Frank OHara (here Im skating slow
on sacred ice) has got a lot to answer
for, yet who hasnt? Take the legacy
of 60s poets, for example, who cant
help but write like him; syntactically
careering around his blizzard of words,
elbow-jolting crazily, clutching at
each others earmuffs, buttonholing
opportunity. Seems they did that as
par for the course till it got too dizzy.
Round and round the freedom rink they
went & those who zigzagged quick & cut
up rough fell back upon the railings
youth exhausted to exhale worn, cautious
success though tried not to show it.
What happened to the stragglers in the
maul is anyones guess; some unmarried,
a good number courted hardship whatever.
Nobody cares overly much. The 60s poets
they go on to write like Frank OHara:
fewer drop-by parties, meaner somehow.