I’ve Made It

I’ve made it, almost

to the point of turning back

Socks without holes.

Two friends and a headache.

Did I mention the mini van?

 

The cold came before I could get in the

habit of wearing longjohns. 

I suppose the last thing

I need is a crispy donut.

 

Hey friend, what the fat is the matter? 

I cannot guide you.  One of us is dead. 

molly and the nutty dozen: a work in progress

     So I admit I don’t know my audience. That is probably because I don’t have

one.  It is very hard to get to know something that you don’t have. 

     I assume that my audience will be humans but perhaps gorillas are a better choice.

I am still on the fence on this. 

     How hard could it be to learn sigh language?  I have hands. I already can sign the

letters of my name and mojo. 

      I need a couch.  I have lived in this spot for almost nine months and still don’t have a couch. The air mattress popped.  Blame my friends that come over with knives and hot dogs.  They are always messing up the place and won’t leave when I tell them it is a bad time and I must make roasted chicken.  Gravy is not something you can start and then forget.  I tried to watch the debate.  There were two men I have never met that kept repeating the same thing. The pale one looked a little sick and I wondered if he had eaten.  I  am sure he had.  He was very old and you know how old people like to eat on time.  It keeps them regular.  I think it is good to be a regular. 

      But my friends, the nutty dozen raised by sailors and farm hands kept making jokes about mayonnaises.  Their jokes are very complicated and full of stops and pretend gaffes.  I am not sure I got them or the debate.   I couldn’t focus.  The nutty dozen were spinning bottles on their heads and the two men were saying things about taxes and change. I am taxed but I don’t worry about change.  Even if I know some change is coming I too am never comfortable with it.  It takes me a long time to adjust and by the time I do, something unexpected happens. I have change in a jar. It is not worth worry.   Why don’t cashiers hand you the coins first and then the dollars.  I’m not the only person who doesn’t appreciate an awkward handoff. The nutty dozen look up to me as a leader.  They are never together unless with me and they take my ideas as law.  The night of the debate I told them to shut the window up and they were silent for a good twenty seconds while I am informed them who to vote for on November fourth. They were really glad I told them to vote for younger one.  They said they did not like the sounds that old people made when they ate and felt much better about someone who was not tortured.  They said that kind of thing could really put a damper on a party.

     The nutty dozen is actually a group of five but in my wisdom I said I’d call them the nutty dozen so that is clear we have room to grow. 

     They are an odd group. I make them even.  They are very different from one another but share the same sense of humor.  If I think something is funny so do they/  They like to tell jokes that go on too long and are full of subtle humor and as well mixed with debauchery.  They really appreciate quick wit and occasional off beat toot. My goal in the beginning was to teach them they could make themselves happy but this was not the case.  Then I tried to teach them that they had to be responsible for their own well-being. It is a slow process.  They are now studying self-control.  I hope that one day they can have a handful of chips and then stop or only one lover at a time but for the most part I hope they will read more.  They like to read but they don’t like to read alone.  Every time they come over they beg me to read to them.  They say they just like to hear me read and I have a nice voice and that my infliction reminds them of the sun and raisins. 

     They bring ale and pie and sometimes cheese.  They are nice that way.  They bring books too and ask me what I think of them.  And if it is okay for them to read them alone.  I tell them yes, it is okay. I want you to read alone. Read whatever you like but they want to please me so much.  They ask me about the books  each time and I tell them same thing. But I think they know I hate best sellers and they are scared I will tease them in front of the others about their book choice.  I just want them to read a wide variety of books and not get stuck reading just one kind. Like mystery I told them to fantasy and James Joyce and now they’ve been reading Shakespeare and remembering lines.  Sometimes they a have a hard time staying focused. I must manipulate them to do a good thing.

     How do my socks stay so white?  I’ve been thinking about getting a kitten.  I like cats.  But there is always the problem of kitty liter on the paws and then the little fur ball goes on the table and then you have cat shit on the table and I don’t know if I can commit to that. 

     The Nutty dozen was not my first name pick.  I first I coined the name, Molly’s Mojo/. Then a couple of months later I realized it was an innuendo and that was the only reason the Nutty Dozen liked it.  I saw Horace and Jennifer laughing and signing, “Mojo Mojo.”  Then I realized my grave mistake and said I’ll take Marty’s idea, “The Tea Marty” and that made the Marty blush and say it wasn’t satisfactory and the Horace and Jennifer and Edward and Moesha had their own ideas.   But then I looked each one in the eye and sternly frowned at them.  They got the picture. I wasn’t having ana-chary in my celebratory party.  They zipped up.  Then I told them they all had room for improvement and this had been a test and since it was test to see if they were all there I said they would be called Nuts and Bolt.    

     This was a very important day for the group.  It seemed to me that they all understood the responsibility of such a group and they all wanted to do their best.  They had something to live for again.  It was recess.   They needed me.  That said, I picked each out of a long list of contenders.  I wanted the best, the brightest, and best looking.   That proved to be difficult but at last, my search is not over.    But you must be concerned over my rationale. Fear not, I have the best indentions.  I am not perfect but with hope, I am improved. 

     Marty my first pluck is a loser.  That is why he is in the group.   Every group needs a loser to inspire the others. That is what losers are for.  Marty is an old man to rest of the group. he is 37.  He is not feeble yet. He is spray and healthy.  His hair is grey and he wears feathers.  He likes to play the guitar a lot.  He has named his guitar Honey Bear.  He reads poetry and rides a bike.  He teaches history, I think.  He does something. He is a zookeeper.   He brings good ale and honey.   He is a nice guy but he is a loser.   He wanted to join a band.   It never worked. 

     He sings like a lovebird or some hit because it is awesome. He is pretty, so I said, “Sports coat, would you like to join my celebratory party? Marty said “Yes.”  He is a very eager guy.  

One Excuse or Another

Old teddy used to laugh.

 

Now he is faking it. 

I know this.  I can tell.

I’ve faked it before

with a jar of peanut butter. 

 

I annoy everyone.  

I am weird o.    

That is why I decided not

to talk friendly with you

Warm up

Here I am again with a stomachache.

Its starting to warm up. My coffee

is far away. It is in a different galaxy

 

I used to have shirts. I don’t know

what happened to them.

 

I talk about the same bus all the time.

Most people care about money  

I wish I could care about money. 

Why can’t I be caring?    

 

 

What are you doing with that

muffin? 

I’m an one woman mayhem

I riot in the streets alone.

Yell and wave hands-

scream war-war or peace-peace

or stop the evil please

 

Stupid is not political. Stupid

comes from not enough

blue tuna in your diet.

Play on me

 

Put some cold butter on me.

Give me a wool blanket or an angry song. 

Tell me what you do

when no one is around.

Wipe your buggers

on my jewelry box

Pick a fight with me.

Beg me to massage you.  

Hold my foot down.

Sweat on my face. 

Complain about your

fat and make me eat

four baked potatoes.

Stretch out my new moon boots

Bathe me in earwax. Make me

chop your wood and haul your bath water.

Play video games and make me just watch

Read your favorite comic book to me. 

Tell me about the dream

you had when you where sixteen. 

Get me drunk and grab my boobs.

 

The silence is cutting away my best parts.

It is cutting up my feet. 

I cannot pace anymore.

I am tired of the craft closet. 

Dump glue in my underpants

Come find me and pull me out by my hair.

 

I am lonely.

I  want to call out to someone.

 It is awkward.

 I want to hear someone else’s

thoughts for change.  

 

 

Tell me your life story or explain

 your hangnails please

 

Ripe

 

 

I argued on a park bench in the autumn

air with a seventeen foot banana that

was dabbed  in menstrual aftermath, 

glazed with the sweat of 13 mules and

accented with 32 rotten teeth. 

 

 Made out of  swamp mud,

history books and terracotta cloth

the great banana rested

on a upward spiral of braided

horse tails and hooves.

At the ends of the thick braids

stars and stripes ribbons suspend

hearts made from ginger roots.  

 

“Come on and take the challenge”

the banana said,

“Breathe deeply and meditate in

my shadow and presence.” 

 

 

“No” I said. 

I Saw A Penis That Had A Tattoo

 

 

I saw a penis that had a tattoo of a blue

pig with packwoman on its belly and the penis

wanted me to look very close to see the universe

inside the packwoman and I kept pulling away,

saying no, this is boring. 

Lets play cards, I said,

there is nothing special about the universe.

 

Then twenty kittens came by and tackled

me, and licked my fingers and I giggled and felt

so warm until the man who lives downstairs

came and said the building was on fire. 

 

Later in the day I sang on stage and the crowd loved it.

They shouted and screamed. I really let myself get into it.

I did the splits and jumped up in the air and everything.

About twenty minutes later I realized I was in the line

to the bathroom and the people were facing a different

direction and cheering for some man who played

funny songs on the piano and did magic

tricks with women who are not obese. 

So I went piss and walked around the city

until I felt it was ok to go home.

 

It was four in the morning and birds sang so loud

I wondered how anyone could sleep and sat

there cold and smoked five cigarettes.

On the last one I realized I was smoking

caterpillars and not tobacco. 

I was kind of mad because I was pretty

sure it was the penis who put them in there and stole my cancer. 

someone read em

I like my blog.  I put poems up full of typos

 and once and while

someone reads them, and says so.   

 

I wouldn’t mind if more people read ‘em.

That would be sticky rice.  They could tell me

 my poems suck and what  they reminded them of. 

  I think it would be nice if I could

remind people of things

that they have forgotten

that they really want to remember

like the  keys are under the beach towel 

or you were a cute kid, kid or

fuck your dad, he should’ve been there

or a pillow ass is better than a dead ass

I have to remind myself with frantic cup stacking.

That’s work. Lots of time, I  watch c-span instead.

My Sleeve

Lie or not, hope or none. I am

a body baked and caved in

from a wish to suck your heart

onto my tongue.  Each night you

haunt and force me to live 

as lead foil on swiss cheese.

How shall I go on with your mixed

milk snot on my sleeve? 

Eat Canned, Grey Balls

 

I really must know what your deal is because

I cannot fathom why you do evil and laugh and lie

about it as if I were too dumb to get your hypocrisy.

Dude, its obvious.   You’re dying for it. 

 

Good luck jumpin cheese curd,

 justice is coy and snaggletoothed . 

 

I’m not the hardcore vag I pretend

to be in my poems.   I’m really quite worst. 

Eat canned spinach dick face.  

flowers don’t forgive

I think you are dumb and need

a hug stranger.  If  I could be

as pretty as Jesus I would but  I can’t.

You suffer no matter how many times

I heal you.  There is no justice

on the sea.  My dead friend proved

that with heron.  Poppy flowers

are tasteless; empty and non forgiving.

But they helped my friend

forget homemade perversion.

 

 but you, you are alive with me,

still to figure out why. 

there is an answer but I am positive

you don’t want it. have a pressed flower instead. 

 

spilling drinks or tears is meaningless                      young poet. 

no one gives a damn. everyone is  a vent.

remember that and lyric what you want.

 

some children grow up. 

Others marry or go

to war.  all are better off. Still bodies are broken

easily enough  from a whopping cough. 

 

I’ve read 

its better to die

in the woods alone.

 

if heaven exists

 I’ll meet you at the gate, and wave

when I ride above it. if not, who cares,

the barn swallow doesn’t. he rides

the currents and makes a nest in the eve

of the condo. he doesn’t care the honey

fights extinction with me. maybe

I should have a hamburger and a pale ale. 

I am not a coconut, thank god. 

 

 

 

My best friend is dead, I am sure of that. 

what I wonder though is if there is a way to

make it matter.  the conversation is always the same.

 everyone is inside you.  All beat your body

 around and kick it for luck. come here magic stone.

I have a nice box I will put you in and no

one will skip you again.  My voice can become one

with crystals. if I learn the right tone, I’ll croon you to justice.   

oak trees in vases

I am all animal. There is nothing
enlightened or high about me.
the oak trees are dead.
there are no more wildflowers on the prairie.
there are no more walking eaters. what will
take our place? I think it would be nice
if we became horses. that would be fine.
horses with hands. how about that.
that would help. we could gallop and crap
the flower seeds back, and the honey
bees would live in the hive and we could still play cards

There is too much anger or love in me.
Its bad news panda. I wish all the converts
would go back to Hinduism, even if it is
just another warm blanket. I never had
a problem with warm blankets.
it’s the ones that kill that prick my skin.
see how science affects me, the wash bin.
I am a red dust bowl. once a dog bit my cute part.
Now when I see a dog I want to kick its face in,
even the little dogs.

I was stung by a bee but it died for it.
I’ve yet to kill on purpose (luck be a chicken tonight).
honey is better than a dry nose or an empty jar.
I wonder if I am ham or corn flour.
I used to be a lady’s boot.
I am sure I met you then.
you have a sidestep I’d never forget.

flowers are better in vases.
that way they are dead, but don’t know it.
I’ve never been able to tell the difference
between a knife and a mill. Sawdust and blood
are united in my make out heaven

The Old Man From The Corner Condo

 

 

 

The old man from the corner condo

doesn’t notice he’s started a wave. 

He picks his nose, as he rolls his gums

like a donkey.  I would like to ride him

to the top of a mountain.

We could both use exercise. 

The old man has a secret. 

I will beat it out of him, if

he is not a primitive earthquake.

 

 

My Husband is Scared

 

 

My husband is scared

I will eat him whole and shit

out a little square of his bones.

I may, if I can regain the wisdom.

I’ve done it before to a cat. 

 

What more does he want out of a poem?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was a telemarketer for two weeks.

I was a telemarketer for two weeks. 

There are three reasons’ why I don’t telemarket still.

First, a large woman who had a stinking problem

got a job there, and her desk was two in front of mine

 

Second, I’d rather write poems and paint with daughter

(My husband said it was ok to quit).

 

Thirdly, my favorite part of the job

was when a mad person would

cuss me out.  That was Holy.

The reason why I called, and repeatedly

tried to sell the junk. 

It was incredible to learn not all

Amerike’s are stupid. 

 

Most are good, kind, even patient

in the ear of a stranger

who is eroding humanity, purposely

paid to deride the mind.

But some, some will tell you to fuck off.

I relished when I woke people up. 

Their voices were small

with the morning. I had never called

strangers.  Or heard so many melodious

hellos, early morning grogs.

O the delicate peace

they answered with. 

I robbed their inner world

without their knowledge. 

I echoed sounds that only

family and lovers had mirrored.

The citizens only knew I

was enough of a dredge, I wrecked sleeps.

So I quit.  I never really wanted to be a cat. 

Raw Yellow Chicken Scabs

Raw Yellow Chicken Scabs

                                                                        

I ate a piece of raw chicken on

accident. I didn’t see all those yellow

 

scabs. The last time I took a piss

was a couple of minutes ago.

 

May I have the blue sweater you’re sitting

on?  It smellslike two kinds of farts in here. I need to walk

 

more. The inner parts of my thighs shift when

my backside twitches. I hate this diner

 

we always go to. The coffee taste like

stale almonds. I noticed a pile of

 

guts on the sidewalk on my way back from

the doctor. It looked like noodles and oatmeal

 

with French salad dressing. I would have stepped

in it if hadn’t been for the seagull

 

staring at me. He kept saying he was

lonely and it caused me to look down.

              

 

 

2006