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FrankOHara

WhyIAmNotaPainter

Iamnotapainter,Iamapoet.Why?IthinkIwouldratherbe

apainter,butIamnot.Well,

forinstance,MikeGoldberg

isstartingapainting.Idropin.

"Sitdownandhaveadrink"he

says.Idrink;wedrink.Ilook

up."YouhaveSARDINESinit."

"Yes,itneededsomethingthere."

"Oh."Igoandthedaysgoby

andIdropinagain.Thepaintingisgoingon,andIgo,andthedaysgoby.Idropin.Thepaintingis

finished."Where'sSARDINES?"Allthat'sleftisjust

letters,"Itwastoomuch,"Mikesays.

Butme?OnedayIamthinkingof

acolor:orange.Iwritealineaboutorange.Prettysoonitisa

wholepageofwords,notlines.

Thenanotherpage.Thereshouldbesomuchmore,notoforange,of

words,ofhowterribleorangeis

andlife.Daysgoby.Itiseven

inprose,Iamarealpoet.Mypoem

isfinishedandIhaven'tmentioned

orangeyet.It'stwelvepoems,Icall

itORANGES.Andonedayinagallery

IseeMike'spainting,calledSARDINES.

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TheDayLadyDied

Itis12:20inNewYorkaFriday

threedaysafterBastilleday,yesitis1959andIgogetashoeshine

becauseIwillgetoffthe4:19inEasthamptonat7:15andthengostraighttodinner

andIdon'tknowthepeoplewhowillfeedme

Iwalkupthemuggystreetbeginningtosun

andhaveahamburgerandamaltedandbuy

anuglyNEWWORLDWRITINGtoseewhatthepoets

inGhanaaredoingthesedays

Igoontothebank

andMissStillwagon(firstnameLindaIonceheard)

doesn'tevenlookupmybalanceforonceinherlifeandintheGOLDENGRIFFINIgetalittleVerlaineforPatsywithdrawingsbyBonnardalthoughIdo

thinkofHesiod,trans.RichmondLattimoreorBrendanBehan'snewplayorLeBalconorLesNgres

ofGenet,butIdon't,IstickwithVerlaine

afterpracticallygoingtosleepwithquandariness

andforMikeIjuststrollintothePARKLANELiquorStoreandaskforabottleofStregaand

thenIgobackwhereIcamefromto6thAvenue

andthetobacconistintheZiegfeldTheatreandcasuallyaskforacartonofGauloisesandacarton

ofPicayunes,andaNEWYORKPOSTwithherfaceonit

andIamsweatingalotbynowandthinkingof

leaningonthejohndoorinthe5SPOT

whileshewhisperedasongalongthekeyboard

toMalWaldronandeveryoneandIstoppedbreathing

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HavingaCokeWithYou

isevenmorefunthangoingtoSanSebastian,Irn,Hendaye,Biarritz,Bayonne

orbeingsicktomystomachontheTraveseradeGraciainBarcelonapartlybecauseinyourorangeshirtyoulooklikeabetterhappierSt.Sebastian

partlybecauseofmyloveforyou,partlybecauseofyourloveforyoghurtpartlybecauseofthefluorescentorangetulipsaroundthebirches

partlybecauseofthesecrecyoursmilestakeonbeforepeopleandstatuary

itishardtobelievewhenImwithyouthattherecanbeanythingasstill

assolemnasunpleasantlydefinitiveasstatuarywhenrightinfrontofit

inthewarmNewYork4oclocklightwearedriftingbackandforth

betweeneachotherlikeatreebreathingthroughitsspectacles

andtheportraitshowseemstohavenofacesinitatall,justpaint

yousuddenlywonderwhyintheworldanyoneeverdidthem

IlookatyouandIwouldratherlookatyouthanalltheportraitsintheworldexceptpossiblyforthePolishRideroccasionallyandanywayitsintheFrick

whichthankheavensyouhaventgonetoyetsowecangotogetherthefirsttimeandthefactthatyoumovesobeautifullymoreorlesstakescareofFuturism

justasathomeIneverthinkoftheNudeDescendingaStaircaseor

atarehearsalasingledrawingofLeonardoorMichelangelothatusedtowowmeandwhatgooddoesalltheresearchoftheImpressionistsdothem

whentheynevergottherightpersontostandnearthetreewhenthesunsankorforthatmatterMarinoMariniwhenhedidntpicktheriderascarefully

asthehorse

itseemstheywereallcheatedofsomemarvelousexperience

whichisnotgoingtogowastedonmewhichiswhyIamtellingyouaboutit

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SteppingAwayfromThem

It'smylunchhour,soIgo

forawalkamongthehum-coloredcabs.First,downthesidewalk

wherelaborersfeedtheirdirtyglisteningtorsossandwiches

andCoca-Cola,withyellowhelmets

on.Theyprotectthemfromfalling

bricks,Iguess.Thenontothe

avenuewhereskirtsareflipping

aboveheelsandblowupover

grates.Thesunishot,butthe

cabsstiruptheair.Ilook

atbargainsinwristwatches.There

arecatsplayinginsawdust.

OntoTimesSquare,wherethesignblowssmokeovermyhead,andhigher

thewaterfallpourslightly.ANegrostandsinadoorwaywitha

toothpick,languorouslyagitating.

Ablondechorusgirlclicks:hesmilesandrubshischin.Everything

suddenlyhonks:itis12:40ofaThursday.

Neonindaylightisa

greatpleasure,asEdwinDenbywouldwrite,asarelightbulbsindaylight.

IstopforacheeseburgeratJULIET'S

CORNER.GiuliettaMasina,wifeof

FedericoFellini,bell'attrice.

Andchocolatemalted.Aladyin

foxesonsuchadayputsherpoodle

inacab.

ThereareseveralPuertoRicansontheavenuetoday,which

makesitbeautifulandwarm.First

Bunnydied,thenJohnLatouche,thenJacksonPollock.Butisthe

earthasfullaslifewasfull,ofthem?Andonehaseatenandonewalks,

pastthemagazineswithnudes

andthepostersforBULLFIGHTand

theManhattanStorageWarehouse,

whichthey'llsoonteardown.I

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usedtothinktheyhadtheArmory

Showthere. Aglassofpapayajuice

andbacktowork.Myheartisinmypocket,itisPoemsbyPierreReverdy.