Roses
From the kitchen window, I catch sight of my neighbor's roses. How have I not noticed them before? Full sterling, pink, and white blooms explode into a gorgeous riot of color. How could I have not noticed them amidst the grinding noises of LAPD helicopters that hover daily over my neighborhood, the constant presence of loud hipsters getting drunk in the nearby galleries and bars, or the desiccated lawns and plants trying to hang on in the midst of the worst drought California has seen in over a century? How could such beauty exist in the middle of so much misery?
my heart
a closed bud
bursts into bloom
Dream Convo (6)
Fifteen year old me
surfaced last night,
awkward and early,
all elbows,
big boobs,
and coke bottle glasses.
This was the year
the writer within burst forth
in a shower of blood
and badly written poetry,
and as we discussed
our frustration with
our fickle muse
one thing became clear to me;
the yearning
it never went away
On Robert Mapplethorpe’s Lucinda’s Hand, 1985
This is not a hand; it’s a crane
borne aloft by the wind.
This is not a hand; it’s a cry for help
to be pulled from the maelstrom
of greed and sorrow.
This is not a hand; it’s the face
of a mountain with a shallow cave
small enough for one traveler to rest
at night and gaze at the stars.
This is not a hand; it’s a framework
of sinew and bone in partnership
with each to burst through
the confines of flesh.
This is not a hand; it’s a message,
as the lifeline emerges from the shadows
to reveal a prophecy no one
wants to acknowledge.
This is Lucinda’s hand; it lights the way
to a future fraught with promise.
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