lunch poems hunger

O'hara, I miss
your Billie holidays, your broke
lunches, you must've been so skinny;

That's why you ate the spring-summer air,
the may fragrance
of subtle toxic petals
where those damned kids, pubescent
library office girls, threw dirt and flower balls dispersing
fast, damp,
in the less than Katz-sandwich breath
of the sweaty, grease-cheeked, American boys of construction,
so professor, you would've rapped my knuckles
and then beg'd t'kiss it
'cause I name-dropped the cereal
that I spilled
out of the box
and off the graffiti'd square chess table.

They were like O's, her mouth was an O,
his asshole was an O, the shape of processed grains
into dusted fields underfoot,
the way I plunged my mouth on it,
like it was the pathway shaped like my mother's cunt,
and up into somebody else's flushed-face o'sms;
oh, oh,

oh! I loved blasphemy, it's the way
I am gliding across your walls (repainted white),
like a bug (a roach), and under my bed,
and I peeled the coat with tape and my nipple
to find an imperfect grey heart,
or maybe a pointed penis head,
but you know y'can't find sex, or love the way I'm grinding
against intangibles to sate
my birth-controlled soul of the need for Pollock and Picasso,
decrepit cities, dirty, ugly New York, high grade vibrators,
and kasha, brothy and deliciously filling me.

new york

moving crosstown cos i've got problems
and took disconnected trains
i told him on paper that i craved schulyer's raindrops
in chelsea, panging
for artistry of modern,
early twentieth century, american,
and i am drying
bottles of furikake in dark oak cases,
thin glass, the windows panes are chipping at the frame,

bracques' neighbor, 'beginning' spins,
they've moved the prescription from october, and a painting,
leaving tanguy's fogginess, i shake
a sob, it is a baby in the museum, i go
with my migraine, sneezing loudly, the rain
has caught me in my flimsy winter coat in may.