Roses are red. Yeah, some of them are.
But I’ve walked past bodegas where flower
cutters have colored the water to change their color. Sometimes it’s a
spritz. I’ve also seen horticultural patents, well, plant patents is
what they’re called, where people HAVE actually made different colors
of roses. Named them too. Blue Charm. Pink Sabotage. Yellow Ribbon.
Red Suckers. Violets are sometimes blue.
There once was an old man from Nantucket? Mass.? Is this a fucking
joke? Mass? There is. Nothing. There. No, he wasn’t really from
Nantucket. He was just visiting.
Violet was actually the person from Nantucket, now that we are on the
subject. That old man’s friend. He’d known her for quite some time.
They worked on developing patents for new types of plants. They never
got one. The patent office hated them for unknown reasons to Violet,
the old man, and their lawyer who submitted the patents to the patent
office; but the man, the one man at the patent office who held the
fate of these patents in his hands over the years did not hate them.
He simply lost them. Rather his assistant lost them. In the ceiling of
the patent officer’s office. So there were two people who held the
fate of the blue roses. Well, maybe, still just one. The assistant.
The assistant was murdered in cold blood on a vacation to Nantucket
with his family. Microfilm is the only way to read the crime report,
unless you have a friend in Nantucket to tell you about it because
they were there. Everyone who was anyone was there.
The assistance was not necessary.
Violet’s only necessities in Nantucket were matches and a storm
lantern for the occasional winter storms or clipper storms or for
fucking when she thought it was sexy to do so “by the lantern” as she
had no fireplace and that was as sexy as it was really gonna get. This
is not a fucking joke. Unfortunately. Not a limerick. Nothing of the
sort. She just wasn’t quite attractive. She was a bit mannish,
honestly. And it pains me to say that in a way. Because she wanted to
be a debutantish lady SO BAD it hurt. There were a few (debutants) in
Nantucket and they were all her friends and they all lied to her about
her looks when she went to their parties and they all told her how
lovely she looked when they all felt that she looked mannish. They
felt that her roses, however, were quite ladylike and beautiful. She
got tired of people teasing her about her name, Violet, when all she
was really interested in was roses, but these debutants didn’t. She
thought they were her friends. She thought one or two of them were a
bit tomboy-like and couldn’t understand why they were so prissy. She
thought this one blonde, or maybe the one blonde and another blonde in
the group of the ladies were lesbians. Lanterns? Violet had lanterns.
And a visitor.
Would lanterns by any other name still be lanterns? No. They would
take on the characteristics imbued upon them by that name, as names
are powerful. And they would be called by that other word someone
decided to use, forever and ever, if they so chose. So Shakespeare’s
roses’ lines? Not roses. Hyperbolic tired language. I’ve heard the
speech/poem/sonnet within a play or whatever a million times. Tired.
Where does the smoke come from in those closed lanterns the priests
swing back and forth?
Ubi fumus a in illis clausis laternis sacerdotes fabrefacta retro et
Remember when you had to actually learn a language? Rosae. Rosas.