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Pardon me Frank O’Hara
to bring up these lines to you;
I do not want to bother you
with this anymore,
but I’m trying very hard
to understand.

Why? Today
the wooden bookshelf
hanging on the wall,
isn’t only a messy
palette that also serves its
purpose to prop up
life in the form of air plants,
ivy, dried carnations, and
most surprisingly
the plant called “Wandering Jew”.

The palette that I once used
is source of inspiration
—the palette garden
of a painter.
The palette of my laments
appears as an accident
“art technique”,
but neither poetry,
nor abstract expressionism
were ever my intent.



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