Poems? — Simo

Simo

Newsletter

Simone Klein, often known as Simo, was born in Providence, RI, and lives in Brooklyn, NY. Simo makes sculptures and performances, primarily as a poet. They are interested in mechanisms, improvisation, and bodywork -- often all merging in contexts of ritual and spiritual embodiment.

At Brown, Simo majored in Modern Culture & Media while exploring interests in economics, public health, and physics on the side.

The rest of this bio is coming soon.

CV

Main Index Poems in Progress

BACK

in the midst of dancer

working for a leveled crack, of land, catching froth, from, posture up, right

the sound score, is slit, by its waist, crouched beside our foggie, star

a score, is what i found beneath, you. fond and honest, you,

are four and a half. the hospital, always happens, to you

is a, gig and, perfect, and, natural,

therefore i, understand, well

come what, may, come let down into, good me

every speed beneath, you, hello audience,

try, experimental, i would never think i do,

my most writing in a trance i did, about everything else

Wheel

stimulated by drought, die back, help kill,

south fork, american

river, look up, too far,

I can tell you the name

yeah, we were dancing

fools, we were dancing

to look like a, place like

a dubious, older boss, how

much do you, swim?

Well, 4 times better

if it’s on, paper,

to usher the snake across

the road, you want to, hurry it,

rubber bat in the trunk, play that

rock formation, teeny bopper, they listened,

questionnaires, burned out, up in the foothills,

shymaking blimp, keep talking to

me like that and you’ll change my orien

tation, the corn is as, what in the world

high as an elephant’s eye, birding at

50mph you have to be, careful, let's

produce a million ducks, instead

of a few bales of hay, yes i,

watch out, for something, beautiful

remember you, when you seemed happy

International Institute of Metro Detroit,

fresh water

is fragile

like media or

touching honey

without meaning to

you suck the glue

off and there comes

an inner breeze,

a home you

once gave into

the plowing cats

and the

long version,

a community center

in wartime,

diaspora on

your shoulders,

the dance move,

no,

not a dance move,

always on your

knees,

flags hanging

like cloth,

uneven

colors, all

the same size

no one i see

is even

looking up

Mother Gave

birth to me

on an august spine,

heavy with rain, land, and

i suckled the wet and dry

i am living

in the midwest

and there are flashes of

blue light coming from

my feet as i cluck towards

a twenty third widening

that time

i lived

in a baby

and a woman was

dousing me

with sense

and then

tidying what

came out

i slowly

learned

to sleep and

name and move

to years and

other small births

since the 4 glaciations where everything

became fertile because everything used to be water

the flys love to

bounce in my studio

Yes i take risks

farm low and take a high voice

back to where your ancestors were shuffling

by nose following a huge lake

as it melts it

turns to water

this is prairie, who

knew my pain could live

like this,

sleep well, dream well,

seven year fire cycle, the same as

cells and shmita, a long spoon

watering beneath the soil

being held by a dancer is

what i’m used to, thank god

im doing the task

while reciting the poem

while swimming by

graves while pasting paper

to bark to bookbound

i once was a tree who told me

there is no opposite to destruction

can you feel that? how we

are safe? and able

to handle, i mean, feel, it all?

that’s the sap dripping

from the log

as it burns!

For T

out the sun lobe’s window gut

i have quietly opened the case of you

and your hidden suffer dirt

i am beside you on the

inside i am wringing out the stove

wires through dance arts that were

afloat upon my stack of desk wet

a woman who comes up

all country and with reason

she says, come here, child,

i say, i know something about

you even,

mauling soup and booing trees,

you deep even,

she says, come here, child,

child, child, child,

less umphs, back body, back

Tools in Need of Repair

Process making its best do, suckling on bare sugars –

ritual crackers, weeds, examined skin.

Re-sickening my circles, my work cups and bowls,

the old language

finding another stage

after sediment, after dust.

Closure

When politicians say “it’s time to heal”, they usually mean it’s time for the people to settle down. I’m at a grabby point in my life, a second infancy, everything has become moral, all at once. I’m looking to have a specific type of play. I’m looking to heal harder, looking to rest only if it perpetuates work, looking to ultimately commit a larger ritual, looking to be stricter around belonging, looking to be an equal opponent, speak endlessly about energy, and make things that do disenchantment better.

thank you

teachers, time, thank you, change