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Nos petites étoiles

 Nos petites étoiles

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry 

“To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world....” 

“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.”

“You’re beautiful, but you’re empty...One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I’ve watered. Since she’s the one I put under glass, since she’s the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she’s my rose.”



This year       I need you more than you need me
Cut for bloggers, smashed upon your sisters in buckets, my orphans
I wave my cash at the flower farmers and adopt you, bulbous babes
Displaced delicacies, you are my children, my saviors, my paramours, the treasures to which I awake each morning as I anticipate your nascent opening
Your naked thrush-poms, sweet scent of love-nectar and the sublime momentary burst of blossom
I cannot make you close enough
I eat and smother you and yet I cannot make you too near

I long to thrust you into that space in my heart where lovers once ravaged
To sow you into that hole
That I might learn to know my love as holy
my own


à la folie

If there was a god
Who could make a world in seven
How many thousands of days have
I sat not creating fire? No, I mean
A woman is not a rope-bridge

Backstage LA Fashion Week

I grew up on the stage. A ballet dancer, waited in the wings, resin on pointe shoes. Fashion was just for fun. Compared to other jobs I've held, models aren't treated particularly well. The runway is a designer's territory and you are a beautiful closet. How many ways can you bring beauty to life? For how long? To what end? 

I am always asking for more. For us, the runway days will always be about the friendships we made.

Photography by Drew A. Kelley for the Orange County Register 
featuring Taylor Roberts, Natascha Lankisch, and Ellesse Jordan Tzinberg.

Peace Love

Peace Love

by Taylor Roberts

Dare I miss the days without the fog 
When all we sought was that purest note of wonder,
The jasmine gasp. Fallen Wasp,
I wandered where the groves once were.
I wandered, wanting nothing more.


Students sit in protest at Woolworth's in Jackson, MS. Photo by Fred Blackwell.


by Sonia Sanchez

my bones hang to-
gether like pinched dragonflies
shake loose my skin

[copyright Sonia Sanchez, 1999]

How to Get There

alfred eisenstaedt

How to Get There

by Frank O’Hara

White the October air, no snow, easy to breathe
beneath the sky, lies, lies everywhere writhing and
clutching and tangling, it is not easy to breathe
lies building their tendrils into dim figures
who disappear down corridors in west-side apartments
into childhood’s proof of being wanted, not
abandoned, kidnapped
betrayal staving off loneliness, I see the fog lunge in
and hide it
where are you?
here I am on the sidewalk
under the moonlike lamplight thinking how
precious moss is
so unique and greenly crushable if you can find it
on the north side of the tree where the fog binds you
and then, tearing apart into soft white lies,
spreads its disease
through the primal night of an everlasting winter
which nevertheless has heat in tubes, west-side and
and its intricate individual pathways of white
by the ringing of telephone bells beside which
someone sits in
silence denying their own number, never given out!
like the sound of troika bells rushing past suffering
in the first storm, it is snowing now,
it is already too late
the snow will go away, but nobody will be there

police cordons for lying political dignitaries ringing too
the world becomes a jangle
from the index finger
to the vast empty houses filled with people,
their echoes

of lies and the tendrils of fog trailing softly around
their throats
now the phone can be answered, nobody calling,
only an echo
all can confess to be home and waiting, all is the same
and we drift into the clear sky enthralled
by our disappointment
never to be alone again
never to be loved
sailing through space: didn’t I have you once for my
West Side?
for a couple of hours, but I am not that person

[copyright Frank O’Hara, 1960]
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