Michele McDannold

 

doorbells, mornings and death

or (If you are Cunt)
listen
when you start writing from the brain
chuck it out the door
feed the cats with it
call it meow meow chow
whatever
you’ve got to be heart, shit or balls
if you’re cunt
you better know how to translate
and yes, they’ll tell you to stop
and yes, they’ll have all kinds of reasons and critiques and
blowhard bullshit
you might even believe for awhile
it will throw you off
maybe you’ll take on an old fat fuckin mentor
start writing poems about doorbells, mornings
and death that does not
matter
and maybe everyone pulls a few chains now and then
and maybe everyone has a critic in their heart
and maybe not.
you could or could not say
‘and’ so much
it wouldn’t matter
style has nothing to do with depth
and
if you shovel the shit long enough
you might forget what was under there
you might forget where you were going
you might forget how you were getting there
one day you’ll remember
you wanted to go
you’ll remember
earth doesn’t taste like
dust
heat doesn’t feel like
pain
and passion–
doesn’t need to be developed.

from Stealing the Midnight from a Handful of Days (Punk Hostage Press)

Three Poems by Michele McDannold

 

west coast notebook re-entry poem #17
vagrant observations

if only all days
were the ways
in which
the rainbow propagates
into jumbo mouse ears.
wrought iron fences shaped to
hold the childhood in.
what sort of wicked porn
turned this into
a busty lustful waterfall moment
a wife-beater
wet w/ sweat moment
an are you joking me
about the avocados moment.
only in the absurd
does absolute purity
dine on skin flick

the center of the country pretends these margins do not exist
while they’re ogling all over it
while they’re licking the sweat right off

it’s an interesting slice of pie

____________

 

navy days

ya know,
if you want a sad story,
i’ve got `em.
buckets full of guts—
yeah, tarred with cancer.
not your trick,
fine. pass `round the corner
to the seven guys I fucked for fun
it’s not much when you think of seven
certainly not much to my man’s 100s
but i’m a gurl.

and boy, he loves to tell them stories
`bout those fuckin’ whores he did
back in the navy days
shootin’ bananas out their twats
for fuck’s sake!

yet i was tender once.
youth had it’s way with my head
and a girlfriend too.
well, truth be told
it was mostly just
strawberry fields and electric blankets
but my truth is like mold
in our living room.

so it’s all like
yes, cap’n
i’ll play the shame
for that one—
in trades for this.

____________

 

you’re probably going to worry about the wrong thing like bears or sodomites. so just don’t worry

 

taking my chances in bear country

remember which hand
you touched the door
with
remember the handi-wipes
next
time
remember that the fires burning
can be either a light to
follow back
or away

the fog rolls in

we’re walking in a
cloud now

____________

 

Michele McDannold has organized poetry events and/or performed poetry with a bunch of unabashed free-thinkers across this great United States, most happily by roadtrip but sometimes by plane, train or coincidence. She resides in Trinidad, Colorado and spends most of her time producing and publishing books, when she’s not out killing miles with her magical jeep.

 

Two poems by Michele McDannold

at the tee gee club

bob wants to hear metal

we fumble the
quarter
and change the language
to Spanish but
eventually he
gets it
three songs later
Planet Claire
Elvis Costello
and that one prince song
all the while his fifth wife
and a trip to the phillipines

he gets his quarter
time for a smoke
because today the news

and knowing it’s coming all along
doesn’t grease the wheels for
Soundgarden
doesn’t temper the pain for
Metallica even, old school

iris will watch my drink for me
top it off so i can
say i’m happy
so i can slip and say
i might not be ok

but you know i’ll be fine

____________

west coast notebook entry #2
(if your progress needs a mountain, go)

 

it’s very complicated.

possible i might
not come down
from this
highway crest
in the clouds
here comes the rain, just
a sprinkle
one could feel cold
except the sun-direct
patches of light

you know what it
reminds me of?
as does everything
right now…
when i leave this
mountain
will i leave the memory
of you
here too?

tell me how

Three poems by Michele McDannold

there’ll be time for that later

she began noticing everything
in her world was manilla-
colored. her skin had turned
manilla, the bare mattress on
sheet-changing days… manilla.
the very air filling that room.
yes, manilla. if her life
resembled anything at all,and
perhaps there are more
appropriate words for colors
seen and unseen, but i tell you–
it was every molecule, manilla.

the grainy
the slick
it all tasted the same

she contemplated gold,
soft light,
water shadows,
lampshades.
there is no sound
to manilla

all the laundry turned this color
all the lids
all the unwashed hands
and corners
and every
broken
thing
____________

the facts and details

at some point
you’ll start to wonder
where i left you
and went with those other men
i start to think
and smoke some more drugs
what is the difference
between
instructions and directions

you won’t want to know
his arms worked better than yours
in holding me down

your mouth is the lack of,
i dream–
still…

rinse,
repeat

veer right at the curve
if you have to crash
go to your right
if you have to

this highway leads to
this highway
and nothing else
____________

8 horrible ways the universe can destroy us

and they happened without warning

the fade
the cut and run
the never was what you thought in the first place
the dry, sucking ache of just not right
the disconnect
the gray the gray the gray

it’s about
cutting things down
to the quick
something that
happens
without warning
when you think
too much
& hold it in

i apologize in advance
your metaphors
are like
a sandbag
in a desert

today
is the
beginning
of the end

i have already cried enough