2 March 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 1

The Killing of Frank O'Hara

by CHARLES JENSEN

                                             after the painting by Alfred Leslie

In other countries, he's a martyr

drawn heavy over the shoulders of sobbing women

on a long silver plate. The rebel forces

fire a twenty-one line salute

from the black barrel of a typewriter,

snapping keys like vertebra.

In a nearby alley, one man touches

another man's cheek with fingerbacks.

They kiss. It's like one tongue.

                              * * *

In my dream I was just as dead,

drawn out over a crisp sheet, still sharp

with the pointed smell of bleach.

For three days I lay like Frank O'Hara

in a closed casket. The voices outside

mimicked my voice. My nose itched.

In a way I was taking my time. How many dreams

do you have where you are perfect? Even

his cold body, perfect. Perfect and still.

                              * * *

Before da Vinci died, he said to Frank,

I'm tired of blowing smoke up everyone's ass.

Frank nodded. He suspected as much.

Frank kept telling the story at cocktail parties

except instead of da Vinci, he said it was Lana

Turner. It seemed more believable, more true.

When Frank dreamed he was Lana Turner,

he woke the next day, straightened his hair in a mirror,

flicked his cigarette and said, Damn. That's my kind of smoke.

                              * * *

As Frank lay dying in the Fire Island street

where he'd been run down, he remembered the smells

of several lost lovers. It was a personal moment,

the pause one takes at a stoplight on lunchbreak,

hearing the white music of syllables joining

up. On the streetcorner, cars come and go,

everyone inside has somewhere to be, talks

sharply to the cab driver to slow down. Speed

was never the problem, he replied.