Frank O'Hara on Crack, holding Patti Smith's Hand

So here goes nothing on a warm Sunday's night, with my back cool from sweat of outdoor running and at a computer, leaning a little to the left like O'hara showed me Asking questions about why God took away my parakeet I can't say I'm a firm believer in the past life, but who knows? At least Mappelthorpe came and went again across his hand painted skies Like Smith once noted, in her runaway journey across New York Maybe that's my fate, too Holding hands with God, like her predestined soul mate and holding hands with O'Hara before he bled and died on Fire Island.. Come back, and take me away from this mundane reality I call college Banal, boring and bored Rest assured, a fate of falling feathers in happiness restored.. And it's just this beautiful thing like.. crack a white form of powdery substance, asking myself about the eternity in the in-between