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<BR><font size="6"><b>Jared Sinclair</b></font><BR><BR><BR><BR>
<b><font size="3">Jim and Tom, Sausalito 1977</font></b><BR><BR>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>on Mapplethorpe</i><BR><BR>
Do pictures of flowers remind you of home?<BR>
Polaroid self-portraits, Benjamin Green,<BR>
Andy Warhol, Patti Smith á la Dürer—<BR>
and <i>Portfolio X</i> on an NEA<BR>
to make you and your bullwhip <i>une cause célèbre,</i><BR>
the kind of nonsense everyone thinks they want.<BR>
And how strange in 1988, your HIV announced,<BR>
to watch your photographs sell:<BR>
a half-million each like you were already dead.<BR>
So by 1997, and pulled out of the University<BR>
library, I'm sure you had the routine.<BR>
Anyway, I doubt you would have cared what<BR>
some policeman in Birmingham had to say.<BR>
You could call that freedom, I suppose,<BR>
the way you worked, that <i>fuck you</i> attitude.<BR>
I'm getting there, myself. I can feel it happen,<BR>
sometimes, when my mother calls and asks<BR>
how I'm doing, or when I'm telling a story<BR>
and I almost change my date into “my friend”<BR>
because it's easier, or seems to be.<BR><BR>
If it is freedom, it's a kind like in<BR>
that Kris Kristofferson song, where you're<BR>
so broken down you have to start making<BR>
things to believe in. You believed in<BR>
flowers. I guess I do too, and in birds.<BR>

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