Monday, August 22, 2016



Suckee. Suckee.
Fuckee. Fuckee.
Wheeee me into the middle of next week.
Yeah. Like that.
You gotta FEEL that shit.
I'm reading Joseph Campbell, eating Snickers
and watching Evan Stone at YouTube to stay alive.
Still raining in San Antonio.
I am not Bukowski.
I am not John Wayne.
I am not Laura Ingalls Wilder.
I am not John Boy Walton.
I thought you knew.
If you don't know you better AX somebody.
That's who you are.
Jack Nicholson in "The Shining."
All work.
No play.
All work.
No play.
All work.
No play.
(we're all dying slow in Kubrick snow.)


One morning John Wayne woke up with a hard dick so he decided to defend the Alamo. But first breakfast taco with a fuckton of Tabasco. Washed down with cerveza? You know it, motherfucker. Freedom ain't free and neither are your sins, ninos. Some motherfucker has to die in a big ass way. Might as well be John Wayne.

"How many pesos for a blow job?" John Wayne asked Natalie Portman. Natalie Portman is not a Mexican but if you squint really hard she could play the part. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Kind of sexy in a skinny farfetched way. Salma Hayek is sexier but she won't kiss John Wayne for any amount of money. Also. She has tits. Tits cause confusion within the context of historical romance. Tits are not allowed to outshine El Alamo.

John Wayne got his blow job but his dick was still hard (gracias, Viagra) so he got on top of the Alamo with a gun of some kind (it was really fucking big and really fucking LOUD) and started killing motherfuckers like some kind of Monster Energy Drink fueled video game warrior. Soundtrack by Judas Priest or Iron Maiden or maybe Metallica circa "Master of Puppets." There's a novel called Nova's Gone Potty written by a native Texan. The toilet talks in Ozzy Osbourne's voice for obvious reasons. No one dies but almost.

"I can't drive fifty-five," Sammy Hagar said.
"Bitch, please," Eminem said.

John Wayne didn't say anything because he died for your sins. A Zeta gunned his ass down in front of the sno cone stand in front of Ripley's Believe it or Not Wax Museum. You're welcome, babies.

Saturday, August 20, 2016


Pluto is my well-worn bondage collar.
Mars is my butterfly cowboy boots.
Venus is my blue lipstick.
Saturn is me in first grade missing recess
because I had to write the words
over and over
and over again.
I was stupid and sloppy.
My letters were too big.
I'm still stuck in that classroom.
I look out the window at all the lucky assholes
on swings and slides.
Fuck you, fuckers.
Uranus is the alligator I keep in my tub.
Neptune is me the mermaid somewhere
north of Los Angeles.
Mercury is this mix tape.
Jupiter is today.
Taking my son to Whole Foods and Trader Joe's.
Pickle chips. Various cheeses. Hippie soap.
The sun is tomorrow.
Lonely but bacon.
Lonely but coffee.
Not lonely at all.
The rain is falling tonight
and I can hear voices in another room.
I'm here.
I'm alive.
I'm loved.
I'm wearing donut pajamas and dangerous hair.
I must be here on purpose.
I'm a real live doll.
Pure melancholy but you should hear my laugh.
The moon is this song on repeat.
Please. Daddy. Make it stop.
The casual observer doesn't believe I'm forty-three.
Thanks, Virgo vampire ascendant.
The south node is Dairy Queen.
The north node is Africa.
The vertex is me passing out in Jack Daniels vomit.
The Holly Inn.
Eagle Pass, Texas.
Yeehaw, y'all.
Somehow I've survived to issue this transmission.
Things are shining in the progressed.
Aries sun and Venus and soon...Aries moon.
I couldn't hope
much harder.

Thursday, August 18, 2016


The poem I just posted isn't art. It's a cereal prize. So I can explain it. I was watching "90210" on a big ass television. Don't ask why. I was amused to see Brandon and Dylan hanging out in a sweat lodge. They thanked Grandfather for anything and everything. The next morning they discussed their deep revelations while eating cereal out of little boxes. That's a Chupacabra Disco poem right there.


You won't find Family Dollar in the 90210.
You won't find Instant Pussy at The Peach Pit.
You won't find meatloaf in a Cracker Jack box.
You will find me sweating it out with Dylan
and Brandon in one of those quaint lodges
somewhere east of Malibu.
What are we hoping to find?
Some kind of damn epiphany.
Couldn't we have found it
in the comfort of Kelly's condo?
Billy Joel is an accessible motherfucker.
No one is going anywhere.
You can sweat on a Texas highway.
You can sweat on an Acuna disco floor.
You can find God in your Froot Loops
and most of his kin in mud puddles
from Seymour to Tahlequah.
"Nobody's perfect," Dylan says.
"I could have told you that several miles back," I mumble.
It's all such a miracle.
You bet your sweet ass
we're grateful
to be here.