This is my studio for exploring my work. Consider these drafts.
I came calling with a Fats Waller LP under my arm and a fistful of flame lilies behind my back. A shower cloud came and went between the time I heard your voice sing out 'round back and the tumblers in the lock fell down. You took my soggy cap and accepted a kiss on the cheek. I knocked around your bar and fixed us up some poor man's Sazeracs (Canadian Club and Pernod will do just nicely, if you've got enough ice) while you floated about the length of your shotgun shack looking for a vase. Your red-taloned fingers considered all manner of sparkly juice glasses and yesterday’s champagne bottles until I lost sight and smell of you. Then you returned, dropped the album on the hi-fi and took a seat beside me. We sipped slowly, silently in the parlor, letting the swamp air hang between us. I searched your face, but your eyes absorbed all gesture and suggestion. Haunted, guarded, or maybe just high.
When I'm taking sips from your tasty lips,
Seems the honey fairly drips
Another rain cloud passed, and I thought to take my leave. You arose suddenly and clasped my hand.
"Be a gentleman," you whispered, "and help me draw a bath."
- Text by S.M. Simões
With my dear friend, the lovely Lucy.
Summer in Brooklyn is coal-oven hot and obscenity-washed and sun-weary and smelly and goddamn beautiful and heavy with watching, watching this carnival strut down the avenues, onto the stoop-sitting streets, into your home that's seen a hundred summers come and go (and more). Summer in Brooklyn expands you. And I daresay it's a better place to be than most (or all).
I've been sitting on lots of things; thinking. But sometimes you've got to let it out. It's time to share.
I think this is the only photo I have of myself from my days in the cloister. There's a lot more to say about it. About how I ended up in a monastery at the age of 19. About what this strange time in my life has anything to do with what I'm doing now. About how it's all reconciled.
But for now, I'll leave you here, friend. The day always begins in silence.
Maybe a Tuesday morning here
sipping coffee in your Jughead Jones hat
or a Sunday night there
reading case law on top of the dryer.
I sketched you in with whatever I could….
a crushed package of Drum lying atop leopard print gloves
the neat row of nail polish in the refrigerator door
the terse phone calls with a mother in Florida
the boyfriend in a Cars cover band who would disappear
behind your bedroom door after midnight
and watch soap operas after you left for work.
The sharp bite of your sardonic laugh
when I confessed to sleeping on the porch
one wrinkled night.
I squirreled each little clue
to your quiet luscious mystery
like a matchbook from a fancy restaurant.
-Text by SM Simões