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous
(and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable
list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with
which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else
for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too,
don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of
pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of
perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the
confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes–I can’t
even enjoy a blade of grass unless i know there’s a subway
handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not
totally _regret_ life. It is more important to affirm the
least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and
even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing?
Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I’m
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has _their_ anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven.
Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best
discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness
which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a
legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that holds you in the
bosom of another and I’m always springing forth from it like
the lotus–the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must
not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the
filth of life away,” yes, even in the heart, where the filth is
pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my
will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in
that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I
admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a
final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

“Fanny Brown is run away–scampered off with a Cornet of Horse;
I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She
has vexed me by this exploit a little too.–Poor silly
Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.–I wish She had a
good Whipping and 10,000 pounds.”–Mrs. Thrale

I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my
dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I’ll re-emerge, defeated, from
the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where
you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot
ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in
the lock and the knob turns.



Remember back when I said (below I believe…it’s not like I actually read this blog too, so cut me some slack) I was going to post something soon? Well, guess what? I lied. Sorry about that, but all things considered, this is something.

Things about me that may or may not be true Vol. whatever

  • For nearly thirty years I lived under an assumed name, yet I remain unassuming.
  • I once fought a cage match with Don Rickles.
  • I took out a personals ad and answered it myself; it didn’t work out.
  • My work on the Manhattan Project is still a state secret.
  • I’ve climbed the Matterhorn.
  • I always carry a .44 slug in my right hip pocket. I found it in a mens room at a carnival on the Jersey shore when I was 16, I’ve always thought it would one day bring me good luck. I still have hope.
  • I have a reoccurring dream wherein I have been elected pope, but the pope hat is too big for my head and keeps falling down onto my shoulders, and it is really heavy and no one will lift it off me.
  • As a child I had stigmata
  • I’m worried that my love of the bourgeois interferes with my passion for the proletariat.
  • I want to have a sex dream about Kafka.
  • Everywhere you look was once a sea.
  • I’m afraid.
  • If you were to remove my skull you would find another underneath, and another, and another. A series of skulls, and fog– lots of fog.
  • I invented the French kiss.
  • I once worked for a man who would go from town to town selling strophes. It was my job to sit in the cart and keep it from blowing away.
  • I was the first theorize a fifth state of matter.
  • I hold forth my thumb to blot out the world.