Watch me thieve again.

This time, I won't just thieve and leave, though. Here's the part where I pretend like I'm a writer again.


"Mayakovsky" from Frank O'Hara's Mediations In An Emergency

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

In the midst of the deepening winter, when my life feels like it's freezing over like the sidewalks and streets and the urge to stay in bed and sleep through the next four months sets in,

I am myself again.

And I am coming home.