In thinking about Frank O’Hara Why would he push me so, telling me to scribble as if at gun-point, or at knife-edge, or at razor’s blade?

Because such hurry and concern about Coca-cola bottles and where to go shallows the unfathomable.

Reducing visions of afric zerba races to metro tokens.

Now, now, no, no please don’t get me wrong: I too know what the token tokens and what a Coke bottle can bottle up, but please, don’t push me so

This world would already so hurry me along, like Time the Usher, tyrannically insisting I take my seat.

What is this intimate yell, as if experience were the only natural thing and Metaphysics just after the natural thing, not conceding a possible thing of things or the Thing of things or perhaps the natural thing in itself or before it, like a prefix to its sensuousness.

But he could not be troubled with such a thing: the thing, the thing of things that troubles me.