obit

April 4, 2014

Conventional! I have a witness for volume, the neighborhood roars, the lap lap of the sea, the atlantic, little boise roars, the waves lick my ankles of the sand I'm of the sand. I think

 I'll smoke a cigarette. my name is molly, I am just short of 30, I've fallen in love a number of times, I live in little boise, I'm drinking strawberry beer, chad is cutting isaiah's hair sadly, crying at the lostlocks, daydreamy, cedar oil. I shaved half of my dog, she is flearidden. the era got eerie.

 Or, do you want to celebrate?

I live in a room up top, upstairs people land of balcony people, the haunting neighborhood roar. the roar of wet neighbors and dry neighbors, the land of faraway loveslost, lovelocks, lostloves, lostlocks.

recently I have acquired a weddingdress, of course we mean weddingguestdress, bestdressed weddingguestdress, the first lady would wear it before she was she.

pie slits. let out the steam a bit!

bring it up a bit. competing multitudes

signed

the smiths

dear diary

it's the last night at gayulz club. i lit the last smoke with the last match, am drinking the last gold beer. reel around the fountain is playing, i'm on sparkleporch, room empty but for floorbed and table, box & lamp. for the first time i can fit my clothes into a dresser, i'm suddenly dismissing & emptying. it feels almost just right. & the new room is a tall rectangle, animation blinds. i'd have to show you! come over, there's a joke closet. the stuff i keep is adorable. i'm writing full sentences, now. 

   oh just set up a table. oh just do it. the things are right, a rightbrain is you. many congratulations to strange summer. my brain is coming tiedyed, i fell out of bed twice. say something you've never said. 

   i got to hear about the bigger things, the deals of those i love. everyone is asuffer. i am a little perspective. you are a little. she is big to me, he is to me. may! you are a pretty month, in your surprise-destruction. you never do this before. i'm wearing the hat you left in the cushions. she said what to do with sad t, sadly folded reading only to keep, and i said don't tell me about it just put it somewhere. so who knows about that? mementos try as kill-futures. i didn't have a bad time,

   here at gayulz club, life was supposed to be a spa. we would steam everynight, and waltz out onto the patio in robes, reeling in the spring fall winter night, have a cocktail, rub lotion on i guess, nails.

   it would be soup & slowjamb sundays, which we did for awhile, so much soup & people would come and they'd eat it & compliment us, and we'd dance to toni braxton etc.

   last week i discovered that my office was on the patio, cushion seat near the ground, the small desk, & opposite, the job interview swing seat, you could meet 2 at once. A typewriter if necessary, plugins everywhere, & even an assistant in a clever white collared top (sassy) with imbedded black vestlet. she can't bring coffee or file or write because she hasn't opposable thumbs, what she's useful for is telling you when someone's arrived to see you.

   i am excited, i am looking at it, i will miss you gayulz club. i have moved in & out of you 3 times, this final forever no more. it's a relief. glad i got to sleep outside in a bed in you, so happy to have met all the ghosts here, & to have showered occasionally & painted the studio so it could be looked at. leopard carpet, marble bathroom. kevin over the fireplace, dumb dumb dumb

champion

I have a gold heart,

I have a chocolate heart

but foilless, boxless

gold in gold out

squish

the most sublime gold goo

little valves, gold hollows

close & open

letting in the steam hot sludge

the kind of gold you need sunglasses for

what does an ounce of gold go for these days

or a lid of gold

an eighth of an ounce of my heart weighs the same as a ballpointpen

gold around the size of my small fist.

remember when you were wrapped around me?

well you should have put it all in

because then we could have said we'd done it

elbow deep

flush me out

vacate me,

inhabit me

you could have built a fire inside

set about with the world's pillows

take the draft out

shake out curtains

spit shine like glass

throw the mirrors in the fire

a tree grows through the kitchen floor, through the roof

wrap around that, get scaly

ponderosa splinters in your trying arms.

downcast your eyes, 

do a tired tried falter

There is something to do with heart like that

submerge it

melt it

slice through shell

heat & drain

you're so reasonable & I'm so maudlin

I'm a model. I moved to New York City to walk down the sidewalks in towering alexander mcqueens and nylons ripped at the knees. I'm so modeling right now, it's insane. EVEN under the thunderstorms, here in the city, right next to the piers where the concerts glow at night, and the summer-stench crawls from beneath chinatown drains, with the women whispering from staircases, the escapes from fires don't pull down, that never seem to work. The women here are talking bored about child support & doctor's bills, and I am wearing too much copper so rains like these move my skin off, they patina my bones and veins. But since I am so modelin' right now, I am all ribs and clavicles, and my jutting hip on which a trouser-waist sits hangs like a hanger, as I am. I'm a model, and I moved to New York City to stumble down the streets in the earlymorning dark, after salons in my prada pumps. I'm sooooo modeling, but then there is you & you are so able to reason. You aren't even here in New York City because you couldn't exist here, because the beach touches the asphalt and the flowers are spare and wispy, and my hair never ever tries to grow here because only the molds and bugs and beauties of the undergrowth underbenches underground can grow, and my one face melts into nothing with the splay of the city, the stupid subway stench in identical nostrils, and we all evaporate simultaneously. You can't be here, because no one is here, and you are so real, so reasonable. Those days (these, of summer here) are entire worlds, are lifetimes and the end never darkens, just turns to puce & salmons & body-odor vermilions, and the sun rises unobtrusively and casual is the steam from the jamaica bay fog. A man in a yellow convertible comes to me, hawaiaan shirted, and I begin to fall back into the walk I do.

it is silent again, and will

(songs of yesteryear)

7 September, 2:27 pm, ne 59th avenue, Portland

It is silent save for the burbling of brown rice. I hear the froths, the drips of steam collected and singe splashing against the burner of a distasteful electric range. And outside, the snipping of branches like of the rose and such, those which hang and throw themselves after the rains to block the walk just south, outside the window, of where I sit. Oh! I really just yelped there; I felt my mind’s eye wander back and behind me, through the open window and into the aforementioned walk, where ARMK clips clips away. I envisioned him and then lo, a begloved hand holds a perfect perfumed rose of the palest pink before me. I did happen to cry out in surprise, as my expectant mind was, just then, in the walkway south of the window. I see the steam rising, waiting for the rice to finish its process. And then, to dine on such delicious stew! I used kale (after de-aphiding and sadly disposing of many, many long curled leaves) and two small beets from the garden, as well as a sweet potato, lovely little onions & garden garlic, cabbage, fennel seed, ground mustard & cayenne. Oh! In this kitchen the light is common to change, and the day hasn’t yet appeared in rain, nor would I hasten to call portland anything drab. Is it sad for me to not capitalize the town in which I live? It doesn’t mean I no longer feel it so!!

Drinking in yerba maté chai, and autumn begins wholeheartedly. I want to fall in love with mine again, and will.