Selection From O'Hara's "Ode to Michael Goldberg ('s Birth and Other Births)

A couple of specifically anguished days
make me now distrust sorrow, simple sorrow
especially, like sorrow over death

it makes you wonder who you are to be sorrowful
over death, death belonging to another
and suddenly inhabited by you without permission

you move in impulsively and took it up
declaring your Squatters' Rights in howls
or screaming with rage, like a parvenu in a Chinese laundry

disbelieving your own feelings is the worst
and you suspect that you are jealous of this death

YIPPEE! I'm glad I'm alive
"I'm glad you're alive
too, baby, because I want to fuck you"
you are pink
and despicable in the warm breeze drifting in the window
and the rent
is due, in honor of which you have borrowed $34.96 from Joe
and it's all over but the smoldering hatred of pleasure
a gorgeous purple like somebody's favorite tie
"Shit, that means you're getting kind of ascetic, doesn't it?"