This is my studio for exploring my work. Consider these drafts.

My Back Pages

Girls’ faces formed the forward path
— From "My Back Pages" by Bob Dylan

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.

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by Balthazar Simões

You were a roommate I barely saw

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

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by Balthazar Simões

My favorite place

Let's step into the kitchen, the sources of all pleasures.

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by Balthazar Simões

Surprise someone today

Like this. 

Or this.

Maybe this.

Just some ideas.

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by Balthazar Simões

Bedroom thighs

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by Balthazar Simões

The sensation of lace

I teased you before, but now it's time to take a closer look. 

Seeing is a feeling. It's personal.

Can I tell you a secret? She's displaying here my favorite spot on a woman's body. It has no name.

With words we seek the rhythms, the timeliness of a sound.

With sight we seek a sensation and want to be overcome.

Until we feel as if we are falling, falling through a sea of feelings.

That's how I see, anyway. Maybe you do, too.

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by Balthazar Simões

I'm just going to put her here quietly.

Quietly. And see if you notice.

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by Balthazar Simões

She has a body that makes me need an alibi

With the luscious Varla Velour.

P.S. Want to make it a sexy year? Let me help.

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by Balthazar Simões

She can conjure him

She drank his whiskey (Templeton Rye), visited his grave in Chicago, and told me about his sense of justice. Al Capone, of course. 

I have a hard time believing that they wouldn't have been lovers, had their lives coincided. And I know without a doubt that he would have been as helpless as a little boy before her curves. As we all are.

But it didn't matter that they were separated by time. She can conjure him, embody him.

And she put him on. Or he put her on, I'm not sure.

There's a certain comfort in his rough-but-not-ragtag justice. It's in her, too.

by Balthazar Simões

Since that first time

I hadn't been back to her place since the first time we met, now some four years ago. I've never felt far, though. She's the kind of person that holds you in her orbit and you trust that the magic of Newtonian physics will bring you back together at the right time.

So I wrote her a letter and she read it and it was as if not a moment had passed.

by Balthazar Simões