a poetry e-zine










Moly Tov

I called
I called
I finally called you today
We spoke for almost an hour
It had probably been 12 years
We drifted through topics
Conversational tropics
180-gram vinyls
$60,000 a month MS medication
Stones and Morphine
Unavailable Residents
Tape delay over thousands of miles
The 2nd was your 55th birthday
But there’s no reality to that number
Age is experience is wisdom
In the right hands, anyway
And it crushes me to think
That I’ll never hear yours on the sax again
Because wizening has taken your ability
To manipulate the keys
I just thank whatever’s closest to deity for me today
That I have these recordings
The only trace that remains of your talent


I can’t help but wonder
What your tongue tastes like inside my mouth
Is it 32 years of tobacco and coffee
Is it closer to copper or manganese
Is there some hint of every lover
That’s lingered there before
Can I taste some of the ineffables you’ve been through
Is there some trace of wisdom on your breath that I could take in
Do you have secrets that impart on contact
Do you taste like every joy
Are you more acquired like despair
Aged to perfection like a fine whiskey
Or cleansing like bathtub Juniper

Fuck it
All this sickness and black and green oozing from heartstrings
I need a stiff drink right this instant
To dilute how acrid my own mouth becomes
When I think of you

No Reason for Concern

It’s not that I don’t enjoy being here in this oppressive humidity
It’s just that I can’t stand leaving myself in the closet
When I step out the front door
Polite judgment is still judgment
Even if it stems from concern
Even if it is done nicely
Killing kindly is still fucking murder
And my head is still jammed square in the guillotine
The blade isn’t any more or less sharp
Because the executioner wears a smile beneath their hood
And I won’t be any more or less dead
When gravity takes its course

So, let’s leave the mincing to meat
And be Kurt
You are a pick-and-choose bigot
Cherry-picking ancient wisdom
To reinforce your own corrupted ideals
But my last words are wasted
Because the ears are receiving
But they aren’t actually connected to anything

So, let’s get it over with
Pull the Lever
And drop the blade
I’m admittedly curious to see
What the inside of my own neck will look like
As I stare up at it from the basket

Moly was a Spring 2016 resident poet with the Lehigh Valley Vanguard. Moly has had a few poems published, both online and in print, and a varied sampling of Moly’s poetry and paintings can be found at her blog: TheHodgeandThePodge.wordpress.com She has also been known to color the occasional comic book: zombieroyale.wordpress.com.

Copyright 2016  Chantarelle's Notebook