Why then am, I NOT
what I was
and why I am like I am
my own words
I am not
Feeling the people

So the beat goes on.

I just am, so my breath goes on
I can dance, and shimmy a little
well on a good day, and maybe wiggle
but as the days go on
my heart goes on.

and the beat changes.

For that WAS is NOT there any more
all I have is what
I think so
if you do not agree say so.

AND that was me              If I         W                 A                S.

we were never people
but maps
with worlds to explore
an almanac of oceans
body parts cut up into
states.
you were california
always so far away
and i was alaska
in a cold dark place.
one day
our bodies folded
atlas hands
joined together
splitting mountain
ridges
to be with one another.

State Fair, Kentucky 2013

by Yoko Molotov and David Willams


It’s time for the State Fair,
today is the last day of summer.

love all the animals. pet all the animals.
cook all the animals. eat all the animals.

inflatable prizes on a stick, slowly deflating,
it’s the childhood's defeat-
they are lying lifeless in the backseat.

guess your
birthday,
weight or age
within 3 days,
20lbs, or 3 years.
junk on tables for looks at-
key rings, magnets and stickers.
Formal complaints.

white people.
Starving ducklings leap and fall
while snotty babies squeal at them.
Obama, I'm a friend of Mitch.
donate 3$ to the GOP.
I fed an estranged Grandpa
roasted pecans.

country people. concrete floors.
legs. legs long and legs glossed.
Thousands of people and two thousands of crocs.
pillars of ivory, blue and dimpled.
sunburn, wife beaters, and university shirts.
(THAT'S IT, I'M TELLING MEMAW, your shirts are beautiful)
beautiful lips
and toothless maws.

half-hearted, half-heated corn dogs and overpriced
beers, I can never finish an ice cream so
I usually leave the cone lying to be
sat in.
Dead bugs in a box and bug puke in my mouth.
A salad made from blue ribbon tobacco and light bulb tomatoes.
everything smells like popcorn, **** and tradition.

Joseph's Dreamcoat worn in some nobody's county.
you're my favorite gingerbread girl.
lover's quarrels are illegal, thanks.
everyone has the right to be miserable, thanks.

bovine pet request,
dumb static and docile eyes, do they ever change?
does any of it really change?
at some point all the cows petted will be digested and shat out.

congested aisles, shoving and trampling,
the mobilized morbidly obese in carts
WWJD?
a fat stone in a brainless trout stream.
the failing pan salesman hawking his wares,
no one in attendance, wearing a headset (a real go-getter)
and holding his pan like a flag.

the really poor families come to the fair
because it's cheap entertainment,
and it's cheap tradition.
and these struggling families
trudge proudly in faded Kmart attire-
an exhibition the pretentious call
"people watching".

separating oneself from the herd of undesirables,
a pasty man
with his head awkwardly on a pillow,
trying to convince an apathetic and bloated crowd
the perfection of his product,
his head a bit like road ****.
he's selling but the
crowd walks on-on-on.


Was there more guano under the bridge or beyond the gates?

I need some good words ****** into me

or

I need to find the right lines

to right me.



traveling the tides of time

on the backs of

Bradford blossoms,



the stench of carrion nostalgia-

I heard it was the strongest

of our longings-



to become such as fossils,

to relive what were.



a million reasons to be

distracted.



a million reasons to

spread my legs-



a million reasons for the

birds to sing-



in which I cannot see

but it churns the tides anyway,



learning to love the

right way, after

being fostered by drunk brutals

or father’s in their own right-



I’ve left that decade

in a grave of lines,



lines I’ve scribed

and lines left unearthed.

i think just recently, i have embraced
mysexualitymyconfidencemylooks
me.
according to men, my *** is the right size,
some want to dive into my eyes and drizzle honey
on my cinnamon toasted pores.
(i am more than these hips, this hair that sometimes wants to
curl like a lion’s mane)

but some (most, you) want to paint pictures and
flick sweeten vowels thinking all i am
is how wet my flowers can
become. how tight my skirt can be
before someone sees the muscular thigh and then blame me.
me.

because, let’s be honest, it’s always her fault

isn’t it?

for once i want a man to not be an animal,
be proud of intelligence and the ability to read until sun kisses their
tired fingers.
i want a man to be able to cry at the sheer beauty of music and art.

i want us, women, human beings, to be able to stand up,
wear whatever the **** we want, and scream.

I've been drawing
A blank
Dwelling in this
So called
Conundrum

Only giving
Half hearted gestures,
Forsaking all others

I've deliberately
Out smarted
All the details
Lost in time

Jittery
On every
Steamy day

The remedy
Never lies
In the score book,
Or with
Criminal instincts,
Not even
The crooked
Cab drivers

So I'll wander
In these
Unvarnished
Chocolate covered
Nightmares

I'll hide
Under the
Stairs
Where spiritualistic,
Speakeasy
Behavior
Only leaves
You
Killed or injured

A whirl
Of such discovery
And you
Will finally
See

It's mostly people
Who cause
This kind of
Unease

it has been two and a half months
(really it’s been seven years, three months,
fifteen days, twelve hours, five minutes and thirty-three
seconds)

but my jacket is back.
(except it smells like you)

acoustic guitar, the redolence of ****
and mistakes pungent in the sort of summer air.

but my jacket is back.
(except it tastes like you)

i felt your footsteps, imagined the way your fingers
held my hair, tight, yanking. a doll with loose threads.

but my jacket is back.
(except it looks like you)

your teeth reminded me of the oceans i could never find,
your eyelashes like razors begging to slice me open.

but my jacket is back.
(except it feels like you)

it felt heavy in my bruised hands, your hug
was a boa constrictor killing prey. main course.(dessert)

but my jacket is back.
yet when i wear it,
all i can think is you mounting, hands
rigid, your fingers venom.

i cannot breathe with it on

I wanted to say you were beautiful

but that’s what creeps say.



I noticed dogs bark the loudest

behind their master’s fences.



I wanted to love you in person

but it’s easier when you’re away.



I did a swell job at

poisoning the well didn’t I?



I guess blood pacts

are my addiction, especially the flimsy ones.



I tried to conjure the greats
with shadow puppets on my wall.



I’m greedily repentant

I’m hungry, hungry and sorry.

Wet Cave

I fled from the thought
the way one escapes pain through poison

wondering in cave blindness
if I could ever be patient enough

so
I save your lines
I plan to keep them close
to mine

because the more I fall in
this shroud
the more my voice falls faint

I need a stand-in
to help hold this together
to help bail water

that the cave in
its caliginous hospitality
has given me generously

my memories of our
conversation water logged and
swollen,

the ink now indiscernible
now that I can’t remember
what you said

I’m sorry but
I had to tear your face
out of my book

but at least now we know
where we stand-

with cold feet.

we wandered in the incandescent halls of walgreens,
my fingers stitched in your back pocket, your freckles
painted.
1:13, two teenagers with nothing but anxiety attacks
and drunken *** keeping everything
together.
i hummed to a made-up
tune.