even if I try. even if I wanted toooooo

I'm sitting on the yellow house's stoop, again. This for the last time, maybe. It's an immanent tomorrow. Tomorrow is a better day to leave. The neighbor, not at pukeneighbor's house but at squat brick house, is listening to something punk or something, he wears a black tshirt when he smokes and looks at his phone, there's a tv inside, the neighbors watch it with the door open. He isn't doing much on a late Tuesday. Is it Tuesday? What day is it, Kyle asked some guys who came in to his restaurant tonight. I think he had some lines lined up, he probably knew the day. Kyle's good at being a waiter. I like the words waiter and waitress better than I like server. I like to sex things. None of that is particularly true. I'm drinking a watermelon beer again, we got them for the road. The car is packed. Save for the soda maker. We don't even know for certain that it works, but. What if it does? I'm going to make us sodas when we get to Louisiana, and Thousand Island dressing. I think I could make delicious Thousand Island. I like the name. Sometimes kids only want Thousand Island dressing. None of this is actually on my mind. Today a vase fell a couple of feet from the bookcase and onto the carpet in Luke's room. He hollered for a second, and later, on the log at Brody Beach, he surprise-gripped my sun arm and warned me that there is broken glass, to be careful. I thought it was funny because the thing broke, and also because he didn't pick up the glass, and also because he was being careful at me. The vacuum has been in his room for a month at least, a bunch of ants came in and we got the vacuum and had a great time sucking the ants up. So I had a pretty great time sucking the glass up. So he won't cut his foot later, thinking of me. And the little pieces I'll try not to leave behind. I'm sitting on his stoop sort of listening for his skateboard wheels on the sidewalk. He might be surprised that the car is packed. That I said goodbye again to John Shinn, and to Bri, and to Kyle, and Kari and my dad and to Britta, the last. No one is crying, which is a good sign. But smell makes me cry. The picking up of a handsome plaid shirt with sweetsmelling collar makes me lurch a little. But I'm more more more than ever, and it's ready in me. I wish I could write sweet notes for all over the cute yellow house. Maybe butter yellow is a forever reminder of the Summer of 2013. It has been a good one, thanks to many, and to one. I am glad it's true. All of the hugging is out, I've got it in. I've got a shower, I've got a salad for the morning. I've got an ear to the sky & an ear to the heart. I've shaken off the butter sheets with the black ink constellation. I've sucked up the glass. I've got me wrapped up. I've got me winding away, I think I think I do, now.

when I die bury me in the liquor store

I'm sitting on Luke's stoop listening to Nickey's birthday track, it's pretty loud. Drinking an Outlaw IPA not because I'm crazy about it, but it's a pretty good IPA and I taste IPAs all day sometimes, but because it's from Garden City, and made by an acquaintance from highschool, I never had a crush on him, but I guess I'm trying to be pre-nostalgic for Idaho because I truly am leaving it tomorrow. This song doesn't make me nostalgic, just makes me think of Nickey but I'm taking her with me. I mean she's taking me with her. We're taking each other with each other. I'm going to Dad's for a final Dad dinner, and I'll maybe sell the dogcrate for $50. I made $55 selling my synthesizer to Britt. I was going to sell it to another exboyfriend, but I like Britt better. Maybe it's because he was never my exboyfriend. I think I like the music he makes more. No I know. A giant man in a BSU tee walked by with a golden on a leash. The golden was wetfurred, and peed on the tree in front of Luke's cute yellow house. Ida didn't chase it. But I was gripping her by her aqua bandanna. It's not too grubby for a bandanna. For a dog bandanna. Or even a girl bandanna. I said goodbye to Brittany. To Chad, to Gray, to John Shinn. I wanted to say goodbye to John Shinn again. I've said enough goodbyes. Everyone's like, Why aren't you gone yet. And we're like, We know. Because we've got to pack the car up, and I've got to clean my little messes I've messed Luke's cute yellow house with. But then, maybe I won't. Maybe it will become real to us. Maybe I'm more excited than they are. Maybe later I'll write long words about long skins to miss. Long bodies pulled tightly down over a butter yellow bedsheet, long feet dangling. Can you dangle straight. I have hours left of goodbyes, I know. I will be saying goodbye forever, I know.

for you

#9

yellow flesh on me
first fragile fixer
up me, in me, broken brain


#20

where did you get me
is it in, did I
come? tell me did I do that


fragile thing. pick you up put you on me
darling thing, did I brain at you too hard
did you inject me with laugh
did you wake me with pain, at boring no did I
were you the real sad
were you extinct, even then
did I try to crawl away
did I try to fix your broke bod
don't I remember the superface of superficial
don't I tear a little at giveruppers
masks &
masks &.

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

ooh dusk

Months. I found two welcome-home pinecones on the patio. Brown and yellow beds everywhere. I can't kid it, there is piano, the music of one I think, and it's one of those songs I've long chided myself for keeping around. Surprises happen all over. Can't draw the shades completely! The autumn is out there. Watch her come and go. I've got to use the heavy woolen hooded coat. The one I'd dreamt about, but in plum. And then the voices! 

My friends are listening to poetry tonight. Some of us admit not to be. I'm having hard enough time keeping myself company! Like an argued room with distant relatives, we talk. Make faces. Feel the rush through. Little waterslides of blood. Maybe it's because who would read this, anymore. It's like an end to it all (oh, no, I've unpacked all of the grocery baskets and suitcases! one was filled with costumes, and just in time for halloween), or rather I will somehow find something better to do, a waste making sense. Where is everyone?

poem(s) for yellow

from crepuscular orations

with little squares of yellow light, like the background of a play.
lesser yellowlegs
yellowthroat
greater yellowlegs
yellow ribbon lichen,
yellow ribbon lichen.
a yellow corona tee-shirt with cutoff sleeves.
he wore a yellow
to Yellowstone at freezing temps,
folded delicately between the now yellowed pages.
The blue yellow gray between the shades fades.
his beautiful yellow labrador;
kicks the yellow dog out of the way and exits the building.
To him, my butteryellow bandana.
yellow trees,
yellow slowmotion leaves falling.

from momentos preciosas

green and yellow peppers
yellow winter remaining

poem(s) about black

from crepuscular orations

The buildings were lit, black silhouetted, with little squares of yellow light,
purple, black, and gray
black rosy-finch
black tern
in black bathing suit,
in black silk bathing dress.
And the black silk cardigan from five summers ago.
white kneesocks and tall black boots
and black silk cardigan.
black belts with southwestern emblems.
Watching a black gay & lesbian comedy,
thick sideburns, black frames, eyebrows canted.
Long curly hair, dark, not black, almost a deep, deep purple...
There is a man with a black security tshirt.
in a holey black tshirt smoking a cigarette.
outlined in detail through the thick, black cotton.
all the auburn and black...
Now I have the black dog and the black and white fluffy dog piled with one another on the porch sofa.
Navy tights (black?)
my black & white dog,
the brown and black dogs
run through blackberries and snakes.
With our black,
black dog.
With the salty dogs, and black.

from momentos preciosas

Sleeps in a black & white curl.
I can just see her black & white prance  
and her black leather couches
and black leather couches.
Black magic.
Blackness symbolizes
death wears black.
a black hoodie zippered dress.

he who divulges, can this flesh crown you?

prettylittle 84 - 87

He divulges depreciative, orating calmly. He wears a yellow flavor. Outside, it is dark and he’s drinking, and his provisions thrust outward. Hold his boiling snow. Alcohol is for the inward, thus he left the outside concentrated, failing. 

He was busy in a timeward spiral, his head, I think. Soaked in her decoction of pauses. There’s not much one can do. I’d cough up a day creative, of lime-flowers, and tone with a drum onward. It might mean defectuosity; more aggressive I find, alas.

We drank tea and felt great imperfection, and I remember being; & getting drunker and drunker, a bell was spoken, and then I left. Delectation, that pleasure and delight. For you might do, driving a myth of a home, demiurgic. To slowly manipulate the girlfriend away, and a hiding away in some time. The creation of the universe with her fingers would be such a forest of unknowing.

About Chicago and New York and London and the maker of the world: gradually becoming more violent again, just as the leopard strikes at vegetarianism, being our moments, our years I can taste away, cutting. I’m starving from that first demiurgic love on my lips… how can this flesh crown you?

tonight it's near to see

prettylittle, 67 - 70

Tonight it’s near, and how dissension nods his head. We both arrived; I found altercation for a minute. We were, that very night, attractive, contrapuntal. And how the emerald outside would still pertain. Picture me on a skylark, attempting, though repulsed by counterpoint. There. Can you, begrudgingly? Smoke the idea in music, composed. I’m wearing the yellow dress to dinner with light kissing melodies sounded; I remember this morning. Rust. But my love, it's an island to leave, I suppose.

A blast from forever. Whistles, rocks, and then the noticing cold remain true. Melody cliffs neglect the beautiful cold to him, the beautiful cold to my own fugue. I’m barefoot to take a snowstorm at last, it will be to violate. To climb up how he didn’t, too lonely and difficult to oppose anything at all. To contradict me I wish he would, a drop of airsnow, nothing like the ice I have. I think small and he holds my face of watersnow. This group of trees I’m climbing, those which the earth tends to unforgivingly deliver, will definitely make inner. I don’t slip and fall, dying beautiful white stronger, and I envelop brief silence things. Sparkling extreme of floral leaves. Anything happened, a snow everywhere; accusatory of a flower I wasn’t. Your mind at which I look, I’d simply love to live in.

A delicate texture I make, looking. I look around lovingly forever. Of a color other, that little peak. Be confused fearfully, too. Green, typically, that little tree on top. Your mind from across a slim whorl, I see. A piercing platform. We stumbled within, I see.

Be confused for a need to look upon sepals; that tree above right, straight at the garden, and enclosing. There’s a bird. Red chipped opaque sky, here it's rained all day. Reproductive. An eagle exactly in baby blue, the perfect midwestern call. Organs, bald like mine, a black winter. I find I know minute bodies, who every once in awhile be actively doomed. Cells in the water. And with a real winter. Too bright to failure, especially. Red blood is something to see.