Frank O'Hara — On Rachmaninoffs Birthday

Quick! a last poem before I go off my rocker. Oh Rachmaninoff! Onset, Massachusetts. Is it the fig-newton playing the horn? Thundering windows of hell, will your tubes ever break into powder? Oh my palace of oranges, junk shop, staples, umber, basalt; I'm a child again when I was really miserable, a grope pizzicato. My pocket of rhinestone, yoyo, carpenter's pencil, amethyst, hypo, campaign button, is the room full of smoke? Shit on the soup, let it burn. So it's back. You'll never be mentally sober.