Live from the Piedmont Rose Garden Part II

My life is so chaotic right now that I welcome the cliché of fully bloomed roses. I take in each one as I sit on the steps of a brick waterfall. The shadows of a small exotic tree intersect with mine own and I’m ok with that as well. My muse is the same muse of many thousand other writers and that’s alright too. My mind lifted a few moments ago. It was racing down the runway at a very high-speed and then it got off the ground. It isn’t flying yet but for a very quick moment it was in the air.


Fall is upon us and the roses are still quite lovely. Even the dying roses possess a striking regality. People still smell them, the honeybees patronize them, and they provide the perfect contrast for their resilient freshly bloomed relatives. While here amongst the roses in Piedmont, a town that a person as dark as myself is welcome to visit but is strongly discouraged from buying property in, I almost forgot about what brought me here in the first place.


In the ghetto from whence I come from people tend to die several years before their actual death and not a living thing around them actually cares. No one values the life of the man himself, no one stops to admire the drug-addicted woman who has stolen from her mother to get high. In the ghetto a person enjoys no serenity in the presence of the dead. So I have temporarily escaped my circumstance to be amongst these flowers—these petaled things that I only find to be pretty because a dozen poets told me they were.  I have come to these stairs to sit down because I have grown weary of standing and fighting. The romantics created an image that I believe is real. Even when I can’t see it I still believe it. I believe that flowers are more perfect than people could ever be and then I ponder whether or not William Wordsworth would shake my hand. Would Mary Shelley give me a hug, would Blake? Do they know that I’m here? Do they care?



Lines From the Piedmont Rose Garden


I sit down at the Piedmont Rose Garden but the roses do not grow; they do not blossom, they do not bloom. My inspiration hath been circumcised, butchered for its own good. It is early February and very few things can grow in the cold. The grass grows more slowly and the soil clings to itself.

Behold for I am lost-

My heart groweth cold but at least it still grows. It bends toward a sun that hasn’t been seen in years. The water in the lake is cold but not frozen. My thoughts create steam. The steam dissipates, and then I have nothing. I have nostalgia like so many baseball cards hidden underneath my bed at night. If it can’t be seen then it can’t be stolen.

The roots of the tree before me plunge downward even further than my soul does. I see cowards in the darkness. I see the weak and I distance myself from them hoping that this will make me strong. My distance disallows me to follow people so it can’t be entirely bad.

I see the ugliest things in the world wrapped in the most beautiful skin imaginable. I touched her lips before I kissed her. I sinned with her long before we lay down. I got up first. With sweat beading on the tip of my nose and soaking my brow I opened the window and allowed the winter chill soothe my flesh.