Monday, February 26, 2007

To You

To you and not about you, for you and not inside you despite previously announced intentions, in you but not of you, and the plumbing down there is very complicated and very female.
Thank you for thinking of me even if you write about you, and you are right about you, you are not who anyone winking would be thinking about even when out.
The closet is closest and everyone has something to hide.
Let's ride.
My love is godly and my glove is goodly and my gold is lovely and my hold on you is behovely.
Show me the way to the next whisky bar. Snow me the way to the next fertile jar.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

What I am?

I need a little third party perspective on this.

I have an upcoming gig as a guest post-er on a board where I'll need to have my own avatar. So I begged/bugged/fucked D. until he did one for me.

Christ almighty. Do I really look like a dried up video tart from the late 80's? Are those antennae? Am I cross eyed?

Can I use a pen and ink avatar of my thumb up my ass?

Friday, February 16, 2007

They Think (Whoever They Are)

They say etc something slanderous.

They think that I am somebody
with a name, earned or not,
or just somebody,
but whoever it is that I am
what I am I am because of you.

Who said anything about love?

Yet who can write a sentence
without me and mine, yours and you?

I'd say this has more to do
with what is real
than what is true.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Good Golly Miss Molly (A Sonnet)

"I shall ghost write a sonnet and make believe it came from you,"
He wrote in his last note. OK let's see what he did do.

Good Golly Miss Molly (A Sonnet)

Comedy ends in marriage,
tragedy in death.
Religion begins in breath
or the fear of god.

The fear of go is sacrilege
in Japan
where Lear changed his name
to Ran
and gained fame.

Girls write novels,
Judges bang gavels,
Boys bang girls.
Please don't cut your curls.
I love your code.
Do you love my booty?
Am I your cutie?

That's what happens when guys in love with your ass
write sonnets. Fifteen lines. The smell of gas.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

You Know Me So Well

If I called you Alice instead of Al,
would you still be my pal?

In loving you I love the truth
and lament my youth.

(I typed "use" and out came "sue."
Here are more names we can sue.
Jack is one, Jane is two.)

I was your Jane.
You were my Jack.
You rode my back.
I entered your brain.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

The Kissing Wink

Here's to you, the kissing wink, the missing link, the fisting drink, the lasting blink, the wasting drink, the fasting jinx, the cat who thinks, the kitty ho flinch, the ass that got pinched, and O O O O, you must be the one who sat on the stool when I was a fool and you were so cool and we were in school.

So do I love you or what?

Be your caterpillar and oh so so so. Oh no. Don't go. Be my Alice, and I shall be your caterpillar and we shall sit on top of a mushroom and smoke a pipe. If you shall chew then I shall be true and you will know who says I do. Welcome back, and no attack.

You and not your son, you and not your salt, you and not your czar because we are not in Russia and where we are is where there are little stars crumbling and God whirling through like the wind along the great white milky way.

I serve the greater god by loving you.

Friday, February 09, 2007

How Language Works

I'm writing to you tootsie,
fingers on keys, (pads— mostly 8 and the edges of thumbs)
finding the letters Mrs. Fat Butterscotch Sucking Typing Teacher taught me -
hanging manila folders over my hands and stalking up and down the aisles
of clattering typewriters in my eighth grade class.

But I am not writing about you.

I am conscious of you
(counting, last night pat, a long time watching that one time, walking)
and what forms and follows through all sorts of filters to my arms with their lotion smells like cocoa butter and sandalwood and then on to the fingers where there are sometimes rings (BIG like the Tiffany one that someONE gave me with all the stones for the every year we've done that thing we do)
(smaller is the little band from a Nana -- a dish towel the only other thing I have of hers) and finally the tips of fingers which I called pads above is writing what comes from me. But it is still mine and I may be writing to you but I am never writing about you. It's about me.

When I write the poem about falling off a high horse, too tired to hold the reins from clutching babies and sucking cock, my only regret is that lying slut who cannot be pinned down more firmly. Language. But this is the work I do - duplicitous, solitary, dull, difficult, slippery, nipples. I digress.

Wilder was right--it’s the price of being a poet; valuing life every, every minute.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Miss Hue

Is Blue

The color of lost

Molly's aloning
not boning

in the belly
head ache and
the following
of woe:

I've pinched small babes and hated dogs
I've slapped a nun, exploded frogs
I've cut buttons from your best shirts
I've stolen half of your dessert
I've opened your letters and read them all
And still there's this that is c'est mal

I've missed my sea man,
(From your #1 fan)
I have been ill
filled only with pills
this no communication
is conjugal starvation
or orgiastic pain
and no one's gain.
So though there's no humming
pen nib or velluming
I'm out here in cyber
in a recuperative hyber-
nation for no certain time
but when better I'll chime
and give you hellos
that start from my toes.

- Miss Sing Hue (a.k.a. Molly F. Arden)

Sunday, February 04, 2007

When Friends Depart

There are several possibilities:
(A) When friends lave (I mean leave, I like it when they lave, and sometimes they love but that's another complication) and you see them once a year and then once every two ears and then once every three eras and then they get divorced or you have Baby # 1 and you move to California and that is the virtual end. Should you sob?
(B) There are also friends that become enemies and you wonder whether they always were and you just didn't know it.
So I ask you all: what is the difference between friend and rival and friendly rival?
When does a friend become an enemy?
Can you lose a friend or will you always have that friend?
Is this wishful thinking or should I just take a bath and read Emerson on "Friendship"?
Advice, please, Miss Sanders?
Thank you.