Quasi-accidentally found this reading from Frank O'Hara yesterday. It struck me in its avoidance of stereotype. O'Hara looks like he's been on the losing end of some bar brawls and talks in a Baltimore-via-New York squawk. He's not the common image of a poet. (Or a gay man, but that's another subject.) The lines don't scan the way poetry is "supposed" to, either. Yet they are poetic.