Why O Why O Why O

Why O why O why O
Did I ever leave Ohio?
Did I? Leave Ohio?
No. But I didn't stay.
Yes, but I didn't know the way.
I left the home of the grave
For the grove of the brave.
And now the women that I see
In the locker room every day
Shave their pussy.
Each is a hussy
Who has thrown a fit of hissy.
I'd rather shave than wear a wig.
And each of them thinks her ass is too big.
Yes, each girl thinks her ass is too big!

Abandonment

Pretending to imagine a hereditary connection between myself and this small woman purchasing pills in line in the pharmacy in the next town in the afternoon where I am glazed as a wheelbarrow covered in rain. Are we dying or only sick with something we'll cure with pills? I wish we had talked more as a family, known more about each other as people. Why didn't I listen to her stories about the rings she wears? The pen she uses to write the plain blue check is one taken from a local real estate office. It's the office I used to arrange the lease of my house. So many connections between us and yet we stand in line facing one direction, one death, and she cannot see me and I am not seeing anything clearly.

What is It?

What is a kunt?
Why mix cahlua with kream?
What is a facial and why go to a spa for one?
What makes the bush my president (said Archie Cleaver, after discovering that they now sell strapons for men)?
What do the New Formalism and Language Poetry have in common?
Who shot Liberty Valence?
If you put together the first letter of each answer you will arrive at the "dirty little secret."
Good phuck, and happy kunting.

The Dirty Little Secret

Molly thinks the blogosphere is like crazy daddy you slay me. But some of these guys go too far. Take the blogger I'll call ED, who writes that "the dirty little secret of the Language Poets is that they are Republicans." Now that's just silly. Molly had to laugh. Right? Left. Either way you end where you start and "know the place for the first time," according to my favorite tse-tse fly, who probably did not suffer from ED.

If you could end a poem with these lines

You have given me the shell, Satan, -- carbonic amulet
Sere of the sun exploded in the sea.

would you do so? Hot diggity dog!

Man Love

Molly's always one to gush for a woman who loves her man. Man love is a powerful thing.

A woman under the haze of Sinatra bases loaded tight cigar fedora tighter rhyme good form
my god that woman will go to great depths faraway lands swim dark rivers blind while keeping sharks at bay with bits of her own flesh.

Do you mind?
It seems some people do.
Oh, little people who'd break your new bike (banana seat/high rise handlebars) because theirs isn't/wasn't/will never be as good. Little people who didn't get enough tit as babies, enough attention as adolescents and are always in search of replacements and receptacles for their utter despair.

No love for haters.
Mad props for the woman who loves her man and all he does.

Penelope, you keep your ass in that bed and you just know in your bones that old Odysseus is comin' to get some no matter what those fucks outside the door been tellin' you.

Holy Longing

On occasion
raison
leaves me dry.
Without shape
this foreign song
is the f bomb
rocketing
through me.
In classroom
at dinner table
in stores downtown.
I belong offshore,
dirty mouth whore.
Write it instead.
Make it french
put it in bed.
Lick its hole
Let it bite me back
before I come
back for more.
yelling encore!

Riddle Me

If Fatso Bully is a balloon punctured by a bulletin board thumbtack, then what is a loudmouth who (a) calls the dean a fascist, (b) complains that "islamofacist" is an inexact term, and (c) writes a fawning letter applying to the dean for funding to spend the summer in Majorca?

(a) a hypocrite
(b) an academic
(c) the same old windbag
(4) male rot
(e) all of the above.

For extra credit, pick out the incongruous option.

The Morning Star

Molly has never kept it secret that she is friendly with and has occasionally assisted the poet and editor she likes to call Sir David. Noticing that his recent big book was disparaged by reviewer Marjorie Morningstar in London's "Times Literary Supplement," Molly wondered how the old boy was taking it. So she wrote him. "I haven't read the review," he wrote back, explaining that he doesn't routinely read all his reviews. "What does it depend on?" "Many critics are predictable. In some cases, all you need to know is the reviewer's name, and you can anticipate what he or she will say, and then you can write the review yourself as an act of imagination. When I review books I'm old-fashioned enough to read the book first, but some critics don't bother. Disregarding reviewers seems a healthy non-response." Sounds good to me, Sir D. "You didn't miss a thing," I told him.
Today's quotation of the day: "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." For twenty points and an alliterative line, who said it?

Here's a hint:

The password is blow me.

Molly's strapping on
a hard on
tight hard and sword like
ready to fight like the boys
minus the balls but I got more than balls, babies,
I got brains and panties in a twist.
I'm finding you, sending my terrier
down your rat hole,
I'm letting him drag you out into the light and then
I'm taping the WORST poem to a brick and I'm
shoving it up your ass sideways.

Like small little girls who are mean to dogs or
sisters who forget birthdays, fuck faced cowards must be punished, too.

Momma loves you baby. Sleep tight, sweet.

Pitching or receiving

Giving and having, getting and wanting is all Molly's about lately. A small nib of a pencil tipped gently toward the list of "to - do's" resting on my lap and I'm juggling bags of produce and meager books, and thoughts about the Cleveland Indians. Yes, kids, I'm daydreaming of Johnny Humphries. Molly's taking the night off to read in the tub. Knees, nipples, need soak and read. If you're good, I'll tell about it in the mourning.

Molly gets a mash note

Molly got a mash note in the mail today. She was sitting in the girl teachers' lounge and drinking a bottle of bubbly water and opened an envelope with a handsome handwriting and there was a poem written to Molly praising her mind her tits her ass her mind her soul her mound her mind her taste in men her sarcasm her jeans. It was OK poem that got better as it went along and it was in rhyme and she blushed. Was it written by Max? if so he had someone else write it out because Max's handwriting doesn't look like that. But Max unmasked is Max unasked, and in the dark she may think of him tonight. She likes Max because she expects Max to be Max and not change and she doesn't tell him when to sit down and when to stand up and when to hang up his coat and when to get the ice bucket for the party because a crowd of creeps are coming over to raid the refeigerator where she keeps the pills and religion. Molly is amazed at how many there are, people, ciphers, fakers, the occasional real person who is willing to sign her name or his name or your name or their name and how many there are, and a lot of them are vain and if not vain they are resentful and if not resentful they are bitter and arid and ugh, and some of them are not even forty years old and writing their memoirs. Don't be like one of them!

Funny

Late conversation last night to a friend
who's in the cunt and penis greeting card business.
She laments, "If I suck at work, it's not like anyone's dying."
I remind, "If you suck at work, no one's laughing."

That's serious work.

good morning

Where I come from, good morning equals good moaning give or take a few extraneous consonants and most of the vowels. but I am a teacher. you are a preacher. she is a lover. he is a mover. you are a shaker. I am a baker. she is a maker. we is a faker. neverthless let me guess. if he and she had met when each was twenty-three. if she and he and no one else made three until the first child added a puff of white smoke in the air and we all knew that a new pope had been elected. meanwhile, we pretended to be unaffected but were secretly disaffected to the point of frequenting bars and eyeing the available talent. We were at war, uninspired, demoralized, divided. But when a hero is needed, that's when a hero comes. Everything that is sad here will be said again by someone when. Everything that is said here will be repeated then. Defeated when. Someone when writing will say it again. This is not a fucken prediction, man. This is a prophesy. Unnerstan?

The aye's have it

Eye don't normally succumb
to the demands of commentor one

But was curious to see
if with talent and glee

a ditty without "___ " could become

a smiling pink doll of a piece
whose form was sassy if meek

she'd softly impart
her wisdom or farts

But this I eye, aye will not cease..

(Fuck that and fuck you commentor one.)

- Molly I. Arden

Miss Arden regrets

Miss Arden regrets she's unable to lunch today. Yesterday's post was basically a provocation, and wow, did it work! Molly regrets it, because of the firestorm that followed. (See, I like referring to myself in the third person.) But before reverting to her naughty nonpolitical self, she can't help observing, on this solemn fifth anniversary of the worst day in our history, that when some clown puts a crucifix in urine, the NEA threatens to cut his funding off, but when a cartoonist makes fun of muslim sacred cows, the bad guys threaten to cut his head off. There IS a difference. For "he" and "his" in these sentences, read "she" and "her" or even "I" and "my." I love pronouns. The world wide web exists because of them. A pronoun invented the Internet.

It takes more courage

Here is Molly Arden's frank unflinching opinion of the week:
It takes more nerve (guts, courage, balls, tits) to write a poem in defense of Danish cartoonists or Ariel Sharon, for example, than to write yet one more denunciation of Dubya or dippy crappy anti-war verse for a book of same edited by an angry Buddhist or grandstanding bullshit artist.
Take that!

À bon chat, bon rat.

Mon nounours,
I am attendant pour some signal (a french mot, n'est pas?). Peut-être I will build you a tower, lapin, dangling eared you will wave or wiggle or wink. From up there you will roules sa bosse. C'est vrai. I am dehors, tu dires my name and I will piste in votre direction. Whisper sa vie in mon ear, mon clean epi.
A fond, M.

On the Roads to Dreamland

There isn't just one road.
That's what I learned.
If you bear a heavy load
Use protection. Don't get burned.

Writing like a woman is hard.
Writing as a woman is easy.
I won't play the gender card.
Nor will I affect a tone that's breezy.

I have brothers four
And sisters and aunts galore
But I won't be a bore
And I won't close the door.

Now it's your turn to lower the shade
To an orange thought in a yellow glade.

Entitled

If you could get what you want
or what you deserve
what would the difference be?

Would there be a great hanging rope ladder
dangling miles between the two?

Is what you want always what you deserve?

Maybe we want what we deserve in a subconscious way
and work at getting that.

Whenever I work for women the shriveled pink worm of entitled somehow always manages to work its way out of their panties and into their mouths. These female department heads/directors/presidents usually hold it in their mouths for a while and play with it before spitting it off their tongues in my direction.

Sometimes it sticks. Sometimes it results in no raise or promotion or shitty classes. Other times it reminds me to get what I deserve AND what I want.

Fucking women. Fucking. Women. Would you have us any other way?

My Testament

What Molly Arden says, goes.
I say: what Molly Arden says goes.
Sez who? Sez me. Say what? Say hose.
Because I am Molly Arden.
Because Molly Arden knows.

If I weren't Molly Arden who would I be?
O, if I weren't Molly Arden who would I be?
Not you or you, you, you. What Molly Arden says
In this room stays
In this room. Kapisch?

When Molly Arden says "it's the end of an ear"
It means a crackpot linguist or a revered
Character actor has kicked the bucket,
Turned out the lights, gone in one era
And out the other.

When Molly Arden tells the truth
you know it's the truth
and it's not wasted on the young
like a drop of precious liquor
on your perfect pink tongue.