voyage of my house around the sun

Moving from the cardinal to the blue jay. Feeling like anything past 11am is late in the day; watching as the sun moves around the house, around from the one window to the back window (through which it shines now) and around back to the kitchen (never truly shining hard but lighting a little) and then the diningroom for the rubber plant who won't grow more leaves but also won't die, and then finally by 3 through the front window for the palm trees and the rooms I never spend any time in

I am obsessing over the sun lately. The dog (the pointer) lays in her weird jump-ready manner in the one bit coming through the back window, now. On the little brown cabin rug. She always tries to lay in a beam of light, I do understand. It's hard because it's now left the bed (11:53 am, no sun on the bed) and it instantly feels colder in here, and I also am at peak anxiety at noon on account of how many cups of coffee I've had & how many more I'd like. And the sun sets in 5 hours, this I know because I visit sunset park each day now and watch the sky turn pink and watch the electric salmon mirror metallic off the buildings of the financial district way over on that rock island that looks close, looks far, is close, is far.

MARTY MEMBLEM

to be taught
righteous, riotous,
your hand in my sand
my billowing, running sand.
she and her sad of course
to be taut

  your running off on me
your running off onto me.
your run off onto
  you're running, about to.
I have a point
to point to the purposeful.
you're a rock, you're a cane
you're a beet
red pulse-baby, my made hands.
how do you destroy months
how do you tangiblize months
how do you blend
them, yours, mine
how do you make a new calendar from them,
how do you tick days
click lick lick lick swish,
 flourish


I'm smoking herbs and pot rolled up into a joint, I'm in my room
on hickory st in new orleans, there is a candle, a scene.
globebook,
thermos,
gravitas.
mardi m emblem
beautiful lighting
peach curtains in the breeze
songs to get high to
songs to cry or wail to
to drive to
my table.
so another words,
succulent, rememberful
  = sentimental
riesling with berries, bugs
collie in frog position
dangling from the fan
coon tail, lavender crocheted jellyfish (nickey)
pink & brown cabin rugs

waits

if for nothing but the
yours and yours
  truly

<<<<<<<<<<<--------->!@3

optimism

the haha you!
the edit you
there's always the you to write about, a sort-of you
the all-sorts-of remember
mes
I think back
in a few months ago
or 6 months ago
I was trying to see the pain end
trying to date that end
telling things, to picture it happening
like Molly, you won't live here forever
in a deep sadabandon place
you'll find the surface
you'll move in with your blood
get comfy together, you'll get comfy
together
swim up in it, bubbles coming from a nose
for my mouth
how I shout, mouth
to suck
being a stop-now
suck it out, stop being a shop mouth
a sob cave-maker
let your burbling oxygen bubbles rest
let your breath turn into flowers again
photosynthesize
on the horizon
oh haha you
oh, 6 months later you
oh where it came, from where I am again
the dissolve of flowers in a vase
the burning of your name on a hill
my abundant cusses
I've almost forgotten them
empty hole empty house
no more radiant crevasse
full of sinew & thread
the prettiest sky
the prettiest scab
peel me off
smile laceration me
the pink soft of a nomore scar.
  the teen is    dead

why are you following me

I'm empty nest
but my body's gettin biiiiig
sooo float
I walk around new orleans in these hippie sandals Barb gave me the night we stayed in denver
and the pink hawaiian shirt I got last week, it's the only clothing thing I bought since leaving idaho
  17 days ago
I walked down the middle of the road
at twilight
saw three cats
to buy cigarettes
I would trade cigarettes for love
  with you
  with any of you
it's chocolate city, you know
           heeeeyyy, chocolate
I got ice cream
in lieu of screaming that
and I've got the bug
the hotbodied, bloaty bug
& I know,
  I know you're not
  really following me around
we aren't tether limbed
we're not elastic lipped
I'll shush me
but I haven't enough
      friends
         in this sultry, sultry wetnest
yet

VENUS

my evenings in summer. I couldn't smoke at Kari's when I lived there so I found the clubhouse. when I'd ask people if they wanted to come there they'd say yes and we'd zigzag sharp upthe hill through the sages and past mellow pink & graygreen donkeytail succulents and we'd wedge our ankles into seats to prop us on, and they'd say, I thought there would be an actual house, here. I loved it at sunset 10:30 at the tip of summer mountain standard time, when up & to the right there'd be glowing venus. I can do anything I want to now, here, so I sit on the balcony in the trunk of summer at sunset around 8:07 central standard time and up to the right there, thar she glows. familiar as ever. if I were in Idaho still I might lament that the trunk of summer radiates nervously, that days shorten at not my wanting, for I've no doubt the same sun sets there, too. I share a timezone with you. doesn't that craze me? meaning makes me crazy. I'll always think of the sultry air surrounding me at this moment, forever I know it. I might not ever quit at saying so. time changes, my zoning mutates. but I've my forever promises & my familiar footholds in any muting sky of summernight. I'll die with some imprint of a silhouetted palm behind eyelid quakes.
there be no doubt in that.

<no title> (12/22/10)

I make feeling of the brain.  Mostly low-growing, the mixture of that sun and me tryless. A little frolicky. Belonging to the primrose, those strong legs of his. I’m a magnet for choking the mind outright.

I’m not family; I don’t like this like that. Making love, having tuberous rootstocks and nodding strong legs, I’ve been complemented often. A self promoting deprivation. In the alps with deer, white, purple, pink, I see. My ability to create such a young and early death. And berries, unfortunately, crimson flowers with reflexed petals, can get  pretty intimacy only just awhile. In that mindset.

Describing expectantly comfort with strangers, a life donated to my abilities. A circular boat so I can find severe athleticism. Here I am, viewed from inside.

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

summer in you

I wanted to write a poem called

I'm having a better summer than you

I was sitting by the river

after having sunk myself in

you know, the short breaths,

the regular too cold for you water

and I am warmskinned, pink,

imagining how you're not  

we noticed the sand

smelled so bad that

I would eventually say, I have to walk home

because I thought a hot day walk from raniers

and doritos and the slow moves of summersoaked kids

laying your head on my pelvisbone

soft of my stomach 

quaking with laughter

under the big tree, spring leaves falling on my body

which I celebrated & you mocked me for it

a lone walk home could be.

but then they all said, it smells like shit here

let's leave

gross beach

dog eating wing

you rubbed my head, my hair which was

just it

more human touch, I am a touch-me sort

out of the muck sand,

I moved a bed to the backyard

but no one bought it, or

I knew I wanted to sleep outside

I made it with quilts & pillows

and Nickey & Ida came in & we talked how we talk

& we smoked & drank whiskey in the dark

and a pine dangled over me.

It was the best sleep like windows open everywhere

I was in a breeze, and everything left 

but I always have the best summer

even when the birds don't wake in my ear

even when I leave the elements alone

even when I have to drive a car

with one window down

because I like a long distance

& something in summer is 

always to be looked forward to

chasttity

 will I ever be as pure as you?

I have had sex with over five million people

I could name them all on

the worl'd

on the longest paper

I could write a continuous manuscript

on a roll of parchment,

but does that change it 

but doesn't that change it?

filled with all of the sorries

doing the let me explains

urging the hear, here's whies

switch ears, I'll give another

moral blunder

your pink holes

in your pink head

there is always a you, you

and it is about you

but

we like it when

the you changes

and you are you a new you

and the you doesn't hold

to the things about me, you know

and I hold to me

and you hold me like me

like the millions have held

like I'm held in the millions more

I made three bucks today

man, I just came back from the world... don't go out there

I saw a girl I don't care about, I dropped one of the books I was carrying

she said HEY how's it going! and I said fine HOW ARE YOU

and then I picked up my book

and she said, that's a lot of books

and I was like, yeah

so I tried to sell some books and I only got $3, for a fucking Murakami. I don't know, I've never read Murakami 

I guess I can't talk shit, it's what the people want

I went to the bank and I got $100 out of my bank account

I saw a model, a tall tan with black on, and shades, and honey hair, and a cellphone

I had to go to the store to get beer

I got the ones with the fox on it

and the watermelons

because tonight I am going to write a six-pack story

& it might just be my ticket out of this two-bit town.

But while I was buying beer & only beer

I noticed my shirt

its big sleeves are cut off, and it's haphazardly bleached

on it reads MORE BEER in pink comic sans

& I'm thinking when I wear it I will always be thirsty

this, mostly

I was thinking, am thinking of color. I am always thinking of color, and was reminded even more of it at the reading of Bluets, and am reading it now, and it is about color, and it's about sex. An old boyfriend once told me that one of his favorite things to do with me is to talk about color. We had been on it for hours, watercolor. This winter I printed some kitsch scenes for presents, giant bats hanging above palmtreed vistas, pyramids sitting dumbly in the background. Maybe I did this was for the mixing of inks, for making a green grayer with red, and  photographed each tightening flush of color into itself. It gives me chills too. I keep ink as a pet. Sometimes it gets rancid if you don't tighten its container. It ends up the bottom of the barrel smell, not like anything in particular rotting. Mildewy, maybe. But I keep them... add a little iridescent gold, I think...

When I spoke last night at the bougie bar to the pbr salesman he asked, do you know what my favorite color is? and I said no, how could I. Black & White, he smiled. I see. Nothing in between. No uncertainty. But my favorite color is vermilion... and he asks if it's a blue. There are birds with vermilion breasts worth finding as examples. The color of 2012. 2012 is over. I overheard my friend last evening at the sunset on campus tell a woman that I have a checkout roster for my personal library. I do this so people can be held accountable for my books, for returning them. There are books signed away that I will never see again. It's  more likely I won't see them again when they go through these proper channels.

Jim the pbr salesman said there are two types, mechanics and creatives. But of course I have to argue. I need rules to dictate what I do creatively, how creative I get, all of it. I could never be a painter. Paint on a blank canvas to me is too hopeful & eternal. I am an extremist I want it all of it right now all of it, all of the time. I think, he loves me, or he hates me. I think I am beautiful or I am so terribly gross. I think I am a genius, or I am the stupidest. I have the most full heart or I've never learned a thing. Black & white have all of the colors in them a scientist says. It is sort of beautiful. But I got a yin yang calendar to color as a gift. & I've definitely been coloring everything. Vermilion, turquoise, chartreuse, gold, pale pink, magenta, ultramarine, my yin/yangs know no lacks/infinities of color. They everything me

before I went to this reading last night I dyed most of my clothes a deep bright blue like

TOday

Luckily I got something new at christmastime, a new dress with dragonfly print & it hasn't come off since, can't. When you go to bed dressed you wake up so. Easily, with layered tights & socks kicked off beneath the soiled pink wool & soiled down & soiled 500-thread-counts. Never to sleep without someone in the proximity, but keeping a dog as a wall between he & me. Everymorning waking up before dawn, yawning wondering, whose fingers are these? whose knee haphazardly pushed in the crook? 

The colors of my hands, royal blue chips, the copper, puce, cadet blue. The cardigan accused of being 'mustard' when mustard just isn't olive. The forest green. I crocheted a shoelace; they thought I was out of it. The neon baby stuff I have around me, the notion that honey in my espresso is what's for me. I am learning to devour a little. An omelet here, a slice of green pepper/jalapeno there. The cans all aligned on my perfect big table. I want to write about the internet, because it is finally immanent. I think that could be somehow even boringer than this all.

on watching the bodies move, live

I ask So Many Questions! it's true. but right now I haven't any questions, I've the goldens here, Gayle's goldens, & i am wearing the pink flowers dress that is worn for sex, for going to work, for sleeping, for swimming, for switching into metal outfits, for sunning & drying nice slow in summer. the kids are all watching tv, because football is on. I can't watch it right now, and am so tired, so tired once more. the summer is a blanket and it smothers and floors me. my eye are always dried-up little beads. my skin is the color of worn white girl skins/. with freckles. "ooh a bears game is on" cries a child. I let the child eat chips. the children bought & paid for the chips. the fridge is full with beers, with rolling rocks & pabst blue ribbons & of course the frightening necessary steel reserves. the chips fall across the glass table, and little riverbeds left marking from a thumb and greedy little pointer. some have hats. "kyle, stop" cries a tiny voice. "there's a fucking door, go outside and fart" it goes/. my mistake! impossible to repeat! the sideways braids on us, the girls out of us, allover the place. I want my new york song, but I only get it in an advertisment. Atdvertizmunt.

mediocre moments in half snow

I watched She-Devil the other night, after showing up late for the BSU game. We were nervous. We began in the cemetery, where we left the limeaid bottle after consuming casually on a headstone. The roar of the crowd could be heard for miles. The muffled jock jams rocked our gourds. Are we ready for this? Bedecked with orange & blue Boise State chairs and an expensive fleece Broncos blanket. I stuffed various accouterments in my tights; my erection was made of tequila. My phone warned me that my inbox was 88% full, would I mind erasing unwanted messages? I erased the mess. Once inside, my pregnancy startled no one. Why was I so nervous? to be kicked out from a football game? I was entranced by the performers. The cheerleaders, with  their fleshtoned nylons and cellulite and off-time moves. The swish swish swish of their hair as they attempted unison. The players, some with small heads, some with thighs like trees. I could see them all naked, and it overwhelmed me. How does one find pants to fit such a thigh? and how does one's penis look when compared to the nearby limbs jutting huge? The bored cheerleaders of the opposing team; if there was room for a cellphone on that warmup suit, they'd be texting their days away. 

She-Devil stars Roseanne Barr and Meryl Streep who plays this amazing romance novelist who surrounds herself in pink. I went to brunch yesterday, sick, and ate a croissant. After excitedly relaying the joys of She-Devil, I received a 100% affirmative reply from the members of the party that Meryl Streep is a great actress. One hundred, mind you! Historically, (we share initials and even names) I have never met anyone (aside from my mother) who is willing to agree that she is a fine actress.

And today, my friends are drowning. Some of them sorrowfully, and some of us, in coughs and dripping orifices. Why is it that my orifices continuously drip no matter what? and which? Some call with favors, showing up at a snowcovered doorstep days later. At least the demands are doable. But some of these persons just aren't intoable. I'd like to take a late snow walk; a companion, chosen by me, would be necessary. I want out of this corner, now, at least out enough to feel the breeze flow between my ears. Under the beaver moon, I must. I know how to dress for warmth.

song for the holiday inn at casa grande arizona

And here, still, warmest pavement beneath barest feet, the hair of the dog literal & figurative, below and over. The glimmer of aqua poolwater waving at me. My own salty dog, my palest pink dress. The palest coloring of arizona no matter where. Today I took a walk down a long road, over three miles and they claiming it's one-hundred-and-seven degrees. I scoff and drip. Would it be nearly that hot? I can take it better than I thought. No loneliness set-in, just the flies of me, the dogs and me. The grasshoppers give a great chase. Our feet bare, the courtyard of a holiday inn bare, save for our voices. The salt cutting the grapefruit, the liquors. My mind beginning again after air-conditioned dreams, the sweat congealing me cold, soaking a dress till freezing. A fly walks on my lemon, and I am fully alive in a chickenless existence. Thriving in pastels, in arizona keeping me her prisoner once more.

millions of wild forevers

for #28

million, forevers

desert skin, ocean eyes, but

Hearts can't hold time.

for #13

your wild dog ways, the

desperation thrive.

smell in mint inspiration

for #11

forever the first

the red awake of Being

entangled to death

for #3

and so you were thick

like an adult in me, blood

and pink on the floor

Ha

I make feeling in that mindset

prettylittle 80 - 82

I make feeling of the brain. Most recently low-growing, the mixture of that sun and me without trying, simply. The avocado’s point of view is a little frolicky. Belonging to the primrose those strong legs of his. I’m a magnet for choking the mind outright.

I’m not family; I didn’t like this like that. Making love, having tuberous rootstocks and nodding strong legs. I’ve been complemented often. A self promoting deprivation. In the alps with deer, white, purple, pink, I see. My ability to create such a young and early death. And berries, unfortunately, crimson flowers with reflexed petals, can get pretty intimacy only just awhile. In that mindset.

Describing expectantly comfort with strangers, a life donated to my abilities. A circular boat so I can find severe athleticism. Here I am, viewed from inside.

when the seasons are falling in love

the pink reasons falling in love

My head explodes and mine mouth burns. Here, in the kitchen at checkerclothed table I sit trying, typical typing. The dog collapses beneath, only a crimped & done-up tail to see. The remote sounds of jazz, the behind-me tweet of a housefinch no doubt swaying on the windblown line just outside my attic window. They fight, the finches, and the red breasted nuthatch swoops in with its little tubular stone of a body, beak apoint like a needle, to chip away at the black oil sunflower seeds. I hear the wind in the trees & the sun is hot on my bare neck, just visible over the horizon of window. The pink rose from another day still perfect in brown medicine bottle- still insane in its perfume, enough do disbelieve a smell like could be a natural one! and if it wasn't we'd shake our heads in revulsion at such a saccharin scent.

The dog woofs low and emits habitual growls. They're like hiccups, they can't be helped. The yerba maté chai + peppermint still warm and thoroughly enthurmosed. My ankles and cheeks & everything inbetween, enthurmosed.

such the joys from out of its

Isn't until I've thought of it, thought it through, but how strange to have all the trees be pink! I'm liking the views of seeming fronds, seemingly leafed in pink as if not by fluffs. My fingers can barely contain the letters about it.