Friday, December 30, 2016
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Monday, December 19, 2016
Friday, December 16, 2016
KICK THAT PLANET FITNESS ASS
Oh! You think I'm JOKIN'?!
Today I feel AMAZING because I got up before the sun and gave my son a pep talk before he left for school. He's learning at the age of nine that there are assholes in the world who will whisper and judge and label. My son was on the brink of tears when I first saw him this morning. He was sitting on the sofa with a half-eaten bowl of Cookie Crisp on the coffee table. When he left for school he was SMILING because of me! I'm magic!
Breakfast is two eggs boiled motherfucking hard, hot lemon water and olive oil drizzled sea salt speckled asparagus spears. Damn it feels GOOD to be a gangsta! Now I'm ready to kick that Planet Fitness ASS!
Here are some hot links for ya. MUTHA. BOUND. And BOUND. I delight in the light of my soul without apology. Salud!
Today I feel AMAZING because I got up before the sun and gave my son a pep talk before he left for school. He's learning at the age of nine that there are assholes in the world who will whisper and judge and label. My son was on the brink of tears when I first saw him this morning. He was sitting on the sofa with a half-eaten bowl of Cookie Crisp on the coffee table. When he left for school he was SMILING because of me! I'm magic!
Breakfast is two eggs boiled motherfucking hard, hot lemon water and olive oil drizzled sea salt speckled asparagus spears. Damn it feels GOOD to be a gangsta! Now I'm ready to kick that Planet Fitness ASS!
Here are some hot links for ya. MUTHA. BOUND. And BOUND. I delight in the light of my soul without apology. Salud!
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS
Just awoke from a dream so vivid I'm writing it down. I was newly wed and listening to various Beatles songs with my new husband. "Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds" began to play and I started sobbing. The song had such a powerful effect on me it was as if I was hearing the song for the first time. I remember thinking in the dream,"Fuck. Who needs drugs? This song is a drug. And The Beatles are still alive and will always be alive inside this song."
A few months ago I bought Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band on vinyl. I made my son, who was eight at the time, listen to "A Day in The Life" and "Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds." I thought for sure his mind would be BLOWN. He sat there with a bored expression on his face and started making weird little distracted sounds. I said,"No. Show respect. This is one of the greatest albums ever recorded. You have to hear every note of this song. I'm just making you listen to this song and one other. When you get older you can listen to the entire album on your own." He was very relieved to return to his video games after listening to those two songs. Maybe he'll never be a Beatles fan. Maybe we have to find great music on our own. But I did turn him onto "Love Will Tear Us Apart" years ago. And at one time he loved "Spanish Bombs."
My son's middle name comes from my favorite uncle, whom I lost to lung cancer in 1999. My uncle gave me his Magical Mystery Tour album when I was in kindergarten. "I Am The Walrus" lit a bonfire inside my mind. It terrified, repulsed and fascinated me. That song planted a seed that grew me into the manic writer I am today. I share my dreams and fantasies and fears and compulsions and sad little love affairs with anyone who stumbles across this spastic space, this glittery unicorn diary with the busted lock. To be a writer you absolutely have to have a functioning ego and a touch of narcissism. You have to assume the world gives a damn about the stuff that floats through the hallucinatory rivers of your hopeless romantic mind.
You have to have energy to write. You have to have energy to fuck. You have to have energy to love, really deeply truly madly love, a motherfucker who may or may not deserve it. It never is about deserving. It's about taking, giving, allowing. Needing. Wanting. I'll never be a Buddhist. I'll always grapple with desire. It takes energy, massive energy, to record an album like Sgt. Pepper's. So thank you, George Martin and John Lennon and George Harrison and Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney and everyone else involved in the endeavor.
A few months ago I bought Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band on vinyl. I made my son, who was eight at the time, listen to "A Day in The Life" and "Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds." I thought for sure his mind would be BLOWN. He sat there with a bored expression on his face and started making weird little distracted sounds. I said,"No. Show respect. This is one of the greatest albums ever recorded. You have to hear every note of this song. I'm just making you listen to this song and one other. When you get older you can listen to the entire album on your own." He was very relieved to return to his video games after listening to those two songs. Maybe he'll never be a Beatles fan. Maybe we have to find great music on our own. But I did turn him onto "Love Will Tear Us Apart" years ago. And at one time he loved "Spanish Bombs."
My son's middle name comes from my favorite uncle, whom I lost to lung cancer in 1999. My uncle gave me his Magical Mystery Tour album when I was in kindergarten. "I Am The Walrus" lit a bonfire inside my mind. It terrified, repulsed and fascinated me. That song planted a seed that grew me into the manic writer I am today. I share my dreams and fantasies and fears and compulsions and sad little love affairs with anyone who stumbles across this spastic space, this glittery unicorn diary with the busted lock. To be a writer you absolutely have to have a functioning ego and a touch of narcissism. You have to assume the world gives a damn about the stuff that floats through the hallucinatory rivers of your hopeless romantic mind.
You have to have energy to write. You have to have energy to fuck. You have to have energy to love, really deeply truly madly love, a motherfucker who may or may not deserve it. It never is about deserving. It's about taking, giving, allowing. Needing. Wanting. I'll never be a Buddhist. I'll always grapple with desire. It takes energy, massive energy, to record an album like Sgt. Pepper's. So thank you, George Martin and John Lennon and George Harrison and Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney and everyone else involved in the endeavor.
Monday, November 28, 2016
The day the fish died.
Men won't let me write. Men muzzle me. Men talk at me from the kitchen about shark steaks and mushroom rice. I'm wearing donut pajamas in the afternoon. My face is wrecked from stress and bad food and toothpaste. White toothpaste zaps zits. Men murder me in my sleep. I'm dead. I'm dreaming of a writer's retreat in New Mexico. I didn't sign up for this. No one will sympathize. We get the hell we pray for.
Last night I swallowed two blue pills and read about Jessica Wakefield's wedding and sobbed because I am still twelve and in love with Bruce Patman and I am still five with a broken heart and a sore ass because Daddy has a leather belt and he ain't afraid to use it. No one can find Goree, Texas without a map. You love a man. You lose a man. You write it all down and that is betrayal and that is suicide. I know what it feels like to burn at the stake. That is hyperbole. That is projection. That is metaphor. That is Mercury in Pisces squaring Saturn in Gemini tight. I've been burned to ash six or seven times. That is understatement. I've ascended but not terribly high. That's Truman Capote with a dry martini in one hand and a pen in the other. He's still signing autographs and two nooses still swing in Kansas.
Do I love a motherfucker deep enough and hard enough and true enough to gouge out my own eyeballs and cut off my own arms and eat my own fingers? I pretend to be a mermaid but I don't dwell in a deep cold magical realm where sailors are the only lure. I live in the desert. Everything is spacious and dry. I might be a lizard of some kind. I know I'm not clever enough to be a spider. I'm not always one web ahead of tonight's juicy fly.
Once there was a workshop and my story was about a fish. The story was really about me. The fish didn't ask to be put in my story but there he was, splashing his little splash. I cannot pronounce his name under penalty of death. Today the fish died. He's still floating black in his too small aquarium. There will be a burial of some kind. "Fish don't ever last that long. He lasted five or six years. He had a good home. He was an only child."
I have some graves to visit but first I want to grow my own flowers. I'm tired of buying things that die. I'm tired of getting what I pay for. I've got blood on my hands. I've got blood in my eyes. I don't know what white is. It must be nice to be pure. It must be nice to be a bar of Ivory. It must be nice to be buried in snow or encased in ice. Glacier. Yes. Quite. God I want that feeling.
Last night I swallowed two blue pills and read about Jessica Wakefield's wedding and sobbed because I am still twelve and in love with Bruce Patman and I am still five with a broken heart and a sore ass because Daddy has a leather belt and he ain't afraid to use it. No one can find Goree, Texas without a map. You love a man. You lose a man. You write it all down and that is betrayal and that is suicide. I know what it feels like to burn at the stake. That is hyperbole. That is projection. That is metaphor. That is Mercury in Pisces squaring Saturn in Gemini tight. I've been burned to ash six or seven times. That is understatement. I've ascended but not terribly high. That's Truman Capote with a dry martini in one hand and a pen in the other. He's still signing autographs and two nooses still swing in Kansas.
Do I love a motherfucker deep enough and hard enough and true enough to gouge out my own eyeballs and cut off my own arms and eat my own fingers? I pretend to be a mermaid but I don't dwell in a deep cold magical realm where sailors are the only lure. I live in the desert. Everything is spacious and dry. I might be a lizard of some kind. I know I'm not clever enough to be a spider. I'm not always one web ahead of tonight's juicy fly.
Once there was a workshop and my story was about a fish. The story was really about me. The fish didn't ask to be put in my story but there he was, splashing his little splash. I cannot pronounce his name under penalty of death. Today the fish died. He's still floating black in his too small aquarium. There will be a burial of some kind. "Fish don't ever last that long. He lasted five or six years. He had a good home. He was an only child."
I have some graves to visit but first I want to grow my own flowers. I'm tired of buying things that die. I'm tired of getting what I pay for. I've got blood on my hands. I've got blood in my eyes. I don't know what white is. It must be nice to be pure. It must be nice to be a bar of Ivory. It must be nice to be buried in snow or encased in ice. Glacier. Yes. Quite. God I want that feeling.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
DISCLAIMER
I got a lot of work to do. This is work. You can probably smell my disco sweat. You can probably taste my rainbow pegasus wedding cake. I am married to this process. I am married to myself.
This is secret diary busted lock celebration. Any last words? Eat them. So delicious. Dumb with yum. Wash them down with green apple wine cooler. Pour out the last swallow for all the dead homies. Baby. We have now achieved nirvana.
This is secret diary busted lock celebration. Any last words? Eat them. So delicious. Dumb with yum. Wash them down with green apple wine cooler. Pour out the last swallow for all the dead homies. Baby. We have now achieved nirvana.
Friday, November 18, 2016
Thursday, November 17, 2016
This is fiction.
The fish is going crazy in the aquarium. The fish is too large for that small glass box. This is a story. This is not a story about a crazed fish. This is a story about a woman. This is a story about a girl. This is a story about a cipher. This is a story about a phantom. This is a story about a gringa. This is a story about a white rainbow. I do not know her name or blood type. She drives all over Texas crying to the Patsy Cline moon. Maybe you've met her at Valero. She never picks the winning cards. Scratch and scratch and scratch until there is blood. There is no dinero. One day she dreamed up a simple white wedding cake with a turquoise flower on top. One day she petitioned Our Father Who Art in Heaven.
God, she said. Look, she said. And she meant every syllable. God. Look. Please. Mira. Mira. Broken glass and me in the middle. Her in the middle. Bad luck for seven years. Saturn on her shoulder. YOU WILL LEARN. Bitch you will EARN every tortilla. Am I good enough do I look good enough is my lipstick the right shade will you drink my lemonade and ask for mas? Green sauce. Verde. Put me in the corner. Stuff me in the closet. Su chorizo por vida. God. You. Us. I'm confused. I was voted most likely to suicide in each creative writing workshop. Who is God and who are You and what is Us? Deleted text messages. Poisoned carrier pigeons. Blocked at Facebook. The phone rings and rings and no cubic zirconia, bitch, and no buttercream frosting, bitch, and no Corpus Christi and no sacraments and no redemption. What is sacred? Sangre. Daddy's sangre all over El Alamo. My double Sagittarius maternal grandfather...white, quite...dying his love into my ear from hundreds of miles away. Bridgeport by morning. Hell by noon. South of no north. "I love you so much. I love you so much." And I am worth exactly nada.
Hemingway is dead. Hemingway wrote fiction. My dad is alive. My dad lives fiction. "You're Hemingway without the typewriter," I told him once. She told him once. She is not me. She is a product of at least one imagination. She could be a tumor. But she won't kill you.
God, she said. Look, she said. And she meant every syllable. God. Look. Please. Mira. Mira. Broken glass and me in the middle. Her in the middle. Bad luck for seven years. Saturn on her shoulder. YOU WILL LEARN. Bitch you will EARN every tortilla. Am I good enough do I look good enough is my lipstick the right shade will you drink my lemonade and ask for mas? Green sauce. Verde. Put me in the corner. Stuff me in the closet. Su chorizo por vida. God. You. Us. I'm confused. I was voted most likely to suicide in each creative writing workshop. Who is God and who are You and what is Us? Deleted text messages. Poisoned carrier pigeons. Blocked at Facebook. The phone rings and rings and no cubic zirconia, bitch, and no buttercream frosting, bitch, and no Corpus Christi and no sacraments and no redemption. What is sacred? Sangre. Daddy's sangre all over El Alamo. My double Sagittarius maternal grandfather...white, quite...dying his love into my ear from hundreds of miles away. Bridgeport by morning. Hell by noon. South of no north. "I love you so much. I love you so much." And I am worth exactly nada.
Hemingway is dead. Hemingway wrote fiction. My dad is alive. My dad lives fiction. "You're Hemingway without the typewriter," I told him once. She told him once. She is not me. She is a product of at least one imagination. She could be a tumor. But she won't kill you.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
SWEET VICTORY IN JESUS
I just shot myself singing a familiar hymn from my childhood. The video is at Instagram. I blame my poor socioeconomic status on Instagram and a few other things. I dropped out of college the first time because of "The Real World," "Saved By The Bell" and "Beavis And Butthead." That go getter gene must have skipped a generation.
I come from hard-working barely educated blue collar Texans. Oilfield. Factories. Grocery stores. Dairy Queen. I'm certain my family members voted for Trump. We barely speak. We speak when someone is dying. We speak because I'm the mother of a beautiful, sweet, bright boy. Everyone loves him. My family has failed me. I have failed my family. And the world continues to turn and these are the days of our lives and all my children are available at eBuLLieNCe PReSs because as the cliche goes, my books are my babies.
My son is also my baby and today I apologized to him for this shit show that he has inherited. Am I complicit? Of course I am. I voted for Hillary but that is hardly sufficient. We aren't allowed to live in the dream sand singing karaoke and writing our little poems then show up to cast our little vote once every four years and bitch when a reality television buffoon gets elected. We are all complicit. There is real work to be done. I lack the gene and my natal chart is shit but I better get ambitious and smart and lucky real fucking quick because I don't want any part of this monstrous world that we have created. I have to stick around. I have to fight. Leaving the country is not an option. Suicide is not an option. My son still sucks his thumb and calls me Mommy. I've been called all kinds of colorful things all my life but nothing breaks my heart like Mommy. I do not deserve Mommy.
I would like to deserve Mommy and achieve some semblance of peace before I finally die. That is why I'm here.
I come from hard-working barely educated blue collar Texans. Oilfield. Factories. Grocery stores. Dairy Queen. I'm certain my family members voted for Trump. We barely speak. We speak when someone is dying. We speak because I'm the mother of a beautiful, sweet, bright boy. Everyone loves him. My family has failed me. I have failed my family. And the world continues to turn and these are the days of our lives and all my children are available at eBuLLieNCe PReSs because as the cliche goes, my books are my babies.
My son is also my baby and today I apologized to him for this shit show that he has inherited. Am I complicit? Of course I am. I voted for Hillary but that is hardly sufficient. We aren't allowed to live in the dream sand singing karaoke and writing our little poems then show up to cast our little vote once every four years and bitch when a reality television buffoon gets elected. We are all complicit. There is real work to be done. I lack the gene and my natal chart is shit but I better get ambitious and smart and lucky real fucking quick because I don't want any part of this monstrous world that we have created. I have to stick around. I have to fight. Leaving the country is not an option. Suicide is not an option. My son still sucks his thumb and calls me Mommy. I've been called all kinds of colorful things all my life but nothing breaks my heart like Mommy. I do not deserve Mommy.
I would like to deserve Mommy and achieve some semblance of peace before I finally die. That is why I'm here.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
EXPRESS ORDER
It better arrive before xmas or at least easter.
I'd like to express order a train
that will take me to candy.
I don't want to bleed for it.
I want it for free
before and after bedtime.
I wish to look in one lover's eyes
and melt into a carnival.
I want to order whee at the top
above crazy colored lights
and dropped red hot apples.
Don't ask for my address or age.
I'm nowhere. I'm still thirteen.
Raspberry dark chocolate me some
kind of promise.
But I have to believe it.
Has to be heavier than a San Antonio
booty call or drunk missed connection.
Bring me a rocket.
I don't want to die for it.
I'm talking about waking up
to French toast and bacon
from a pig not a turkey
and the blackest coffee possible
and him glancing at me
over the newspaper
because they still make those
and in his reading glasses
I'm luscious
I'm nubile
I'm never been fucked up the ass
and it's all first class to Venus
no stops on Saturn.
Hurry.
Bring it fast and furious
while I still
possess a damn.
I'd like to express order a train
that will take me to candy.
I don't want to bleed for it.
I want it for free
before and after bedtime.
I wish to look in one lover's eyes
and melt into a carnival.
I want to order whee at the top
above crazy colored lights
and dropped red hot apples.
Don't ask for my address or age.
I'm nowhere. I'm still thirteen.
Raspberry dark chocolate me some
kind of promise.
But I have to believe it.
Has to be heavier than a San Antonio
booty call or drunk missed connection.
Bring me a rocket.
I don't want to die for it.
I'm talking about waking up
to French toast and bacon
from a pig not a turkey
and the blackest coffee possible
and him glancing at me
over the newspaper
because they still make those
and in his reading glasses
I'm luscious
I'm nubile
I'm never been fucked up the ass
and it's all first class to Venus
no stops on Saturn.
Hurry.
Bring it fast and furious
while I still
possess a damn.
BLEED CHRIST BLEED
Do not heed the psychic werewolves
and color coded cheerleaders
with their perfect peppermint smiles.
Bleed christ bleed into QVC customer service
into blow jobs into karaoke into customized videos
unto death
popcorn no popcorn
butter no butter
biggie size soda
lukewarm fountain water
no ice no filter
no fucking straw
bleed christ bleed
because Jesus wept sangre
because no answer from daddy
because no dawn
bleed bleed bleed
with or without panties on
bleed because you know how
you've chorus lined each step
since 1983
you can do that
you're dance ten
looks eleven
at the ballet
at the disco
at any given honky tonk
hot ass Saturday night.
Bleed christ bleed
because we all need mas
with extra sauce
but we settle for much less
because the limbic xmas tree
is such an irony deficient
linear noel
and we burn baby burn
while ice castles melt
into idiot sea.
It's Salinger.
It's Bradbury.
It's Dick on speed.
Through a scanner madly
we're crap artists dreaming electric
Uranus wolf whistling in the eighth
and Pluto so horny but not gonna crack
in the fifth
because damn baby damn
that Sam I am
is playing favorites again
and we will never win
but bleed anyway
unto anemia
it's the American way.
We've got credentials in spades.
Let's do it to it.
Stars and stripes por vida.
Make that apple pie proud.
and color coded cheerleaders
with their perfect peppermint smiles.
Bleed christ bleed into QVC customer service
into blow jobs into karaoke into customized videos
unto death
popcorn no popcorn
butter no butter
biggie size soda
lukewarm fountain water
no ice no filter
no fucking straw
bleed christ bleed
because Jesus wept sangre
because no answer from daddy
because no dawn
bleed bleed bleed
with or without panties on
bleed because you know how
you've chorus lined each step
since 1983
you can do that
you're dance ten
looks eleven
at the ballet
at the disco
at any given honky tonk
hot ass Saturday night.
Bleed christ bleed
because we all need mas
with extra sauce
but we settle for much less
because the limbic xmas tree
is such an irony deficient
linear noel
and we burn baby burn
while ice castles melt
into idiot sea.
It's Salinger.
It's Bradbury.
It's Dick on speed.
Through a scanner madly
we're crap artists dreaming electric
Uranus wolf whistling in the eighth
and Pluto so horny but not gonna crack
in the fifth
because damn baby damn
that Sam I am
is playing favorites again
and we will never win
but bleed anyway
unto anemia
it's the American way.
We've got credentials in spades.
Let's do it to it.
Stars and stripes por vida.
Make that apple pie proud.
Monday, October 24, 2016
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
KARDASHIAN VOMIT
Someone is watching them.
Kardashians kontinue.
I watch in my donut pajamas
bloated from the kind of cheese
you spray from a can.
"Writing a book is like
the most annoying thing ever."
Khloe Kardashian writes books
signs books sells books.
She has to fill the hours somehow
between big deal boyfriends
kocktails
koffee klatsch
kunt krew
kewpie doll voodoo
kitten kostume selfies
all up in that social media
instant gratification flavor.
"Why do you watch that crap?"
I have to fill the hours somehow
between sloppy cheap makeup selfies
and mad scribble scrabble.
It's interesting watching people
think up ways to spend millions of dollars.
Impromptu trips to Iceland.
Housewarming parties with like
really expensive candles and deejays and shit.
All those kids.
All that klutter.
I'm kurious about how exactly
their deaths will be televised.
Probably with plenty
of killer
lighting.
Kardashians kontinue.
I watch in my donut pajamas
bloated from the kind of cheese
you spray from a can.
"Writing a book is like
the most annoying thing ever."
Khloe Kardashian writes books
signs books sells books.
She has to fill the hours somehow
between big deal boyfriends
kocktails
koffee klatsch
kunt krew
kewpie doll voodoo
kitten kostume selfies
all up in that social media
instant gratification flavor.
"Why do you watch that crap?"
I have to fill the hours somehow
between sloppy cheap makeup selfies
and mad scribble scrabble.
It's interesting watching people
think up ways to spend millions of dollars.
Impromptu trips to Iceland.
Housewarming parties with like
really expensive candles and deejays and shit.
All those kids.
All that klutter.
I'm kurious about how exactly
their deaths will be televised.
Probably with plenty
of killer
lighting.
Friday, October 14, 2016
Thursday, October 13, 2016
CAMPFIRE
Oh limbic xmas tree oh limbic xmas tree.
I burned to a crisp between your branches.
Now I'm blue twinkling lights.
Now I'm the bargain bin angel glowing on top.
Now I'm...fuck xmas.
It's Halloween.
I'm wearing Lisa Frank sprinkled donut pajamas
pretending like I've never licked an ice cream cone
and my name is Kitty Cat
but you can call me Benign Laughing Golden Retriever.
I'm all soft slurp.
I possess no sharp edges or malignant surprises.
The moon is in Aries or Scorpio and I'm sitting
pretty bland dumb obedient
before the roaring campfire
marshmallows dripping from my fingers.
Toby is telling us about the time his uncle died
and an owl hooted the "Twin Peaks" theme
outside his bathroom window.
Corey is strumming his Goodwill guitar.
Chelsea is flashing her tits, dousing herself
with gasoline.
Sam seems intrigued as he sips from his
bottle of Maker's Mark.
Tomorrow the spirit quest continues,
should take us at least as far as the Valero
on Vance Jackson.
They still sell lottery tickets and Slim Jim there.
I burned to a crisp between your branches.
Now I'm blue twinkling lights.
Now I'm the bargain bin angel glowing on top.
Now I'm...fuck xmas.
It's Halloween.
I'm wearing Lisa Frank sprinkled donut pajamas
pretending like I've never licked an ice cream cone
and my name is Kitty Cat
but you can call me Benign Laughing Golden Retriever.
I'm all soft slurp.
I possess no sharp edges or malignant surprises.
The moon is in Aries or Scorpio and I'm sitting
pretty bland dumb obedient
before the roaring campfire
marshmallows dripping from my fingers.
Toby is telling us about the time his uncle died
and an owl hooted the "Twin Peaks" theme
outside his bathroom window.
Corey is strumming his Goodwill guitar.
Chelsea is flashing her tits, dousing herself
with gasoline.
Sam seems intrigued as he sips from his
bottle of Maker's Mark.
Tomorrow the spirit quest continues,
should take us at least as far as the Valero
on Vance Jackson.
They still sell lottery tickets and Slim Jim there.
ADORATION FROM A SPOOKY DISTANCE
Stay over there deep in your gravy.
I know your potatoes.
I know your salt.
I know your pepper.
I'm toasting you still
from a billion galaxies away.
Here is much the same as there.
Everything bulges.
Such a brag.
Muchness continues.
Nada is a myth.
Can you feel it, baby?
I can, too.
I'm quoting the former owner
of the trash talking teddy bear.
Everyone loves him in Boston
and a few other places.
Space doesn't scare me like it did
two or three ghost stories ago.
I know every inch of the woods
where we stumbled blind
seeking candy.
I'm still in those woods.
I'm still slobbering for chocolate.
The moon holds me and if I drop
and if I fall
Mercury reminds me with a wink
that no motherfucker in the multiverse
possesses a true net.
Boo.
Shivering.
Shining.
I can hold
myself.
I know your potatoes.
I know your salt.
I know your pepper.
I'm toasting you still
from a billion galaxies away.
Here is much the same as there.
Everything bulges.
Such a brag.
Muchness continues.
Nada is a myth.
Can you feel it, baby?
I can, too.
I'm quoting the former owner
of the trash talking teddy bear.
Everyone loves him in Boston
and a few other places.
Space doesn't scare me like it did
two or three ghost stories ago.
I know every inch of the woods
where we stumbled blind
seeking candy.
I'm still in those woods.
I'm still slobbering for chocolate.
The moon holds me and if I drop
and if I fall
Mercury reminds me with a wink
that no motherfucker in the multiverse
possesses a true net.
Boo.
Shivering.
Shining.
I can hold
myself.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
BACON
Bacon is for breakfast. Bacon is for now. Bacon is bikini. Bacon is sex. Bacon is Kevin. Bacon is serious. Bacon is bueno. Bacon is flavor. Bacon is mine. Bacon with scrambled cage free eggs no cheese but onions and Tabasco. Bacon beach. Bacon casa. Bacon oh god yes and masmasmas. Bacon urge. Bacon splurge. Bacon baby. Bacon yes not bacon maybe. Bacon from pig not from turkey. Bacon on china. Bacon on tongue. Bacon in mouth. Bacon in belly. Bacon without jelly. Bacon without telly. Bacon washed down with cold lime infused cerveza. Bacon is art which outlasts la vida loca. Bacon bacon baaacon. Bacon beyond all borders.
Purple Jelly Beans
There is no reason on this planet for purple jelly beans to exist yet they do. With tongue waggling defiance purple jelly beans continue to be manufactured, purchased and consumed. Why am I zeroing in on PURPLE jelly beans? Why not white jelly beans or black jelly beans or green jelly beans. Or. Or. Am I a colorist? No. The only hair I dye is my own and I'm not especially good at it although I have thirty-nine years of experience. The idea popped into my head and I dug it so much I tweeted it. And now I'm Chupacabra Discoing it. Superfluity abounds on this pretty yet seriously distressed celestial body. Purple jelly beans. Red jelly beans. Crystal meth. Green Day songs. Green Day t-shirts. Beyonce songs. Tweets and essays defending Beyonce songs and videos. Creative writing workshops. Creative nonfiction. Memoirs. Paintings of cattle. Paintings of mountains. Facebook rants and raves and rambles. Poems about sitting in a bar. Poems about awkward encounters with the homeless. Sitcoms. Tom Hanks movies. Julia Roberts movies. Guns. Plastic spoons. Windex. Flavored condoms.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Business Cards. Books. Beauty Products.
The world is saturated with business cards and books and beauty products. This person has this business card. What does this person have to offer? Hot dogs. Mustard is extra. This person has this book. What is this book about? Baseball. Sex. Jumbo pretzels. Melting ice cubes. Pepsi spiked with Jim Beam. This book is about your mother's colorful uncle. He was famous for his freak show act. What did he swallow? Swords, I guess. Don't yawn yet. This person has this beauty product. You've never in your life seen lipstick this vivid. It stays on until you die so your mouth better not be fickle! You love that Stripper High Heels Red lipstick so much? You better marry it. There will be no divorce.
GERTRUDE STEIN IS ROLLING
once lavender but pickle and urgency and less cordial
did flourish did amble did glisten did bible did suicide
oh gentle oh thimble and yet but oh and then and then
squirt squeeze pornographic oops butter oops aspirin
there is bottom in the vacant there is top in the capacity
eventually travel where Peru there Peru star the chart
and row and row and row and row
and across the block the fudge the mess
the bunny man arsenal
the vomit happy
on wheels they go
they do they go they do
where and who and what
squeaking needing never having
call them to supper
bell will wheedle
needle will darn
they're paper
they're yarn
they're nada
cake crumbs
dumb dolls
dregs
quite dead
expired nickel
valentines
did flourish did amble did glisten did bible did suicide
oh gentle oh thimble and yet but oh and then and then
squirt squeeze pornographic oops butter oops aspirin
there is bottom in the vacant there is top in the capacity
eventually travel where Peru there Peru star the chart
and row and row and row and row
and across the block the fudge the mess
the bunny man arsenal
the vomit happy
on wheels they go
they do they go they do
where and who and what
squeaking needing never having
call them to supper
bell will wheedle
needle will darn
they're paper
they're yarn
they're nada
cake crumbs
dumb dolls
dregs
quite dead
expired nickel
valentines
PLUTO AIN'T NO COOKIE MONSTER
It should mean something fantastic, transiting Jupiter being all buddy buddy with my natal Pluto at three degrees Libra in the second house. There aren't any cookies in the oven. The carnival was chased out of town by the shadow people. And San Antonio has become the new Seattle. Fucking bullshit rain. I expect a heroin and suicide epidemic soon. Will the music and art improve? One can only hope. And in the fifth house, which in my case is Capricorn, transiting Pluto is ass fucking my north node and vertex at sixteen degrees. Que paso? Oh the usual. Bullshit bills. Too many dirty clothes, not enough detergent. The wrong songs on the radio. Moths. Wolf spiders. Hobby Lobby is closed on Sunday. Buy your art supplies at Walmart, Dollar Tree, Valero. Go Dumpster diving. Make your own paint out of M.A.C. cosmetics and Vaseline. Unless your brain is queso you'll figure something out. But last night on the patio we smoked cigarettes and I smoked the last of the Cohiba and I drank the bottle of prosecco and a glass of grappa. And then in bed I said I wanted to puke and my man encouraged me to puke, told me to stick my finger down my throat like Amy Winehouse (Amy Winehouse is my reference my man has no idea who Amy Winehouse was) so I got down on my knees and stuck my finger down my throat and puked into the potty like Amy Winehouse. There goes the Campbell's Noodle O's! There goes the Ghirardelli bar! It was really cool and I felt better, got in bed and my man brought me a bowl of Smartfood white cheddar popcorn. The salt helps, he says.
What do we talk about when we talk about love? I'm no better than the weather. I stole that from The Plimsouls. The rain will continue but someday a desert with only the occasional monsoon. Misti Velvet Rainwater. I live up to my name. "You're demanding," he said. I reminded myself of the "Jenny Says" song as I told him to turn out the lights and tickle my back. He tells me he loves me and I say NO COMPRENDE. We swap war stories only his are literal. He tells me things I don't recall from the King James bible. His voice. My God. I have to love a man's voice. I adore his. When he paints I don't blame him. When I try to draw Dana Plato as a teenager in a rollerskate t-shirt and it looks like shit I can only blame myself.
You watch "November Rain" and "Don't Cry" and think,"Great fucking couple. Great fucking idea." Aquarius man. Leo woman. Something went wrong in between the songs and the pages of the 1994 Victoria's Secret catalog. I don't pretend to have that sort of thing figured out.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
EL CORAZON
It's a toxic world it's a tedious world and I don't have any answers for my son. I can Google the easy answers. Yes. Wolf spiders are poisonous. Yes. Juno is the space probe NASA sent to Jupiter but Juno is also an asteroid and Juno was the wife of Jupiter and the mother of Mars. My life is ridiculous. When I'm dead my ashes will fill a plastic Wal-Mart bag. But I'm here now and it's Saturday, the one day a week I spend with my son. He's eight. His father picks him up from school and karate. When I was eight I walked home from Jefferson Elementary each day. I crossed a highway. I walked up ugly concrete stairs. I unlocked the door and I was home. There were three or four channels on the television. I don't remember what I watched. There was food in the kitchen. Fish sticks. Malt-O-Meal. Canned pears. There was no carpet on the floors. I was jealous of my best friend Jennifer because she lived in a brick house on a cul-de-sac and she had her own room and there was carpet on her floor and she slept in a canopy bed. She had a trampoline in her backyard. Her dad was an asshole but he was there and they ate real food. My son is eight but I ask him if I can mute Nickelodeon and read him a few sentences from a beautiful book. "I guess," he says. He makes bored noises. I read the first paragraph of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I want to cry I almost cry but I don't. I tell my son how the story ends. I no longer concern myself with blasphemy. My son is eight and he's like most people I know. He likes to choose his own noise. He abides my noise for a few moments then returns to his show. It's a tired world it's a tacky world and my son will find this out on his own but not for a while. God. Please. Not for a while. Let him remain distracted.
SPAM SANDWICH
Stormi decided she should change her name to something more respectable, something much less white trash. Lisa. Anne. Joyce. Beth. The third or fourth creative writing professor suggested in a carefully worded e-mail that perhaps the workshop experience was not a good fit for Stormi. Stormi didn't cry or get drunk on Jack Daniels. She didn't kill herself. She showed up to the Wednesday night workshop in a SPAM t-shirt and sat back with a smirk on her face as her peers tore her story a new asshole.
"Um...I don't mean to insult you? But, like, this reads like something I might have written in a unicorn diary when I was, like, twelve years old," Hillary said.
"I have to agree with Hillary. I'm sorry. But your story is, like, totally...what's the word I'm looking for...immature?" Donald said.
"Puerile," Josh said.
"Yes! Exactly. Puerile," Donald said.
Fucking Ploughshares. Fucking Glimmer Train. Fucking Smug Society of Dead Hot Shit Writers. Stormi thought of the story about the man who swam through a series of swimming pools on his way home. What in the actual fuck of all fuck? Oh the symbolism was rich and the metaphors were quite puissant indeed. Alcoholism. Class. Alienation. Despair. Futility. But how many motherfuckers could identify with that New England upper class bullshit? Then there was Raymond Carver. Oh that motherfucker knew what he was doing, no doubt. But again. Everything smacks of Daddy. Daddy will not be dethroned. Daddy daddy daddy...throw poor little cracker bitch from the North Texas sticks a bone.
So Stormi wrote about a sandwich she remembered from Seymour, Texas. Her paternal grandmother fried the SPAM in a skillet to make it classy. Put it on white bread with mustard. BAM. Add some tater chips and a Coca-Cola. You got yourself a lunch.
And Stormi wrote about the Mexican (Hispanic? Latina? Chicana? In Stormi's memory she was a Mexican) mother who chased her out of her yard in Jacksboro, Texas with a broom and yelled at her in Spanish. She didn't want a white kid playing with her brown children.
And Stormi wrote about watching her favorite cartoon on the little television in the little den with blue and green shag carpet in Goree, Texas on Saturday mornings and then being babysat by the junior high cheerleading squad when her parents went to Wichita Falls for a date that one night and one of the cheerleaders whispering in her ear,"When Anna comes back into the room say Hey Hey Hey! It's FAT Anna!"
But then Stormi decided it hurt too much to go back in the mud of her past and dig for worms she would rather forget so she wrote about werewolves and chupacabra and shadow people who hissed bad news. The monsters were real but the names she assigned, those were all fake.
"Um...I don't mean to insult you? But, like, this reads like something I might have written in a unicorn diary when I was, like, twelve years old," Hillary said.
"I have to agree with Hillary. I'm sorry. But your story is, like, totally...what's the word I'm looking for...immature?" Donald said.
"Puerile," Josh said.
"Yes! Exactly. Puerile," Donald said.
Fucking Ploughshares. Fucking Glimmer Train. Fucking Smug Society of Dead Hot Shit Writers. Stormi thought of the story about the man who swam through a series of swimming pools on his way home. What in the actual fuck of all fuck? Oh the symbolism was rich and the metaphors were quite puissant indeed. Alcoholism. Class. Alienation. Despair. Futility. But how many motherfuckers could identify with that New England upper class bullshit? Then there was Raymond Carver. Oh that motherfucker knew what he was doing, no doubt. But again. Everything smacks of Daddy. Daddy will not be dethroned. Daddy daddy daddy...throw poor little cracker bitch from the North Texas sticks a bone.
So Stormi wrote about a sandwich she remembered from Seymour, Texas. Her paternal grandmother fried the SPAM in a skillet to make it classy. Put it on white bread with mustard. BAM. Add some tater chips and a Coca-Cola. You got yourself a lunch.
And Stormi wrote about the Mexican (Hispanic? Latina? Chicana? In Stormi's memory she was a Mexican) mother who chased her out of her yard in Jacksboro, Texas with a broom and yelled at her in Spanish. She didn't want a white kid playing with her brown children.
And Stormi wrote about watching her favorite cartoon on the little television in the little den with blue and green shag carpet in Goree, Texas on Saturday mornings and then being babysat by the junior high cheerleading squad when her parents went to Wichita Falls for a date that one night and one of the cheerleaders whispering in her ear,"When Anna comes back into the room say Hey Hey Hey! It's FAT Anna!"
But then Stormi decided it hurt too much to go back in the mud of her past and dig for worms she would rather forget so she wrote about werewolves and chupacabra and shadow people who hissed bad news. The monsters were real but the names she assigned, those were all fake.
Progressed Beauty Tips
Transmission from my progressed chart.
De nada, ninos.
My Aquarius Mars sextiling my Aries Venus
says thus.
Drink lemon water.
Drink green tea.
Fuck sugar.
You don't need that shit.
Let your Coca-Cola be hijacked
by a bumbling media saturated teddy bear.
Leave the glitter and sixty dollar lipstick pouts
to Disney Princesses and their dopey ilk.
Scrawl terror across your tabula rasa.
Esta es para La Raza.
Por que?
Because Lou Reed's "Transformer."
Because David Bowie, I guess.
Duran Duran? Yeah. Sure.
New York Dolls.
Absolutely.
You can follow Jennifer Nicole Lee at Instagram.
Brothel courtesans dig her killer body.
We should all be so lucky.
Luck? Fuck.
You gotta work, girl.
The mirror ain't magic and it owes you
exactly nada.
Once upon a time a very little girl.
Once upon a time a skeleton.
Once upon a time a puddle of puke.
Once upon a time muerte.
Once upon a time the warrior queen
who ate the fucking world.
You can count the stripes of blood
if numbers are your thing.
De nada, ninos.
My Aquarius Mars sextiling my Aries Venus
says thus.
Drink lemon water.
Drink green tea.
Fuck sugar.
You don't need that shit.
Let your Coca-Cola be hijacked
by a bumbling media saturated teddy bear.
Leave the glitter and sixty dollar lipstick pouts
to Disney Princesses and their dopey ilk.
Scrawl terror across your tabula rasa.
Esta es para La Raza.
Por que?
Because Lou Reed's "Transformer."
Because David Bowie, I guess.
Duran Duran? Yeah. Sure.
New York Dolls.
Absolutely.
You can follow Jennifer Nicole Lee at Instagram.
Brothel courtesans dig her killer body.
We should all be so lucky.
Luck? Fuck.
You gotta work, girl.
The mirror ain't magic and it owes you
exactly nada.
Once upon a time a very little girl.
Once upon a time a skeleton.
Once upon a time a puddle of puke.
Once upon a time muerte.
Once upon a time the warrior queen
who ate the fucking world.
You can count the stripes of blood
if numbers are your thing.
URGENT FUCK INVITATION
Hey, my bed is cold without you!
Touch my tits, (cum in my mouth, do what you desire!)
Kiss me all over!!!
Look at your naked naighbor (sic)
Find me in my place!
~Sex Trafficked Lolita (via SPAM folder)
Touch my tits, (cum in my mouth, do what you desire!)
Kiss me all over!!!
Look at your naked naighbor (sic)
Find me in my place!
~Sex Trafficked Lolita (via SPAM folder)
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
TEXAN AMERICAN AMBITION
I haven't had much ambition since 1999 when I lived in a crap ass apartment (the plumber finally fixed the toilet and the problem was a rubber duckie, I shit you not) in the boondocks of Wise County. I was a reporter, op ed columnist, proofreader, typesetter and photographer for The Bridgeport Index. There never was much news to cover, just the occasional spelling bee and heated city council meeting, so I would clock in each morning then go home, have sex with myself or my boyfriend from Lawton, Oklahoma whenever he deigned to visit. Ausgezeichnet. Wahnsinnig. Liebling. Sicher. Warum nicht? Lo siento. My Gemini sun Libra moon Leo rising boyfriend is texting me while I type this story. There are secrets between us I'll never spill but we both love us some Nutella from the jar. Thus, we work as a romantic sexual intellectual erotic congenial couple.
In 1999 I pretty much lived on Tostitos and pickled jalapeno slices from the jar and Red Dog beer. Sometimes I snapped into a Slim Jim. Other things were going on, it wasn't all fun in the sun, but I'll save those stories for another day. The only point I wish to make is this: magic happens hard and fast and you don't have to be enfranchised with a silver spoon up your butt to realize that the carnival happens to us all. Well. No. It doesn't. Some motherfuckers fabricate the carnival. Their carnival is indeed synthetic rather than authentic. There are no lights no purple plush boa constrictors no candy apples no Tilt A Whirl star swirl disco for the terminally spiritually unkempt. What do I mean by that? I'll tell you in another life when we are both Ch-Ch-Chia Pets. I'm lacking Texan American ambition but my carnival is more real than your bleeding pinky finger (your great-grandmother warned you not to tease her malcontent poodle).
Einfach Geil!!! The Gemini is also a native Texan but he grew his balls in Iraq and Germany. His Mustang beats your BMW to a bloody pulp. Don't try. Who said that? Bukowski said that. Hypocrite. He tried his fucking ass off.
In 1999 I pretty much lived on Tostitos and pickled jalapeno slices from the jar and Red Dog beer. Sometimes I snapped into a Slim Jim. Other things were going on, it wasn't all fun in the sun, but I'll save those stories for another day. The only point I wish to make is this: magic happens hard and fast and you don't have to be enfranchised with a silver spoon up your butt to realize that the carnival happens to us all. Well. No. It doesn't. Some motherfuckers fabricate the carnival. Their carnival is indeed synthetic rather than authentic. There are no lights no purple plush boa constrictors no candy apples no Tilt A Whirl star swirl disco for the terminally spiritually unkempt. What do I mean by that? I'll tell you in another life when we are both Ch-Ch-Chia Pets. I'm lacking Texan American ambition but my carnival is more real than your bleeding pinky finger (your great-grandmother warned you not to tease her malcontent poodle).
Einfach Geil!!! The Gemini is also a native Texan but he grew his balls in Iraq and Germany. His Mustang beats your BMW to a bloody pulp. Don't try. Who said that? Bukowski said that. Hypocrite. He tried his fucking ass off.
Saturday, September 17, 2016
REVENGE
"The best revenge you can have is happiness." (Aquarius mommy)
"No. The best revenge you can have is to wring your enemy's neck until
it cracks." (Scorpio son, eight years old)
"No. The best revenge you can have is to wring your enemy's neck until
it cracks." (Scorpio son, eight years old)
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Monday, August 22, 2016
FEEL GOOD FAST
Suckee. Suckee.
Fuckee. Fuckee.
Wheeee me into the middle of next week.
Yeah. Like that.
Harder.
Faster.
Deeper.
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.
Dull.
Dull.
Dull.
(we're all dying slow in Kubrick snow.)
Fuckee. Fuckee.
Wheeee me into the middle of next week.
Yeah. Like that.
Harder.
Faster.
Deeper.
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.
Dull.
Dull.
Dull.
(we're all dying slow in Kubrick snow.)
MEMORIZE EL ALAMO
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.
"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.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
CRACKER BOX
Anything essential can be packed into
a Nabisco Original Premium Saltine Crackers box.
Cracker bitch from the North Texas sticks
is on the road again.
Merle Haggard then Johnny Cash then
George Michael on the radio.
"Teacher! There are things that
I don't want to learn!"
Kills me every fucking time.
a Nabisco Original Premium Saltine Crackers box.
Cracker bitch from the North Texas sticks
is on the road again.
Merle Haggard then Johnny Cash then
George Michael on the radio.
"Teacher! There are things that
I don't want to learn!"
Kills me every fucking time.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
FAMILY FRIENDLY
I'm sure it's been said before. It's not an earth shattering revelation. But. You can buy guns at Wal-Mart but not vibrators. Because Wal-Mart is family friendly. It's friendly to kill animals and people (or just scare em a little bit, scare em enough to keep em off your plastic flamingo fabulous lawn) but vibrators are a dangerous perversion. Vibrators, butt plugs, watermelon lube, fuzzy handcuffs, bondage collars, rainbow unicorn dildos...keep that shit in Satan's basement where it belongs! If I were more ambitious perhaps I'd be a stand-up comic or a crusader of some kind. But I'm lazy so I blog and play with paint and publish my little books. It's all good in the clitoral hood. Keep America safe. Stock up on Great Value toilet tissue and guns.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
PRESCRIPTION
Excuse me. I have Saturn in the tenth squaring Mercury tight but you don't have to know astrology to know I mean serious business. See my rainbow wig and sloppy black eyeliner star? Yes. Precisely. I'm the new dope ass sheriff in Trouble Town. In a creative writing workshop the professor (she's a doctor she has a doctorate she knows shit she has a lot of books and a house and she's probably been to Europe at least once) suggested that perhaps I am not a good fit for a creative writing workshop because I get too emotional (damn you progressed Pisces moon! damn you tight Neptune in the fourth moon in the first square!). I was passionate about my stance on trigger warnings. No day I've ever known has come equipped with a trigger warning. I fall in love because he looks the right way and says the right things and BOOM. POW. He forgot to tell me about the bitch in New Hampshire who has never looked the wrong way or said wrong things in her right ass sweet ass hot ass life. So suddenly I'm dead, eating Ben & Jerry's out of the carton and walking around the vomitscape in my Wal-Mart donut pajama pants. I'm crying over Air Supply and Chicago songs and posting endless ambitious selfies to Twitter to prove that I exist. Or. You know how it goes in America and a few other places. You walk out the door. The sky is blue. You have twenty bucks in your pocket and the world is your ice cream cone. You're minding your own business doing the right thing looking both ways before crossing the street then SPLATTER. Your ass is mowed down by some drunk ass ice cream truck driver blasting The Greatest Hits of Sammy Hagar Suck Ass Version of Van Halen. "I Can't Drive 55" is the last thing you hear as you lay there dying in the wrong underwear. You should have worn your purple Fruit of the Looms, then maybe you'd still be alive, rocking out with your cock out to superior Van Halen. "Panama," baby.
So in all my Saturn in the tenth house squaring Mercury tight wisdom I shall issue this prescription. There are no trigger warnings. Most of us are Laura Dern in "Wild at Heart" screaming at Sailor to find something life affirming on the fucking radio. If it's all death and horror all the time it's up to you it's up to me it's up to all of us to find our own piece of inviolable blue sky. I don't follow any particular blueprint. I take the tacos where I can find em. I have Beethoven. I have Matisse. I have Frida Kahlo. I have Billie Holiday. I have my Snoopy diary. I have the ten of cups. I have a rainbow wig and lipstick every color of the rainbow. I have love that lisps sweeter than Cindy Brady.
What's in your wallet?
So in all my Saturn in the tenth house squaring Mercury tight wisdom I shall issue this prescription. There are no trigger warnings. Most of us are Laura Dern in "Wild at Heart" screaming at Sailor to find something life affirming on the fucking radio. If it's all death and horror all the time it's up to you it's up to me it's up to all of us to find our own piece of inviolable blue sky. I don't follow any particular blueprint. I take the tacos where I can find em. I have Beethoven. I have Matisse. I have Frida Kahlo. I have Billie Holiday. I have my Snoopy diary. I have the ten of cups. I have a rainbow wig and lipstick every color of the rainbow. I have love that lisps sweeter than Cindy Brady.
What's in your wallet?
How Much Mas?
A bucket of blood.
A pint of plasma.
It's hard to fathom
the vomit and tears.
Bleed.
Breathe.
One day in the barrio.
Una noche in the ghetto.
Another afternoon in the trailer park.
Televisions toxic sex stoic art is
Playboy calendar on the wall
ex-wife's birthday written
in red ink
sink busy with Busch cans
and plates pretty
with bacon grease.
The soggy Pisces moon
is inches from Aries
and we wake up
to dead babies
dead celebrities
dead slide riders
dead popcorn munchers
dead animals on Kardashian dolls.
No motherfucker on this planet
is more dead
more doll
than me
crawling across another prison playroom
licking flowers from
stale yellow paper.
A pint of plasma.
It's hard to fathom
the vomit and tears.
Bleed.
Breathe.
One day in the barrio.
Una noche in the ghetto.
Another afternoon in the trailer park.
Televisions toxic sex stoic art is
Playboy calendar on the wall
ex-wife's birthday written
in red ink
sink busy with Busch cans
and plates pretty
with bacon grease.
The soggy Pisces moon
is inches from Aries
and we wake up
to dead babies
dead celebrities
dead slide riders
dead popcorn munchers
dead animals on Kardashian dolls.
No motherfucker on this planet
is more dead
more doll
than me
crawling across another prison playroom
licking flowers from
stale yellow paper.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
FOR JANE
225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.
when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.
what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.
Charles Bukowski
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.
when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.
what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.
Charles Bukowski
Saturday, August 6, 2016
MEMORY LESSON
Once upon a blue coconut sno cone I was a Snoopy diary.
There were exclamation marks and scratch-n-sniff stickers.
These days are tiger's blood in flavor roller rink in tone
and I am compromised rainbow unicorn diary
with busted lock.
You're welcome.
De nada.
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I'm gonna let it SHINE.
If Satan can't blow it out, baby,
you know your ass
is outta luck.
May the Billy Corgan ice cream truck save us all
from chainsaw wielding cannibals
and the brutal July baked highway
from Seymour to Goree.
I have stories to sell.
Here. You can have em.
Cautionary tales and magic spells recalled
when the progressed moon left Pisces for Aries.
The security guard uniform makes me itch
because I'm a witch most at home
in my own skin and M.A.C. war paint
loose and lucid somewhere south of Dixie.
There are plenty of tricks
and you can find them all in a Lucky Charms box
circa 1976 when I made my Donny doll
kiss my Marie doll's nipple free boobs.
Staying alive without John Travolta's approval
is the trickiest trick of all.
Where do you go when Gilley's burns down
and your only dream
was to ride the bull?
You hitch a ride to the diner
where strawberry milkshakes are free
and the jukebox vomits endless
doo wop disco.
The floor lights up.
Suddenly you're Stephanie.
You knew it all along.
You shake your ass as everyone around you dies.
You add another layer of gloss to your pout.
Last call are the ugliest words.
Good thing my daddy
has his own
bar.
There were exclamation marks and scratch-n-sniff stickers.
These days are tiger's blood in flavor roller rink in tone
and I am compromised rainbow unicorn diary
with busted lock.
You're welcome.
De nada.
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I'm gonna let it SHINE.
If Satan can't blow it out, baby,
you know your ass
is outta luck.
May the Billy Corgan ice cream truck save us all
from chainsaw wielding cannibals
and the brutal July baked highway
from Seymour to Goree.
I have stories to sell.
Here. You can have em.
Cautionary tales and magic spells recalled
when the progressed moon left Pisces for Aries.
The security guard uniform makes me itch
because I'm a witch most at home
in my own skin and M.A.C. war paint
loose and lucid somewhere south of Dixie.
There are plenty of tricks
and you can find them all in a Lucky Charms box
circa 1976 when I made my Donny doll
kiss my Marie doll's nipple free boobs.
Staying alive without John Travolta's approval
is the trickiest trick of all.
Where do you go when Gilley's burns down
and your only dream
was to ride the bull?
You hitch a ride to the diner
where strawberry milkshakes are free
and the jukebox vomits endless
doo wop disco.
The floor lights up.
Suddenly you're Stephanie.
You knew it all along.
You shake your ass as everyone around you dies.
You add another layer of gloss to your pout.
Last call are the ugliest words.
Good thing my daddy
has his own
bar.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
EXPLOITATION
I can and will exploit the English language.
I can and will exploit the Texan American nightmare mythology.
I can and will exploit myself in the name of ART.
Rather than committing a literal suicide or literal homicide
I will kill myself and many others
again
again
again
in the inviolate confine
of endless pages
smeared with metaphorical viscera.
It's fiction.
It's process.
It's unholy creation.
It is not memoir.
It is not creative nonfiction.
I'm sick of explaining things.
I will keep explaining things.
I'm Clarice Lispector thrown into a Ninja
(that's a food processor)
with Kathy Acker and Gertrude Stein
and Larry McMurtry circa The Last Picture Show.
Comprende, friendo?
I can and will exploit the Texan American nightmare mythology.
I can and will exploit myself in the name of ART.
Rather than committing a literal suicide or literal homicide
I will kill myself and many others
again
again
again
in the inviolate confine
of endless pages
smeared with metaphorical viscera.
It's fiction.
It's process.
It's unholy creation.
It is not memoir.
It is not creative nonfiction.
I'm sick of explaining things.
I will keep explaining things.
I'm Clarice Lispector thrown into a Ninja
(that's a food processor)
with Kathy Acker and Gertrude Stein
and Larry McMurtry circa The Last Picture Show.
Comprende, friendo?
Friday, July 29, 2016
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Friday, July 22, 2016
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
GUNS ACROSS AMERICUNT
Here I am promoting Fuckerbutt Happy Time with an excerpt. Suicide's "Dream Baby Dream" plays in the background. Cannot fucking believe I just heard about Suicide and Alan Vega a couple of days ago. Well I'm a Texan American, after all. One thing I've learned in my four decades on this planet: mediocrity is richly rewarded. You gotta dig to find the gold. Stumble drunk across the vomitscape to the rollicking sounds of the latest Justin Bieber song. Wheee! Look over there! It's the real housewives of Beverly Hills! Fifty Shades of Vomit! "Charles in Charge"! "Full House"! Yeeeehaw. Earlier I told my son I was going to post a video of me reading a poem from Monkey Bite. He said,"I get it. But nobody else will."
Word.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Saturday, July 9, 2016
WE CAN'T DRIVE 55
Here's this from an old blog. Should I resurrect? No can do. I've forgotten the password. God. It was a lifetime ago. I live more life in one day than most motherfuckers live in a decade. It's mostly interior, which is fine. I contain multitudes, like my good friend the Gemini...Walt Whitman, baby.
Friday, July 8, 2016
BORING, Sidney, BORING!!!
Most people and situations bore the fuck out of me. I cannot abide Facebook. I don't want to see your food or grandchildren or pets. Lo siento. I am not a mature, complacent, congenial, normal forty-three year old woman. Yesterday I was walking to the pool with my son. I'd been awake for maybe fifteen minutes. I saw a couple near the gate. They had their damn dogs with them, on leashes. One of the men stared at me, expecting a friendly,"Good morning! Cute dog!" I just glowered from behind my sunglasses and he said,"We're trying to acclimate our dogs to other people." I said,"Well, I'm not a dog person." He said,"You're not?" I said,"Not at all." He apologized. I dismissed his apology. Then this morning in Wal-Mart there were fifty employees standing around like zombies but not one of the check-outs were occupied so I had to do self check-out which I fucking hate. It's just a hassle. I was scanning items and this employee came over and said,"Ma'am you have to put the items in bags after you scan them." I said,"Shut up."
I don't feel great about any of this. I'll be working in customer service soon. Yes. I'll be a concierge in a high dollar residence tower. I'll be expected to kiss rich ass. That's my job description. I suck at kissing ass, as you might imagine. I have a lonely Aquarius sun at twenty-nine degrees that squares my Taurus MC and trines my Uranus in Libra in the second house. There is a lack of fire and water in my chart. Air and Earth dominant. Virgo rising, Virgo moon, sun and Venus in the sixth. Saturn in Gemini in the tenth tops my chart. I've been accused of being hateful, cold, robotic.
But then there's my first house moon trining my Mars in the fifth. I love falling in love! I LOVE sex! Sex with someone I love. Random sex does nada for me. I have to KNOW a motherfucker in much more than the Biblical sense of the word. I love making playlists at YouTube. I love hula hooping. I love dancing. I love swimming. I love being left alone! Unless someone is kissing MY ass I'm not terribly interested in interaction. Well that's not entirely true. I do enjoy the occasional challenge. But it's quite acceptable to dismiss me as a bitch/asshole/misanthrope/hater. I don't HATE. I LOVE. But I HATE being fucked with. And I hate the whole strip mall rat race nine to five grind culture that is hailed by many as The American Dream. It ain't my dream.
I was going to write about The Great American Novel. Okay. Here's this. I was excited a few years ago to listen to Todd Moore read excerpts from his novel in progress, Dreaming of Billy The Kid, at Acequia in Albuquerque. Nonlinear. Dreamy. My brain is Nutella so all I can say is...Todd Moore fucking nailed it. I think of Todd and his work often. I'm honored to own a few of his signed chaps and the only reason I hold onto my copy of The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry is because Todd scrawled,"Misti, yr a helluva poet" on the flyleaf. One of the regrets of my life is that I missed Todd's seventieth birthday party because I was freaking out from postpartum depression and anxiety. He is the greatest writer I have ever known.
There are no limits but people like to think there are because limits keep shit safe. So write about yesterday's blow job and tomorrow's time share in The Hamptons. No risks. No blood. No sweat. No tears. Novels are hot dogs. Most of them taste the same. Condiments may vary. Some people go crazy and put the weiner on a wheat bun. Go baby GO. So in my arrogance I proclaim my latest novel is superior to anything (ANYTHING) you'll find at Barnes & Noble or Half-Price Books. Yeah, Fuckerbutt Happy Time is better than coffee and Star Wars collectibles. Sure, there's plenty of mediocre sex and projection in there but there's magic, too. Magic is the lacking ingredient in the memoirs and novels being churned out ad nauseam. Color coded. Approved by Oprah. MFA sanctified. Motherfucker PLEASE. I'm not concerned with Word Count, Demographic, Genre, page numbers, chapters. I won't be pitching the movie rights to Drew Barrymore.
"Are there lakes or rivers in New York?" (my son, he's eight)
"There's both, baby." (me)
"I mean in New York City."
"The Hudson River."
The other night at the dinner table I was bragging. I'm good at that. I was telling my ex-husband and my son,"Writer's retreat. Residency. HA. I write novels with baby noises and screeching sitcoms in my ear! No peace! No solitude! And I'm kicking ass!"
I really am. Idiots will say,"Well, you aren't making any money. You aren't making any rounds. You haven't flown on a plane since February 2013. So what's your point?"
The point is, I go where angels fear to tread. I met a guy from OKCupid at a bar a few weeks ago after a couple of phone conversations. Right away he told me I had crazy eyes but that's okay, he digs crazy white chicks. He's a Latino. Then he told me he did ten years for homicide. He was just a normal San Antonio teenager, you know. He killed someone with a gun. But things are cool now. He owns a house. He works his dick into the dirt. He showed me all his credit cards. But when I told him I've gone across to Mexico three times in the past year he was incredulous. "They kill white women over there." Well I'm still here, inexplicably. Writing my magical books that don't sell. Jumping through hoops of fire for a few minutes of peace in a Gemini sun Libra moon angel's beautiful loving arms.
My problem, chiefly, is difficulty in convincing other motherfuckers that I'm cool, I'm legit, I'm brilliant, I'm GOOD. Nothin' I can do about any of that. I'm just sitting at this spinning wheel like a regular peasant bitch, turning my tiny infinity of straw into GOLD.
I don't feel great about any of this. I'll be working in customer service soon. Yes. I'll be a concierge in a high dollar residence tower. I'll be expected to kiss rich ass. That's my job description. I suck at kissing ass, as you might imagine. I have a lonely Aquarius sun at twenty-nine degrees that squares my Taurus MC and trines my Uranus in Libra in the second house. There is a lack of fire and water in my chart. Air and Earth dominant. Virgo rising, Virgo moon, sun and Venus in the sixth. Saturn in Gemini in the tenth tops my chart. I've been accused of being hateful, cold, robotic.
But then there's my first house moon trining my Mars in the fifth. I love falling in love! I LOVE sex! Sex with someone I love. Random sex does nada for me. I have to KNOW a motherfucker in much more than the Biblical sense of the word. I love making playlists at YouTube. I love hula hooping. I love dancing. I love swimming. I love being left alone! Unless someone is kissing MY ass I'm not terribly interested in interaction. Well that's not entirely true. I do enjoy the occasional challenge. But it's quite acceptable to dismiss me as a bitch/asshole/misanthrope/hater. I don't HATE. I LOVE. But I HATE being fucked with. And I hate the whole strip mall rat race nine to five grind culture that is hailed by many as The American Dream. It ain't my dream.
I was going to write about The Great American Novel. Okay. Here's this. I was excited a few years ago to listen to Todd Moore read excerpts from his novel in progress, Dreaming of Billy The Kid, at Acequia in Albuquerque. Nonlinear. Dreamy. My brain is Nutella so all I can say is...Todd Moore fucking nailed it. I think of Todd and his work often. I'm honored to own a few of his signed chaps and the only reason I hold onto my copy of The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry is because Todd scrawled,"Misti, yr a helluva poet" on the flyleaf. One of the regrets of my life is that I missed Todd's seventieth birthday party because I was freaking out from postpartum depression and anxiety. He is the greatest writer I have ever known.
There are no limits but people like to think there are because limits keep shit safe. So write about yesterday's blow job and tomorrow's time share in The Hamptons. No risks. No blood. No sweat. No tears. Novels are hot dogs. Most of them taste the same. Condiments may vary. Some people go crazy and put the weiner on a wheat bun. Go baby GO. So in my arrogance I proclaim my latest novel is superior to anything (ANYTHING) you'll find at Barnes & Noble or Half-Price Books. Yeah, Fuckerbutt Happy Time is better than coffee and Star Wars collectibles. Sure, there's plenty of mediocre sex and projection in there but there's magic, too. Magic is the lacking ingredient in the memoirs and novels being churned out ad nauseam. Color coded. Approved by Oprah. MFA sanctified. Motherfucker PLEASE. I'm not concerned with Word Count, Demographic, Genre, page numbers, chapters. I won't be pitching the movie rights to Drew Barrymore.
"Are there lakes or rivers in New York?" (my son, he's eight)
"There's both, baby." (me)
"I mean in New York City."
"The Hudson River."
The other night at the dinner table I was bragging. I'm good at that. I was telling my ex-husband and my son,"Writer's retreat. Residency. HA. I write novels with baby noises and screeching sitcoms in my ear! No peace! No solitude! And I'm kicking ass!"
I really am. Idiots will say,"Well, you aren't making any money. You aren't making any rounds. You haven't flown on a plane since February 2013. So what's your point?"
The point is, I go where angels fear to tread. I met a guy from OKCupid at a bar a few weeks ago after a couple of phone conversations. Right away he told me I had crazy eyes but that's okay, he digs crazy white chicks. He's a Latino. Then he told me he did ten years for homicide. He was just a normal San Antonio teenager, you know. He killed someone with a gun. But things are cool now. He owns a house. He works his dick into the dirt. He showed me all his credit cards. But when I told him I've gone across to Mexico three times in the past year he was incredulous. "They kill white women over there." Well I'm still here, inexplicably. Writing my magical books that don't sell. Jumping through hoops of fire for a few minutes of peace in a Gemini sun Libra moon angel's beautiful loving arms.
My problem, chiefly, is difficulty in convincing other motherfuckers that I'm cool, I'm legit, I'm brilliant, I'm GOOD. Nothin' I can do about any of that. I'm just sitting at this spinning wheel like a regular peasant bitch, turning my tiny infinity of straw into GOLD.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
It's like this.
I just wrote and posted a poem. Deleted it.
Here's this instead because this is where I'm living.
Last night in bed I told my man,"I'll never write about this."
And he dismissed that because he knows me.
"Yeah you will. You're a writer."
And I said,"With other men I'd have written twenty poems by now."
It's been three weeks.
A lifetime.
"I guess bad sex is more inspiring than good lovemaking."
(I said.)
I'm adept at recording the hell and horror of my life.
This is something else entirely.
There isn't anything subversive or ironic
about true love.
Here's this instead because this is where I'm living.
Last night in bed I told my man,"I'll never write about this."
And he dismissed that because he knows me.
"Yeah you will. You're a writer."
And I said,"With other men I'd have written twenty poems by now."
It's been three weeks.
A lifetime.
"I guess bad sex is more inspiring than good lovemaking."
(I said.)
I'm adept at recording the hell and horror of my life.
This is something else entirely.
There isn't anything subversive or ironic
about true love.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Monday, July 4, 2016
TINY TASTE
Cheapen the word with advertisement, anodyne. The word cannot stand on its own. The word is drunk off her ass from sangria and tequila shots and is wobbling to her boyfriend’s car in Payless platforms. Oh she thinks she’s quite a hot bitch but the word is actually a self-absorbed fucktard incapable of clearing fogged cobwebbed mind of years of Southern Baptist programming and American media saturation. Fucking Helen Gurley Brown and her tawdry love affair with italics. Keep Your Man With Blow Jobs That Will Blow His Mind, Darling! Fucking Hugh Hefner and his terrible taste in women. Fucking Charlie’s Angels. Fucking Scooby Doo. Fucking Gilligan. Fucking Wally Cleaver. Fucking Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli. A tiny infinity of Lifetime movies, color coded sitcoms, self-help books, the dating life of Leonardo DiCaprio, the love life of Brad Pitt, the sex life of Charlie Sheen, expired orgasm coupons, regurgitated words of love, idiotic ramblings of booty call nation, trying to adore men with halitosis, trying to commit to men with mommy issues, those thirty extra pounds, soul mate mythology, the kama sutra in five positions or less, astro.com, Mars and Venus conjunct in Gemini, sun and Jupiter conjunct in Virgo, Gin Blossoms, Matchbox Twenty, HPV, organic kink aisle at Whole Foods, Kim Kardashian’s Twitter feed, The Billy Madison Show, bottom shelf moscato, leaving face wash at his place to stake some kind of pathetic claim.
The word is an illiterate bimbo. She tries really hard but
comes across as a pale imitation of Erica Jong meets Anais Nin meets Sandra
Cisneros on a really bad hair day. Fuck the word. Fuck the word so fucking
fucking hard.
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