I am not a poet, I am a painter.
Why? I think I would rather be
a poet, but I am not. Well,
my walls are made of colors. Red,
blue, green, orange—every wall a
different color. Even the ceilings.
I live in a Dr. Seuss house, but I
have no words. I wish I
had words to say what the colors
can’t when the house goes dark.
But my friend, Frank O’Hara,
a real poet, his walls are made
of books, long, short, sad. He doesn’t
read them. He stares at their covers,
red, blue, green, and paints
what he imagines they are about. Then he
writes. I send him paints, blue, yellow,
green, red, and he sends me books, long, hard,
short, sad. I do not look at their covers. I read the
whole book. Then I paint a wall or a ceiling
that I’ve probably painted before. And in the
morning, I finally take a look to see
if the cover and the wall match.
**inspired by “Why I Am Not a Painter” by Frank O’Hara**
Michael Antoinetti is a graduate of Connecticut College, a beard enthusiast and a beer aficionado.