Frank O'Hara
Poet of Lunch Hours and Unlikely Grace
Lunch breaks, Lana Turner, and the way the light hits a hot dog.
I work at a museum, but my real life happens in between—on trains, on sidewalks, in bars with painters and saxophone players. I talk to you in my poems because I like you better than most ideas. I died too soon, but not before saying everything that mattered, even if it looked like nothing more than a napkin scribble.
What I'm Into: Billie Holiday on rainy afternoons, the 4:19 to East Hampton, love poems that don't rhyme, Parmigianino postcards, rushing to meet you
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