Friday, October 9, 2009


I want to be free, and dumb
In a flapping vintage old dress that doesn't reach my knees,
And tights. Black, or blue maybe tights that you wore
Under the purple dress I lent you. You
Said you would not be taken for a girl.

Let's go to St. Armand's.
On a pier we will lick ice creams,
Pale twig legs radiating sunlight, and toes
Curled above the blue-green surface.
Let's go back and forth all day on the ferry.


Love Song of A. Simone Rose

Once our little dance has ended,
Young romance begun to gray,
And the visions that I harbored
Show their frailty and give way-

There will still be your lips.
There will still be that loose curl of hair that, even now, you are brushing back into place.
There will still be your eyes. Dark like a wooden bracelet,
Like the edge of the sea where seeing stops.
There is nothing more, here.
There is nothing left for me to take.


Nothing happens. No one says anything.

Three beds are in the room and one orange
tiger rug is in the room and a healthy
pink orchid is in the room and you sat
in the room and yr long dangling legs were
in the room and I was perched on my
bed across from you in the room and I
thought about running my tongue up yr
leg in the room and then you'd stop
talking about yr fucking ex-boyfriend
in the room and you'd stop getting
drunk and singing badly off yr balcony
and I'd figured out what the hell it is
I'm doing in the room but we just look
at each other in the room and the walls
are white in the room and the floor
is dirty in the room and my broken
lamp is in the room.

No one happens. Nothing says anything.