"molar" poems
'All glory and honor', to You, bathed me with yellowed fingers. Father.
Whips me across each molar for penance, offers me glue in the morning- the kind he uses on letters when saliva won't seal the deal.
I, the cliché, trim my fingernails with a knife and mostly miss target. Slide into various seas, daily, with tincan pupils.
Knock,
knock, its time again
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Lucid dreaming, I sit
in a downtown lounge,
swirling ice in my drink, listening
to tiny 'bergs creaking and cracking.
I raise the glass to my lips and
imagine the taste of Shackleton's whisky, after those
100 years in Antarctic ice, assimilating a tinge of penguin, a pinch of
blubber, the turbulence of the sea, the still of the frozen mountains across the tundra, the desolation, the tenacity of survival, the bitter numbing cold, mixed in with
the warm peaty oaken goodness of Scotland at the other end
of the world.
Through the soles of my boots I sense the
thin surface tension keeping my body, the table and chairs
from plunging into the frozen deep that
lurks somewhere beneath the Lower East Side, black and still,
waiting
waiting.
The band starts up in the
next room.
A curtain parts and a blast of brass escapes, a great honking
sound that
reverberates in a molar,
before
a female voice lifts me from my chair, drawing me toward
the source.
Pushing across the floor like Nureyev on ice, I slide deftly between amorous
couples, skirt the co-ed queue at the toilets, dodge the woman at the curtain collecting the cover charge, nod at my pal the bouncer returning to his post and finally
glide/float/fly through the velvet drapery,
focused on the rising soprano.
It's just a dream, I think. Why pay cover?
*Ode to the Living Room
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Vitriolic hydraulic push
Pull of sorghum
Sticking sweetly in my veins
Molar studded oatmeal cookies
Crunching like a bad dream
Dull rhinestone eyes
Losing more and more shine every day
Sluggish swole-bellied synapses
Firing in my brain
And I'm crying oversized tears
Drowning like Alice in Wonderland
I know you couldn't bear to breathe my air
Or share our bed
Or eat my cooking
But
"Did you know the capital of Uzbekistan is Tashkent?"
No.
Did you know I keep Austin up every night
Begging for your scraps?
Hedoesn'tlovemehedoesn'tlovemehedoesn'tlovemeandIdon'tunderstandwhatIdidwronghedoesn'tlovemeAustinmyheartisgone
I can still smell you
On my sunday dresses
And I'm afraid of the washing machine
And dryer sheets
Afraid of what they'll take from me
I had religion
I had faith in you
And I can still taste the body
Of Jesus Christ
Jesus Christ!
All night
Not like I lost anything important right?
Well
I'll probably never see you again
But my daddy's got a shotgun
Just in case
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
“Do not grab me”
“She has done it again,
You have got to agree
She is a pain.”
The little pink toothbrush
Moaning about the way it’s treated
In the mad morning rush
Till the cleaning session’s completed.
“Pick me up gently, that is it
Now squeeze the paste”
“Too much, too much, just a bit
Oh my life, what a waste.”
The little pink toothbrush is a fed up
He wants to be looked after lovingly
From when he comes out of his cup
Which is fair comment to some degree.
“In the mouth we go,
Always the same molar
Now woman brush to and fro
No, no, wrong, I’m trying to control you.
“Up and down, not like a yard brush
Gently, we have to do it gently
It is not some major rush
Do it differently.
Do human beings know?
Do they actually care?
Is their brain like pastry dough?
Is it even there?
If I have thought it once,
I’ve thought it a million times a day
She must be a dunce
And that is all I can say.
Rinse woman , rinse me
Under the sparkling spray
Oh no don’t dip me in your cup of tea
I’ll be yellow and smelly all day.”
Does she not know I have needs
Not know how to treat me nice
It is like she succeeds
I have to think everything twice.
“And don’t throw me
Put me gently back in my place
And I’m covered in tea
Pity it’s not on your face.”
Look soap, look everyone what she does
Treats me like a scrubbing brush
And she does it because
She is always in a rush!”
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
“Do not grab me”
“She has done it again,
You have got to agree
She is a pain.”
The little pink toothbrush
Moaning about the way it’s treated
In the mad morning rush
Till the cleaning session’s completed.
“Pick me up gently, that is it
Now squeeze the paste”
“Too much, too much, just a bit
Oh my life, what a waste.”
The little pink toothbrush is a fed up
He wants to be looked after lovingly
From when he comes out of his cup
Which is fair comment to some degree.
“In the mouth we go,
Always the same molar
Now woman brush to and fro
No, no, wrong, I’m trying to control you.
“Up and down, not like a yard brush
Gently, we have to do it gently
It is not some major rush
Do it differently.
Do human beings know?
Do they actually care?
Is their brain like pastry dough?
Is it even there?
If I have thought it once,
I’ve thought it a million times a day
She must be a dunce
And that is all I can say.
Rinse woman , rinse me
Under the sparkling spray
Oh no don’t dip me in your cup of tea
I’ll be yellow and smelly all day.”
Does she not know I have needs
Not know how to treat me nice
It is like she succeeds
I have to think everything twice.
“And don’t throw me
Put me gently back in my place
And I’m covered in tea
Pity it’s not on your face.”
Look soap, look everyone what she does
Treats me like a scrubbing brush
And she does it because
She is always in a rush!”
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
Take away your knowledge, Doktor.
It doesn't butter me up.
You say my heart is sick unto.
You ought to have more respect!
you with the goo on the suction cup.
You with your wires and electrodes
fastened at my ankle and wrist,
******* up the biological breast.
You with your zigzag machine
playing like the stock market up and down.
Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl
and I will make a gold crown for my molar.
I will take a slug if you please
and make myself a perfectly good appendix.
Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass.
The world was milky all along.
I will take an iron and press out
my slipped disk until it is flat.
But take away my mother's carcinoma
for I have only one cup of fetus tears.
Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage
for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand.
Take away my sister's broken neck
for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure.
Is there such a device for my heart?
I have only a gimmick called magic fingers.
Let me dilate like a bad debt.
Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself.
O heart, tobacco red heart,
beat like a rock guitar.
I am at the ship's prow.
I am no longer the suicide
with her raft and paddle.
Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die
to spite you, you wallowing
seasick grounded man.
2k
“Do not grab me”
“She has done it again,
You have got to agree
She is a pain.”
The little pink toothbrush
Moaning about the way it’s treated
In the mad morning rush
Till the cleaning session’s completed.
“Pick me up gently, that is it
Now squeeze the paste”
“Too much, too much, just a bit
Oh my life, what a waste.”
The little pink toothbrush is a fed up
He wants to be looked after lovingly
From when he comes out of his cup
Which is fair comment to some degree.
“In the mouth we go,
Always the same molar
Now woman brush to and fro
No, no, wrong, I’m trying to control you.
“Up and down, not like a yard brush
Gently, we have to do it gently
It is not some major rush
Do it differently.
Do human beings know?
Do they actually care?
Is their brain like pastry dough?
Is it even there?
If I have thought it once,
I’ve thought it a million times a day
She must be a dunce
And that is all I can say.
Rinse woman , rinse me
Under the sparkling spray
Oh no don’t dip me in your cup of tea
I’ll be yellow and smelly all day.”
Does she not know I have needs
Not know how to treat me nice
It is like she succeeds
I have to think everything twice.
“And don’t throw me
Put me gently back in my place
And I’m covered in tea
Pity it’s not on your face.”
Look soap, look everyone what she does
Treats me like a scrubbing brush
And she does it because
She is always in a rush!”
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
A Little Pink Toothbrush
“Do not grab me”
“She has done it again,
You have got to agree
She is a pain.”
The little pink toothbrush
Moaning about the way it’s treated
In the mad morning rush
Till the cleaning session’s completed.
“Pick me up gently, that is it
Now squeeze the paste”
“Too much, too much, just a bit
Oh my life, what a waste.”
The little pink toothbrush is a fed up
He wants to be looked after lovingly
From when he comes out of his cup
Which is fair comment to some degree.
“In the mouth we go,
Always the same molar
Now woman brush to and fro
No, no, wrong, I’m trying to control you.
“Up and down, not like a yard brush
Gently, we have to do it gently
It is not some major rush
Do it differently.
Do human beings know?
Do they actually care?
Is their brain like pastry dough?
Is it even there?
If I have thought it once,
I’ve thought it a million times a day
She must be a dunce
And that is all I can say.
Rinse woman , rinse me
Under the sparkling spray
Oh no don’t dip me in your cup of tea
I’ll be yellow and smelly all day.”
Does she not know I have needs
Not know how to treat me nice
It is like she succeeds
I have to think everything twice.
“And don’t throw me
Put me gently back in my place
And I’m covered in tea
Pity it’s not on your face.”
Look soap, look everyone what she does
Treats me like a scrubbing brush
And she does it because
She is always in a rush!”
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
The wallpaper in your grandmother’s front room
is appalling. Old bible yellow pages,
bevy of bubbles joining,
thickening like arteries beneath the surface.
And what is that? The daily brain teaser,
printed patio of letters.
Five down - ‘state of being alone’.
I think I know it. I am sure of it.
Pack of hard-boiled molar-breakers covers the rest.
I do not know why
you have brought me here.
We stand like soundless instruments.
Wrenched from bed so had to dress,
brush my lips ****** rake my hair.
Presentable? Presentable.
Your gran, almost ninety, concrete
cracks lightning strike on the cheeks,
specific smell that comes
with the accumulation of decades.
She does not know me, will forget me.
Syllables will stagger out
from the mouth, words, whole sentences
watery or gone. Instant evaporation.
A shuffle. And another shuffle.
A loudening shuffle.
Enter. Oh, how sorry I feel!
Hands quiver as frightened leaves,
cup quickstepping on the saucer.
You dash over, take control,
steady the shake of brick-ish tea.
My name comes, tinged with a lisp.
Your grandmother looks at me
with her eyes, jelly-rolled marbles,
a smile creaking across her face.
You know it. I know it. She knows it.
A woman caught in the icy fist of winter.
She sits. Sighs. I know the feeling.
I bend down, say slowly,
enunciate clearly.
Solitude.
Five down, my dear? Yes, correct.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
prostrated by the
agonies of the ****** a
molar rotted through
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
Its When Inspiration Hits You Like A Storm, & Like That Wet, Hot, Eye Of Perfection. You Stand, Knowing That Your God Had Never Truly Been Awake Before This Moment. But He Has Risen From His Bed For You. With Eyes Wide, And Eyes Raw, And He Gives You This Moment. Its A Gift, Or A Lovely Curse With A Bow Around It, Witch Is Either, We Don't Know. But He Sells You A Vacancy In The Empty Hotel That Is Your Body.
The Hollow Eyes, And Empty Hips, The Molar Explosions, And The Swallowed Bruises, He Knows Where Your Flaws Are. He Knows The Room Number, And The Skylit Shade Of Remorse You Painted The Bedroom Walls, When You Tried To Forget. He Knows That You Decorated The Bathroom With Starfish, Because Deep Down, You Knew You Came From The Sea. He Knows The Broken Mirrors, And Nailed Now Monet Paintings. He Knows You're Afraid That They'll Leave You. He Knows The Carpet By Heart, The Sew And Stitch Of The Thread. He Memorized What It, So He Could Call To Memory Just Exactly How Your Tears Tasted When You Found Solstice On His Ground.
He Sells You A Truth, An Infamous Beauty That Paints A Story Of A Girl, In Room 214 Of That Empty Hotel. A Girl With Eyes The Size Of Baby Worlds. A Girl Who Strips Off The Story Of A Broken Family, And 9-5 Worth Ethic That Bruises Her Knees.
He Sells You A Story of A Boy, In Room 121, Who Tattooed “Forgive Me” On The Insides Of His Wrists, Basks In The Glow Of The Television Screen, And Takes A Syringe In His Hand, And Smiles At The Reflection Of What He Sees In The Mirror. Some Sweet Sadistic Part Of Him, Likes To Know Hes Killing Himself, And Likes To Watch Him Do It.
He Sells You A Moment Of A Man Who Wasted His Years On Lies, Who Painted Stories In His Mind, But Wears His Father's Legacy Like An Oversized Coat, Never Quiet Filling It Out, Always Knowing His Father Wore It Better, But Now He Takes It Off For The First Time In Years, And Dances. He Dances To The Music He Wished He Had Written, And Dances For The Girls He Wished He Had Met.
He Sells You An Honesty, Of A Tale Of A Thousand Bad Goodbyes. He Tells You That Sparks Meet Inside You, That Stars Died To Become You, And To Let Your Heart Get Blood Drunk Enough To Convince Itself It Is Your Brain, Because That Is Where Real Beauty Is Born, Inside The Hollow Rooms Of Yourself, That You Have Yet To Rent Out To All The Strangers You Will Become.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
My upper right hand
molar died today. Even
teeth abandon me.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
I got goosebumbs on my shoulders
Dont gradate, you better smoulder
I said “I’ll tell you when you’re older”
Tie your noose with a game controller
Eat my shorts when it gets colder
Pebble, pebble, broken boulder
She says “I hate your face,” you hold her
Got a sweet tooth, hollow molar
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
The solitary molar of a *****
who had died without a name
wore a gold filling.
The other teeth, as if by silent agreement,
had already left.
The mortician smacked the filling loose,
removed it, and left to go dancing.
‘Only earth,’ he said,
‘should return to earth.’
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:31 PM UTC
Cured with silver; cavity cave,
gingivitis fills the nave.
Sticky spit flows like an ocean,
Roller coaster motion lotion.
Help me grind the tasty cud;
salad shooter full of mud.
Conversations headed south,
excruciating pain in mouth.
Super duper happy smiles,
pearly whites go on for miles.
Hid behind the sharpened canine
Ridden guilt rides on the main line.
Dudes with moods do take a turn,
good emotions crash and burn.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
There is a hunger
Like a gun to yr head
Metal and cold
Empty yr clip
Personal ********
Egoic standup metaphysical *****
Pseudo spiritual people snakin in my garden
Workin gets harder
When you poet all the time
Clock you don't know what it looks like
A vague memory takes over me
At the corner on 15th and Rockford
I'm unheard and disturbed
No it's not ok
Know insanity like secondhand glove fit/spit atheists outta my mouth
Now you know what god Tastes like
Teeth know what gods about
Molar spell
Glamour silver
Share gardens worth of rent/have bent knees to cold Chicago concrete
Ask god
She's listening
With an open hand
Walk
Yr glistening sidewalk shine you concrete vision of glitter and litter
You performance piece about ennui
Sing
Sinner
Yr callouses
Don't ask how ok I am
We all got issues and I know you want a poem
But all I got is tissues and I didn't mean to make you cry
I jut wanted to remind you of the salt of life
The stuff dreams are made of
Homemade hair cloud spun
Wicked sister come whisper In my ear drum
Hum the chemical hymnals from our childhood
Don't hide your big tooth
Chew and chew and Chew
Purposefully at the great growing complacency
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Flesh, flesh and
bone
the grave digger
clawing away at
the dirt
a shovel first
then hands
years of nail
biting offers the
earth a home
under his skin,
I am not one
to sift
patiently waiting
for old coins
or gold
the broken skull
of a cat, a chipped
molar
that belonged to
a father, forgotten
in the yellowed papers
of time. Skin,
skin and bone
I died a year ago
hollow, rattling in
the fist of my
mother
white sheets that
wrapped my
limbs
are pulled tight,
a half ghost
human shaped
my mouth is wide
with the Earth,
taken in and
****** like a plum,
skin and flesh
swallowed
whole. There is
only bruised
fruit on the
funeral table. As
the grave digger
claws out my
hole. My first
fixed home,
a house of
soil and acidic
tears. Minerals
and salt
mixing like the
marrows of
lovers
buried in the
ground. I will
never leave
rotting, skeleton
shaking, the deep
breath before the
plunge. A war
lost, my final
hour and I am
home
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
He chews his cud at her.
She blows her cigarette smoke at him.
The equilibrium is uncomfortable but scenic.
The eyes of the walls stained yellow long ago
and every room feels like every room they've ever been in.
He rubs his shirt neck on his nose.
She flicks her last molar irritated.
a broken radiator works overtime, wheezing.
Holes in the bread, where she cut away the mould,
the food's still cold, but, for this, he'll eat it.
He never loved her personality.
She never loved his face.
Both of them knew, for this, they'd never leave them.
She says "I do ******* love you you know",
as she smoked her last blow.
He says "I'd love another cup of tea dear".
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
every day i wake up
expecting full formation
only to discover i have yet to pop.
life feels like a kernel in my back left molar.
i look for my future in
yesterday's egg scramble.
the yolk: no solution,
no bramble
i yearn all the more for my unrummaged brain--
keep ice in my left hand,
sanity in the wrong vein.
i always fall too steep,
staccato fingers quick to adjust
a smile to a frown.
i always bruise my hips on the way down.
my glass-bottom floor,
my lamp-lit contingency.
all's keepin' me afloat:
my swiss-riddled dignity.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Macbeth, Doctor Zhivago, Captain Call, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Allen Ginsberg, and Rod McKuen Visit the Dentist but Have to Wait for Beowulf's Root Canal
In gratitude for all the wonderful dentists, hygienists, and
technicians who keep us chewing!
Macbeth Visits the Dentist
Is this a drill which I see before me
The whirring drill outstretched to my teeth
O happiest gas! Come let me clutch thee!
Before my body I throw my dental shield
Dr. Zhivago Visits the Dentist
Poor dental hygiene is for crowds of mediocrities
Only individuals seek dentistry
And they shun those who tolerate bad teeth
How many things in the world deserve our loyalty?
A dentist whose papers are in order
Captain Call Visits the Dentist
Call saw that the dentist was looking at him
The nitrous oxide drained out of him
Leaving him feeling tired
“I hate a bad tooth. I won’t tolerate it.”
Yevgeny Yevtushenko Visits the Dentist
For a tooth to come out
Some of the pain must be devoted to Stalin
Soviet dentistry demanded happy endings
I knew I could floss and brush better than Mayakovsky
Bella’s teeth were second only to those of Akhmatova
Only I could make Babi Yar all about me and my teeth
When I saw a dentist in Zima Junction
I saw the truth of the Revolution in her little mirror
Allen Ginsberg Visits the Dentist
I saw the best teeth of my generation destroyed by sugared sodas and a failure to brush and floss
dragging themselves through the medical complex at dawn looking for a fix
thinning-hair old hipsters burning for relief from aching jaws at the healing hands of dedicated professionals among their shining instruments
dedicated professionals who did not drop out of the University of Arkansas and never saw Mohammedan angels among the rooftops
Rod McKuen Visits the Dentist
I am like a molar; I have chewed alone
Gnawed a hundred hamburgers
Never found a bone
Still and all I’m toothy
Reason is you see
Once in a while along the way
Dentists have been good to me.
Jul 13, 2024
Jul 13, 2024 at 11:23 AM UTC
the concept of death lies parturient in your mouth,
swollen and festering, writhing in itself,
as weighty as a missing molar and just
as visible.
retch and gag,
spend nights fishing for your soul
through your stomach,
you are beating bus seats
for dust, for dry little particles
that will hopefully soak through
your skin.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 12:16 PM UTC
She was fascinated,
hooked as if a fish out of water.
Whenever death
was splurged across the television
she’d sit upright,
the sofa would creak,
her eyes gorging all
like globs of kitchen roll.
Two per second.
She thought she’d solve them,
bust the case wide open
or some other cliché.
Reams of unresolved stories,
of women splayed
at American roadsides
with a missing molar
or red rings around the wrist.
There had to be an answer, she’d say.
Everything has answers
because everyone asks questions.
A human doesn’t go missing,
someone always sees, apparently.
She’d talk about dying
as if she welcomed it,
as if it was a real person
with bones and a voice.
One day she sliced her finger
and just let it bleed,
the thin line then the bloom
of crimson that wept
into the sink.
Two per second she’d remind me.
I scrambled in the drawer
for a plaster.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC