Mausoleum

Dark Stairwell With Sunlight

Palm Sunday

Home In The Valley

Sunrise on Sunset Blvd.

Daffodil In A Milk Bottle

A Week In West Adams

A.M.E. Zion (West Adams)

The Cork on West Adams

Carniceria (West Adams)

Dining Room (West Adams)

Ward A.M.E. Church (West Adams)

Taco Truck In West Adams

[click on photos to enlarge]

Night In West Adams

Chinatown

Last Days

Wood And Sunlight

Glistening Torso

"Wren"

Late night clarification: This is a guy and he's smiling because he was just given a half dozen cigarettes.

MacArthur Park
January 2, 2009

February

February
James Schuyler

A chimney, breathing a little smoke.
The sun, I can't see
making a bit of pink
I can't quite see in the blue.
The pink of five tulips
at five p.m. on the day before March first.
The green of the tulip stems and leaves
like something I can't remember,
finding a jack-in-the-pulpit
a long time ago and far away.
Why it was December then
and the sun was on the sea
by the temples we'd gone to see.
One green wave moved in the violet sea
like the UN Building on big evenings,
green and wet
while the sky turns violet.
A few almond trees
had a few flowers, like a few snowflakes
out of the blue looking pink in the light.
A gray hush
in which the boxy trucks roll up Second Avenue
into the sky. They're just
going over the hill.
The green leaves of the tulips on my desk
like grass light on flesh,
and a green-copper steeple
and streaks of cloud beginning to glow.
I can't get over
how it all works in together
like a woman who just came to her window
and stands there filling it
jogging her baby in her arms.
She's so far off. Is it the light
that makes the baby pink?
I can see the little fists
and the rocking-horse motion of her breasts.
It's getting grayer and gold and chilly.
Two dog-size lions face each other
at the corners of a roof.
It's the yellow dust inside the tulips.
It's the shape of a tulip.
It's the water in the drinking glass the tulips are in.
It's a day like any other.