A Monday sort of poem: Part of “Mayakovsky,” from Frank O’Hara’s Meditations in an Emergency, as quoted in Season 2 of Mad Men, which I am re-watching:

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

(The title is from part 2 of the poem but I’m quoting part 4; I found the whole thing online here. Frank O’Hara was a musician, too.)