About waiting

I'm waiting in the airport for you.

I went and ate oysters and listened to people read poetry behind a bar and I sat next to the train tracks in the gentle rain and almost said nothing.

I laid down on the chaise lounges in the departures area.

There's jazzy Christmas music playing still.

I feel really excited to see you but I feel empty.

The emptiness I feel is so unrelated to you.

All of the bathrooms have been closed for cleaning for 45 minutes.

I don't know if we will have enough quarters to pay for parking

I liked a lot of heard words today.

I liked the rain near the tracks.

I don't like driving in the rain.

I don't think I will talk to you for at least two more years, if ever.

I don't care if it's a few years or if it's never.

There are only cops here, and me.

I think sometimes we rehearse things and they evaporate when we're faced with the opportunity to go there.

 I guess
  Don't feel sorry for us anymore 

lately

elements of a day

downpour, palms asway, explosion on the wires. your grip on me.
laying in bed with the clouds
balcony
nevereat
benevolence
the perfect soup
mirepoix
driving in the rain
personal hell, snores in stereo, clock tick tocking, tick tick tocking, tick, tock
little roach
bigface, pockmarked
folding your sportcoat over the spine of the sofa
new cold wind
new baby asthma
fighting the funk
fortunate,
luck

give it a week

I'm actually wearing wool. I'm actually final, here. I am surrounded by the latenight drilling of the roads about. I was sad and awander, I fell into step. I felt time dally around. I make the most of it, child's bed. Make me. 

We picked up a hitchhiker, we were all going to New Orleans. Danny came back to the car and said, He's pretty dumb, but he's harmless. He introduced himself as Christopher, then interrupted himself to say in drunk drawl, But erryone calls me MISS'IPPI! Y'all mind if I DRINK? and I'm sprayed gently with beer. AW NO, this un's sprung a leak! So he chugs. He's made up a song he doesn't mind singing over and over. The chorus says, simply, and straightforwardly: Ga pocket fulla LINT. Pocket fulla LINT. Pocket fulla LINT. Danny says, Aw man, yeah I already heard this one. He puts his hand on my leg. I'm driving. Missippi ain't talking to me. He's not talking to anyone in particular. But I'm at an advantage because I've got the window down, and I'm smoking and drinking coffee. We're outside Mobile by now, Missippi HATES MOBILE, ALBAMA! MO-BILE ALBAMA CAN DIE, KNOW WHIME SAYIN?

Well, shore enough, he passed out for a spell. And we made it to New Orleans, Louisiana. Passed through & over Lake Ponchartrain and it began to rain a bit. We got rid of our traveler but he left in his wake a bottle of smartwater, empty save for the dip he'd been spitting. Bye bye.

I was worried three, four, five six weeks ago. Wondering, will I? I read aloud to him the poem I'd written, we were at the bar neither of us really likes but the one that's close, and always has an empty patio. At the picnic table. He was tired but I read it anyway. I was worried but I'm not worried anymore. I'm a weepless one, now.

oh it looks like something bad happened to you

summer just started, the days are getting shorter
I fell asleep by the river last night, by myself, on the lavender lisa frank leopardprint blanket
it was a storm all around
through my eyelids
lightning
and I counted the seconds between it & the thundercrashes
remembering the movie poltergeist
and the movie jurassic park
but I don't know about the science, there
it was maybe 95 degrees, all I talk about is the amount of degrees I know
I am a varying temperature
I am trying to let my hair grow around my face, around my body, root in the sand
I am always taking the beach home with me, too
it feels secret
it feels like stealing
all of the ancient piss to take
I was dreaming, a little when the phone rang my stomach
and I was with child
it came & it became naked & it dove into the cold dark water
and then it began to rain the fat
allover the trees we can identify like cottonwoods & maples
& those we can't
the fat drop drums
we had to go, we had to go
to the yard
to make a bed there
to brandnew naked babes, there

are you selfboring, you can identify
that
are you identified friendless by your boring
are you okay with all of that
where's your girlfriend?
you mean, beside you
Hi, girlfriend
get in me

it's waaaay tooo western sad here
the universe is flashing relationships at us
fisting at us
& saying, This is what you are, you know
This is what you will be should you be
& I am solemn faced in slight knows
  I'm out
  & about
I'm shaking off the splats,
shitting sand from my shorts
pulsing out your water
sweating out of all my numerous little holes
exfoliating to scratch me, myself
pushing the pullout
letting the bites scab burn dry wither welt pus
my style

88% humidity

surprise body! surprise
lately:
petrichor
wet everything
grease girl
favorite song
broodless
dancing till soaking
dancing with dumb rattail joey, sorry
hot joey sighting
dancing to hot sweat joey drumming
of course that hot joey was the drummer, smh
awkward date sighting, no thanks
hundreds of gallons of alcohol
pc upset
aggrofags
sorry, not
come to new orleans with us
puppybody
puppypuke, sorry
ida pizza, smh
all of the $$
happy birthday, I love you
no don't talk to me
other guy, wtf is your name again?
let's make out
no, nevermind
disdain girl
glad for rain
let's party till we die
summer mood
get that moon
get it

"it sort of seems like we fell in love"

  or,

"love is for lo$ers"

  

   I don't know

I mean idk how to put it?

                      now, how would you put it

you fell in love with your own image from across the street

you fell in love across a table, mussels

I fell in love with long bones

I fell in love with stringytough muscles

you fell in love with the sound of your own voice

you fell in love with the rain

I fell in love with attention

I fell in love with those grips on me

you fell in love with regret

you fell in love with the frozen future

I fell in love with possibility

I fell in love with bedding

you fell in love with disappear

you fell in love with surprise-I'm-sad

I fell in love with hazy hair

I fell in love with the mouth of the world

you fell in love with let-me-break-your-heart

you fell in love with the lovers

I fell in love with memories

I fell in love with booze

you fell in love with booze

you fell in love with what

I fell in love with pain

I fell in love with me, again?

you fell in love with poems

you fell in love with I'm-not-writing

I fell in love with trying
I fell in love with crylaughing

you fell in love with giving up

you fell in love off the overhang

  I just think we fell in love, totally

   and that we're scratching our ways back

     to whatever dregs we already were

       before we had to look up the words

        in our well masturbated dictionaries

butterbody

I'm sitting in my opaljade colored subaru legacy outback
smoking a cigarette
it's pouring rain out
cheesecake on the countertop,
nobake
I'm a dying thirst
I drove to the gasstation & couldn't barely tell
the man abt the smokes I wanted
I sat in the car,
smoking
I read aloud
I did that thing where I tell myself not to move my lips when I read
I said this loudly
& I moved my lips so fully
I have such a humor
my dad took me out to this bougie restaurant
: An Italian Joint
  and I told them about my weekend
                            about what I'm sortof trying for
& the gross waitress hovered
taking away plates & utensils
in the corporate fashion
I reaaallly don't care about this place
but I ate  puffy smoked salmon stuffed
I mean, why lie? it was fucking delicious
but you won't be seeing me there again
   unless I'm dead
  like if someone really felt the urge to bother
with a corpse or a murder
for an overpriced fuck-me-I'm-pastad party
oooh happy birthday! the waitress fake-squealed
and she asked if I wanted some birthday girl dessert
  and come on, you think this fyne 33 yr old bod keeps its way through dessert? get real
I do thank you, & sincerely.
  they gave me a beautiful backpack
      so I'm trying not to be so awfully mean

diarrhea, entrails, repeat ∞

   we look almost nothing alike
pushing gently at the soft 30
  babe in the rain
I have been a smoke cloud
I have been a sadsack
my smoke face
my smoke stacks
I've been   I've been stuck under the street, gooey
  gummy, gutterblast
a little petrified thing.
I feel a little snaky in my old-skin
but I'm flowing. I mean, this shit's a gust, we're august
  up in here
   thickoil
go down
  my drains. I draw it up, little guzzle guzzle
my body's a goodmeat, my heart
is a harness
  a wetwish
  a no-way bore
and my brains are wrinkles
and I've that good
  innards rope
     double noose, holding them, side by side

  noose me to your pocket
            the one you dropped
  we're on this high plane, now
out of the rot
     plains

I got no grief machines
  driving my bod
  its inward mechanisms, abuzz buzz buzz

Merrill means shining sea in Welsh

we learned a few french words
  we felt awfully proud
     we pooped our bits out
        we stormed the crowd with party
            we danced away
        with our cranks & cogs
      and our ropes are strong, metal
     and the slivers they make are silver shines
   like some
iridescent sea

I was due today

  there's a bull somewhere inside of me

  a taurus bumbling around

I'm sitting on the rock by the cabin

crept up the mossfilled footholds

tips of moccasins mashing the wet needles

slip off tread slide down.

we used to climb up here & we'd eat huckleberries

  cutest thing we ever did

we did a good job

  fell asleep in rain windows         layers in

  cotton silk wool cotton wool

    distrustful black hoodie,

it's chilling out and 

 we live on the mosquito plains

  but I'm a rockform

    tearing up  tearing down the mountain

like all the other pretended birthdays ever

a weather inappropriate watermelon beer in a colder that reads, 

  I'm still hot but now the hot comes in flashes

    

   what is virtue

   what are justices

  I wish I had a dictionary or a diary

   I wish I was another call

    I found the face.

 it's chilling out 

  on the mosquito plains

 fashion models taking some shots here

 denim + bronze

    when I'm a typographer                                 in the future

 I will design my own font

  that only gets used

   for my boutique's logo

but it will be patented

and it will make me billionz

           I'm an earth mother

        not a Typist

    especially since being always 

on the lichens, in the moss

swatting mosquitos 

pretending we were plains

but I wasn't born today, or yesterday

   there was just a broken heart drawn on my mother's baby-calendar

   followed by 5 days of things like, 

    

this baby won't get out of me

I'm tired

I'm done

this isn't working

I can't do this anymore

sadhand

let's fuck

the world

I made myself a reasonable cocktail

in a yellow siesta-ware cuppy with a wooden handle

I made my outside bed

as if to suggest company was coming to see my new setup

for only the next two days

I made my permaoutfit on friday

it's the dragon tyedie spaghetti strap

with the skirt with sailboats that look like shark's teeth

and the child pink sandals

and I am longhaired

but I do, honestly, supercare

like I'm the supercaringist ever

but my friend is coming over to tell me about him

and I will shut up for five seconds 

to remember that there are other people

and if I really am the nurturing type

I will hold & love 

if you need to rain out

this 98∘

evening

THANK YOU, 

dear, 

for making the soup

that you won't be here to eat.

You are a Love

& you frustrate me

& make me so angry

and I know I return that on you

but you made me able to not have to do anything

save for write

with a lefthand nailpolish (called Jaded)

and a right hand crumbling nails,

sadhand. 

it's sadder

than the left

chipping paint reminds me

well, doesn't everything remind me?

it reminds me less everyday

but everything does forever remind me.

Of a future I'd invented, I've seen it

Of a past that did actually happen for a second

my weddingring finger is on a happy hand

the decal you put on it the night we met irl

fell off, finally

that one day

that is finally 

awhile ago. Awhile ago helps, doesn't it?

it can, I mean, it should

but I keep making the past so very now, don't I

in classic Molly Merrill Stoddardstyle

D R A MA
       R A MA

mothersday workday everyday

today a guy came into the coffeeshop and said, Happy mother's day

and I said, Thanks, happy mother's day to you, too

and he stalled and said, But you don't seem like-

-The mothering type?

and then I told him that I am actually the Mothering Type

but I didn't tell him how I try to take care of all of the kids

I let them cry, and I keep a dryface

I let them rain for hours on the phone

I let them rain in the rain
and I shed nothing

bc I am Trying to Take Care of Someone,

sometimes.

I didn't tell him that I will hold you with patience

even through a shakesobfest

which I too have, at strange intervals

like behind the espresso machine

or when I look at the shitty art in the gallery at work

or when I ride my bike, listening to purity ring

bc I am Trying to Understand how to Care for Someone,

sometimes

when it doesn't want me to

today a very old man came into the coffeeshop and handed me a pink carnation

and he said, May I give you this flower?

and I said, smelling it, 

Of course you may, thank you

and I didn't do what I was urged to at the moment

I didn't fling the pink carnation at him, announcing,

The last person who gave me flowers 

BROKE MY HEART!!

lol

I wish I would have

it would have ruined someone's mother's day, maybe

but who says he deserves me to ruin things

who says you need me to ruin things

who says I need you to ruin me?

No one would say that

that's retarded

we can't

ruin

each other, we're not big enough to

i swear a mourning dove lives beneath the awning

today I'm like the actor in monochrome when the movie is like heavy

like saturated reds & greens, that kind of movie

way newer than technicolor, but still the thick dense 8mm sort

that thickworld

& I'm the one with the umbrella, but it isn't raining

so the other actors walk around me down the streets,

avoiding me because

umbrellas always have those sharp stabbers when the rubber things fall off

which I think always they do,

and it's even worse, doing this, because

I've always hated umbrellas.

I've always thought

so I will be wet

so my hair will be fuzzy

so my eyes will tear up

so my coat darkens.

but the rain on a face,

nice, nice

nice

nice

& the other actors mill about avoiding

but they're uncertain, mostly, why don't I see the sun &

the saturated red & green?

but I mean, they're just actors so probably they aren't thinking that at all.

it's really hard to tell, I mean

impossible to tell

what the others

could possibly be thinking

it's okay because I won't stop thinking of what others could possibly be thinking

and what they would think if I told them what I was thinking

or even would they think anything at all.

I had this box of coffee which mostly just spilled onto the floor of my car.

I had a beer in a jar.

I went to the thrift store, and there was an ad on the radio about how boise interior design & co or something supports the christian radio station

what was it

not the teachings

not the services

oh, oh

the duty

yeah, the duty. doing a duty deed

& so in the spirit of it all I bought a child's forest camo tee

like the kind with the leaves

& the branches

& I paid a man drinking a sprite

and he sort of stood there for a second, I think deciding what to do with this sprite in his hand

so he settled on setting it down. He had a superlow voice

& this steady uncertain movement

of a recent believer, or a recent exsmoker, or a recently having been given-birth-to, again

and he said: with fondness, & a struggling sentimental: I'll bet this is for your little boy, isn't it

and I almost lied

no

I said I don't have any children

& he looked me over

and he said, oh, I see, you're small

did he say small bodied?

I left because the beer in the jar was getting warm

& I had looked in the mirror

& my clothes were so drab

so like end of summer, hating on early fall because it will become winter so can't look at the

pretty present

but instead at the sad torturous months ahead, sad futures

it's that sort of outfit

but I'm not that sort of girl

I don't hang in the treacherous promise future

I hang with the heart in my chest kind of present

my brain

my bod

my chipped teeth

they are good for tearing flesh

they are good

for caring

caring flesh

& this morning

& right now

I hear the low moan of a mourning dove, and it sounds so close I think it just must be tucked under that stupid stripe-ed awning

which is pretty nice

it's pretty nice

the invention of romances

(songs of yesteryear)

4:32 pm 19 November 2006…

To make self feel better?               Douse the flames in the eyes with hot coffee and endless headaches. I’m slashing around inside myself and running around crying & let out a few screams, too. Because no one is here. No neighbors coming around suspicious, no one wanted to know. Am I alone or lonely? do I want to be alone for a week or do I want to be with someone consistently, one who Cares with that Inner Depth Care that goes down from his core and penetrates into mine? like that.              Trying to decide if I can ignore dehydration induced headache and still take a cold ride on an old silver bike to Skylark for tater tots and beer and to read Cormac McCarthy. Isn’t the best plan… I cried and cried and then I quit after talking to charles on the telephone who really does care and I made coffee and read some geology… enough, or I tried to, at least. I can’t make anymore lists of things to do. I can’t chart out my day. I can’t say I have to do this or I have to do that and within these hours, though sometimes it works okay to do that. Because there are too many possibilities and variables, and I know that. And I should drink water because I want to know hydration. And I want to have a clean room, and a sufficient knowledge of geology, and I ate something so I’m alright there, but then there’s wanting to get out of the house which I haven’t done in two days, I know that would be good for me, really good, and I could get a bit of exercise on that big rickety bike and see something new. Reading in a bar, a warm bar with beer and cigarettes and tater tots for only an hour or two. Make a new friend. And not have to be here all day- I absolutely have to do it. And before charles gets home, though it doesn’t seem like he’s running to get home anytime soon. For which I cannot blame him. I’m okay, you’re okay.

Saturday 10 November 2007: 4:46 pm

Unable to decide what to wear to work, as a stoned girl tends. Wishing I didn’t have to go, could instead go to see múm play, again, which was most beautiful... Felt like it was true to me, so I went all and by myself especially, knowing especially to be by myself. Lovely, smoking a spliff alone in the londonesque new york city rain, on the steps of the beautiful old myrrh-scented cathedral. And I haven't really a notion of the smells of myrrh, truthfully.            And the days drifting away… silly me, I have this pass, the unlimited MTA pass I found in the stonehome wine bar bathroom. Could have taken a tour of something lovely today… but perhaps tomorrow I’ll go to coney island by my c Aw cut it out molly, always you by your lonesome. Cry me more, if you can! Because it’s not true, of course. I’d prefer oftentimes someone to be around when I see and hear things. Amazing things sometimes better shared. Maybe I’m disillusioned with my best friendship, whether or no it’s still developing… I suppose it is, but won’t I be irritated by it? When we have energy, still; it doesn't provoke a thought. That’s because the boy with whom I’m spending my time is… ? He constantly spews new-age clichés then I remember the lines of poetry spotted in his notebook and I can say, I could never love you. I definitely can’t justify that! So the idea was to throw something of mine at his new-age reactions (R.W. Emerson, friends), so that maybe he could get his face out of that celestial psychedelic haze. But most likely not, and who cares I guess if we never talk about anything that makes me think or know or react… aside from emotions, facts, histories, feelings. His thoughts and relations on such subjects are definitely worthy of every attention. But… bla bla bla. If he’s not soft to me, and he’s not warm, then he’s a buttery knife. And leaves me uncut and greasy.               I’m a slut for lovely uselessnesses. I’ll keep inventing romances where I can. With urgent frequency!!

13 November 2008

I feel rather like I should initiate a part two for this thing, as the days have passed into months and it’s a wonder I can type. Still. And now to open the journal, not for the sakes of pleasures or poetries, but for plans… Although one can see it, plans equaling plans & poetries, really. Because as I intend, I do to find Portland my new home. And I want to, am very ready to leave New York but instead of energy it makes me tired. I am tired of wanting to, just want to already, of course. But there are many things a must.

18 November, 2009 1:02 pm

This is a different story I want to start. This is, it’s the newyear. As you probably know, I am nearing on twenty-five and a half. Do you understand how sad it is to say that I have kept a diary since the age eleven except for the year around two-thousand-nine? What! I am supposed to be smart, ticklish. Maybe I have lost it all, myself, desire, in a flood of adult-hood. which of course I don’t even have. Oh! But I need to, must, have to. I am 35 years old, seeming. This is serious. I absolutely must, like whenever I finally get my fucking belated period I’ll start taking my own temperature at the birth of day. Everyday, then afterwards, since I’ll be awake and it will be eight am, I’ll start to write. Just a little at first, maybe, but it will be like stretching, or praying. I have this in me still. And when I read them all, the beauties, the geniuses, they make me cry and make me think how could I ever do it. Thank you, thank you solemn baritone. Thank you letters & words abounding. And thank you, self! only five pages into the year! is everything that meaningless & dead, grown away to float with out a feeling. Is it, then? and the inspirations, how will you really thank them? and can you.              I saw her the other night, kari, last Friday. I rode my bicycle to her house. Before that I met adan to eat. He was certain to order the foods before I got there; my arrival was nearing six o’clock. So I did and there a spread lay before me; a quesadilla with a sweet jam inside, a plate of nachos with sweet oregon cheddar, and a lovely little macaroni n’ cheese on an ovular plate, with those charming crumbles of baked bread.              Oh, my! Such unusual justification. What of this? I dressed in the coat, but it was cotton, but it didn’t matter for it wasn’t raining at all. At the Alberta store we found a pair of magic gloves. The gloves fit around my hands, I could tell I’d be warm. I kissed him for awhile; his neck was warm and pungent of him, and I loved him all the more. He is so good sometimes & and lately.             The ride was west down Alberta street, and a left on Vancouver. Down the lovely hill and across & over to broadway, that gorgeous view from the broadway bridge. The darkness of the river water, the warning clouds above in grays and cobalt. And nearing upon her adult apartment, and she in her tall high-heeled boots, and her black leather couches and large screened television set, and blonde professional roommate who reminds us of course of a girl we know of a different era.               It was like always it should be! After she applied a liberal application of bronzer to my face we were off on the street – should we take the streetcar? – no, let’s just walk – in new york we walk this distance five times over just to avoid the train... And to a bar where we sat all dark & redlit, and talked of the girls of the past, those names of the eighties. One is nearly engaged, depression & mania. I almost nearly made reference to a buoy, on accident of course.               And thanksgiving, in Boise, across the mountains: the Blue Mountains... 

little consumptions

In late nights I inquire, in daytime I look about sideways at the overcast. In the night I look at the map of a day following, and I listen to the slide guitar drops of permanent rain. A spark of his eyes, the words, the touches, the rekindling she says. Remembering and the sun! o that broad sparkle. Everything like the trains, sometimes they awaken me. It was like a date, but we weren't/ didn't know to think to.

little rift in shortest summer

Can't I not help it, but the weather somehow took a dip in me. Like the last one left, I'm here in the hollow sounds & shapes. But with all sounds of the dogs who live here, too, and they don't want to be alone. They chase ghosts and feel sad about things, but I don't know it. And I don't think it's true. They hear rain in their bones hours before the first drops. I feel it in the texture of the air, and in the speed of my brain at work. I like all the colors of it, and how it makes a sort of round terrarium out of my house. with just two dogs & me in here. All the lush of the plants outside & drinking, and the cat too out there all wet maybe hiding greeneyed glaring from beneath the neighbor's parked car. In the real wet all there. I can't tell, but the rain just glanced off my skin, even as I moved in slowmotion. All the cars silenced by it. Every rush at pause.

beaver moon

and we wonder to see it through the grey, tonight. The air is colder and the rain comes down as if in prophesy. And I'm going there in gulps/ \just accidents. The sky from a window view from sitting here crosslegged with the left falling into a deep sleep on the beige sheets of 500threadcount egyptian cotton one lighton, to the left illuminating otherwise just that window in me, the textured sky now because of rain like a fuzz on a screendoor, mini webs built by mini spiders, microscopic chasms filled all-ways with silken threads too small to see or touch or be swept by...... The creosote in the windowbars, tree leafless for Autumn and nearing to december closer everyday. A horn beeps just once below, cars splash the walks, I anticipate umbrellas, even those of a lepoardprint persuasion, and then in later dates of future the songs I will write sadly to sing whilst idly a keyboard is touched, and training my own throat and hair and instruments. Only the warm keys beneath the heels of hands and pads of fingertips. My water is full of waves like the messy ones, ones which capsize a floatboat at the laziest overestimated swash, swishing it over upsidedownwards just because of confusing spell, slepp slepp slepp.