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

loveletter

take me two minutes

I think it's mostly what I have to show you only

a dose is a choice

a little sip I've shoved

give me your ear

give it me

or cut it off from you.

our hearts aren't echoes

can't beat a solemn rock wall

my voice can't reproduce 

in little interruptions of itself

but can be listened-to, can be

archived

or erased

or erased before it exists

by your fingers

if your brain gets to them first

or maybe you'll keep your ear in your heart please

also,

I was given a few books! To my joy and surprise, on the inside cover of Anne Frank's The Diary of a Young Girl is written my name, Molly Stoddard, in feminine thirteen-year-old script complete with hearts, stars, and exclamation point. And even more worthwhile is the original copy of William Goldman's The Princess Bride, a truly exceptional book. I started it again last night and haven't stopped from smiling. The opening sentence: "This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it." Ah ha, intriguing, no? What else is here: Cat's Cradle. I read Jailbird and liked it but is it too late for Kurt and me? The cover art is brilliant, vermilion background with a small inset of pink hands holding the all-important cat's cradle strings, the going-off of an atomic bomb, and a confused psychedelic sun. "Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly did. They called me John." Mm hmm,  pretty Clever. Ah, well it's about twentyseven pages long so I could just suck that down. IF I WASN'T so busy sucking everything else down. You know! What else, oh if it isn't Percy Thrower's How to Grow VEGETABLES and FRUIT by god!! Depicted is Percy Thrower himself, wrinkled oldman brow and long elegant pipe... it appears to be unlit. He's fondling a large & impressive yellow onion, and showing off with this sort of licentious look on his face a wheelbarrow just full of delicious treasures from the earth. Mm hmm we have potatos, radishes, beets, tomatos of all flavors and persuasions... oh, and they're so damp and dewy with earth and newness! how hungry you've made me. This book is filled with images of hands using tools and breaking off beetgreens. In fact, there is a bookmarked page I've just opened to... the Beetroot. Just delights.

I have to go now, to rinse my hair... let the solemn ballad of poor Lonesome Susie leave you charmed.

the little windows, little tables

The little blowing horn. I answered the phone and there was a voice I missed, I wrote down in letters some type and a word traveled over. Always travel led wrong. Always a misspelling, but misgivings. And the counting down gets drastic when shoveling.

A solemn horn blown, like a canada goose flown. An upwash, a downwash, a flight formed. A skein, a hair catching wind. To pretend you know so much is all tempts, the quick showers of delight flash over like a cloud gone by the sun.