I must admit that this has always been a favorite poem. To a woman who is tired of being passive and nurturing, and to a poet who is tired of being sensitive, and finally to someone who is just plain tired, living in our relentlessly competitive and upbeat times, it offers relief. O'Hara is also a great one for mocking the heroic notion that artists feel more deeply than your average individual and suffer more because of it. Neither is hate. That's why refusing to take such notions seriously is still a radical step.
Art stays art by maintaining strict borders between itself and the rest of life.
Like Duchamp who came before him, and Andy Warhol who came after him, Frank O'Hara, whether intentionally or not, is one of the figures who questioned and minimized borders. In the sacred temple of fifties art, O'Hara's work was like a window that let in, not only fresh air, but also dirt. Maybe if the battle between high and low culture had ended back then, Frank's poems might be merely interesting or just terribly entertaining to us today. They would have served their purpose. Art is not so easily democratized.