Occupy Wall Street Buttons

I would have really benefitted from a writers room. I kept writing my buttons then reading them aloud and looking around my kitchen table for repsonses.

Of course I was alone.
I was attempting to find some sort of smarmy “Thanks, 1%” kind of attitude-not sure if that transfers. Continue reading Occupy Wall Street Buttons

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I become the inside of my palm

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I become the inside of my palm when we dance,
It’s warmer there.
I can jump back around and look through the eyes,
Keeping distance and time,
I can be normal.
“Your name,” I’ll ask.
“Rose,” you’ll say,
How long?” I’ll ask.
“Four months, today!”
But the conversation dwelling while my concentration drowning on,
1,2,3, fade.
1,2,3, fade.
Imagine meeting you at a Tango Parade.
But all I am is salsa, Continue reading I become the inside of my palm