Friday, December 30, 2016

(I was eleven.)






dawn barr es mi novia

I am a hot babe from San Antonio
and if you text me back
I will show you my hot pictures.

??? QUE ???




Thursday, December 29, 2016


I have a repository. It's scary stuff. My short term memory is shit. My brain is Swiss cheese. But the memories from way back knock me flat on my ass on a regular basis. Here's a memory that isn't especially emotionally painful but it's so vivid it's as if it happened last night. Well that's an exaggeration. But. I'm a little girl living in a trailer house in Bridgeport, Texas with my recently divorced mom and my two younger siblings. The road we lived on was called Cuba Road back in 1979. It's night. It's cold. I'm having an asthma attack. I can't fucking breathe. There was a vaporizer. There was Dimetapp. Wasn't enough. I didn't know what an inhaler was. I begged my mom to take me to the ER to get a shot so that I could breathe. I remember riding to the hospital (the hospital where I was born, a little hospital in Bridgeport that was torn down years ago) in my mom's station wagon. And this song was on the radio.




Today is always the greatest day even when it isn't. I am not ashamed. I love Billy Corgan. I love The Smashing Pumpkins. I love Courtney Love. I love Hole. I love Kurt Cobain. I love Nirvana. I love Mickey Rourke in "The Wrestler" telling Marisa Tomei that he hated the nineties and then dancing to "Round And Round." That was pretty fucking hot.

Spoiler alert. Fuckerbutt Happy Time ends with my goofy yet entertaining revision of the original Texas chainsaw massacre screenplay. At the very end the lone survivor chick is rescued by a pasty faced guy driving an ice cream truck. Can you dig it? I knew that you could!

p.s. I also love George Michael.

Monday, December 19, 2016




I did the field research and grunt work so you don't have to. If you're having beautiful, wondrous, life affirming experiences at, eHarmony, Craig's List and OK Cupid I am so fucking happy for you! I encourage you to write a book about your experiences and publish that shit yourselves (unless you're buddy buddy with those hot shit fuckers at Simon & Schuster). Invite the world in! We're all here to be share bears! I jest.

Here is my revised illustrated novel, Fuckerbutt Happy Time, just in time to buy and stuff in a motherfucker's stocking. Feliz Navidad, fuckerbutts!

Friday, December 16, 2016


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!

Thursday, December 15, 2016

exotic butters

I learned about exotic butters from my son. He's an FNAF fanatic. I was so enchanted by the words I decided to publish a book with that title. See the rocket on the cover? When I was a kid there was a rocket almost exactly like it at the park in Bridgeport, Texas. I never made it to the top. Last night I told my son a Cougar and Sally story. Cougar built a rocket out of beer cans. "There's no way he'll make it to Uranus in a rocket like that," my son said, laughing. But Cougar DID make it to Uranus, and so did Sally and their son C.J.! Someday I'll publish a series of books about Cougar and Sally and C.J. Here's the book version of this blog. I see that someone downloaded it for free. This makes me sad. I like the idea of my books being held and fondled and sniffed and licked. When I was a teenager I ate lemons while reading Gone With The Wind in bed. The pages were stained with lemon juice. That memory makes me happy. Here are the songs I listened to while putting together my latest book. I intend to revise Walking The Earth and Fuckerbutt Happy Time after the presents have been opened and the almond crescents have been devoured. Then I'll attack the rough draft of SANGRE, my most kick ass novel ever.

Always Merry & Bright,

Misti Velvet Rainwater-Lites

Saturday, December 3, 2016


There was a group of people. We were outside. The sun was shining hard. The leader of the group mentioned snow. I didn't believe him but then I looked and sure enough, there was snow on the ground. I picked up some snow and made a snowball and carried it inside an auditorium. People were so happy together in pairs and groups. I was alone but not lonely. I was pretty damn happy with myself and my snowball. I guess you could say the snowball was my best friend. The movie was Oliver Stone's "The Doors." I was excited, happy, elated, jubilant, ebullient to be watching "The Doors" with a crowd of strangers and my new best friend. But there were glitches. The movie projector wasn't doing its job terribly well. What the fuck? We're here to watch Val Kilmer as The Lizard King make love to Meg Ryan as Pamela Courson. We are not here to watch a blank damn screen. You get what you pay for. I paid nada. I just walked through the door to find a happy surprise. Then the surprise was less happy due to the glitches. Then I noticed the man who functioned as my stepfather for several years. He was sitting with a group of people, talking, smiling, having the best damn time of his life. "I hope he doesn't see me. I don't want him to see me alone with this snowball. He'll think...Bitch Really is Crazy," I thought. He didn't see me. Whew. The movie never did continue. I guess eventually I left and the snowball melted. There are raindrops on the window and the xmas tree is aglow. The fish tank is still burbling even though the fish is buried in the backyard. I'm going to color my grey hair now and make myself gorgeous for xmas pictures with my son. If you would like to receive a xmas card from me and my son send me your address. You know how to contact me.

Thursday, December 1, 2016


I was hanging out with Nard in the studio. The Billy Madison Show, bitches. Except in the dream as is so often the case the studio was not the studio at all but a really ratty ass apartment. I had my clothes stored in boxes in various rooms. I was packing up my stuff to leave. It was raining outside. I went inside one of the rooms to collect my clothes and discovered there were roaches crawling all over my clothes so I left them behind. Then I was practicing a scene with some random guy. I punctuated my lines with blatant disgust. "Damn. You're a good actress," the guy said. I thought,"Yeah. There's probably an Oscar in my damn future."

I am convinced that picadillo con papas result in vivid dreams. I'm pleased that I can make picadillo con papas my damn self. I didn't think this was possible. I CAN FRY MY OWN POTATOES. I can fry my own lean ground beef. I know cumin. I know black pepper. I know garlic salt. I know tomatoes. I know onions. I know butter. I know flour tortillas. I know salsa verde. What else do I know? Not much. I was born in Bridgeport, Texas.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016



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.

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.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

DevilHouse Press Chap

Muchas gracias to Amanda Earl for publishing my latest chapbook, No Guns No Knives No Disco Biscuits. Only fifty copies of my chapbook are available. You may purchase a copy at the DevilHouse Press website for $10 or purchase a signed copy from me for $20. My PayPal is

Always Merry & Bright,


Saturday, November 19, 2016

maS aRco iRiS


I won't bleed my eyeballs out looking
at another chart
until I've been married
to my true fucking love
for fifty years.
Then I'll glance
at our charts
and say...
Ah. That explains it.


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.

Friday, November 18, 2016



I ain't Ronnie Milsap. Ronnie Lee Milsap is an American country music singer and pianist. Also. He's a Capricorn. Born in 1943. I'm an American something or other. Also. I'm an Aquarian. Born in 1973.

Mr. Milsap likes to brag in that one song about how there ain't no gettin' over him. He sticks the knife in deep and twists it hard with his repeated "sweet darlin'." Well. It's my turn to brag. No gettin' over me, either, baby.


My best friend ever was a funny old lady. I only met her once. She babysat me one night when I was in kindergarten. Where did Mommy and Daddy go? Wichita Falls, most likely, to disco their asses off. Remember. This was 1978. I had long black hair. I was white. My eyes were blue. I knew nada.

The old lady fed me a Tony's sausage pizza and played Barbies with me. Ken got drunk and did the splits.


Funland wasn't much fun. Funland was a sorry substitute for Six Flags. But I was happy there that day riding the pathetic excuse for a train with my best friend Jennifer. Her sno cone was strawberry. My sno cone was blue coconut. We smiled cheesy for my mom's cheap camera.

I don't think I won anything worth mentioning with all those Skee-Ball tickets. I wanted to be Kimberly Drummond. Bitch had everything. Cute teeth. Carpet. Food. Daddy. The basics.

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.




I'm sorry. I don't have any Mexican or Spanish blood. My birth. What a ridiculous thing to apologize for. I was born to two white teenagers on February 17, 1973 in Bridgeport, Texas. Fred is a Taurus. Cindy is a Gemini. Fred's parents were Scorpios. Cindy's mother is a Libra. Cindy's father is a Sagittarius. I have Cherokee blood on both sides. I'm proud of my Cherokee blood but my pride is useless. I can't do anything with it. I wasn't raised on a reservation or in Cherokee Nation. I was raised in rent houses, trailer houses and low-income apartments all over North Central Texas. When I was ten my mom married a mud engineer and we moved into a brand-new brick house in Monahans, Texas. There was nothing but dirt in the front and back. We grew our own grass.

I know about the Alamo. I know that Texas belonged to Mexico. I know about all the blood. I know that I love my Latino fiance. His family has been in Texas longer than mine. But I'm not telling his story in this space. I'm telling my story, my native Texan narrative. White people don't have any culture and if they do they are supposed to apologize for it. Well fuck that bullshit. This is what I come from.

I come from gun owners. I come from churchgoers. I come from cornbread, peach cobbler, sweet tea, poker, fried pork chops, Patsy Cline and George Jones 8-tracks, drive-in movies in Seymour, drive-in movies in Decatur, garage sales, riding down dirt roads in the back of pick-up trucks, cattle auctions, barbecues, factory workers, grocery store workers, C & F Answering Service, Cuba Road, Lake Kemp, beauty pageants, people who wear cowboy boots and Wranglers without irony, people who put family first, always, people who decorate for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, people who buy birthday cakes and birthday cards for family members from the age of one to the age of one-hundred plus. Everyone counts. Everyone is sacred. Doesn't matter if you've gone to prison. Doesn't matter if you're battling addiction. Doesn't matter if you don't have a pot to piss in. In my family there is a surplus of love and celebration to go around. No one is excluded.

I am not a Republican. I did not vote for Trump. Fuck politics. You can find all you want and a whole lot extra about the current shit show on social media. Walk out the door. You'll find it. This is not the space for that bullshit. I align myself with the dispossessed, the broken down but not defeated. I'm white. I'm a rainbow. I turned the best dream of my life into a book length poem and published it myself. Pretty Red Berries. It's no longer available. In the dream in the poem I was in a warehouse with hundreds of illegal immigrants. I was the only white human in a building filled with brown humans. There was a roll top door. It opened. Our names were called by machine gun toting border patrol assholes.

"Rainwater!" That was my cue. I stepped outside onto a loading dock. There was a green bush, inexplicably. I stood in front of the green bush facing a firing squad. They asked me if I wanted them to call a priest. They asked if I had any last words. "Fuck the priest. Fuck the last word. Make pretty red berries," I said, stretching out my arms. The bullets flew and sprayed my blood all over the bush. And then I was flying over the Rio Grande and a Walmart parking lot and I was so glad to be done with the whole damn thing.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

We ain't pretty, pilgrim.


I want Don Henley's money.
I want Donald Trump's money.
I want filthy lucre and I want it NOW.
I want Donald Duck's money.
I want Daddy's money.
I want wads of money.
I want your money and I want it NOW.
Give me all your money!
Put it in my PayPal!!
The other day I gave a
to a homeless man
in San Antonio, Texas
because he was wearing
a Painter Bob t-shirt.
I gave my son play money
for his ninth birthday.
He always kicks my ass
at Monopoly.
The white man always wins!
Don't tell that to Oprah Winfrey.
Don't tell that to Barack Obama.
Tell it to your mama and the chick
who paints your toenails.
I was evicted from a hot shit hotel,
left several books behind on purpose,
to the assholes at the front desk
because a white woman
always tips the maids.
I am not white.
I'm a rainbow.
Because you know.
Food stamps.
Because you know.
Because you know.
Because you know.
Financial aid.
Because you know.
Because you know.
Macaroni and cheese.
Because you know.
Fried chicken.
Because you know.
Bottom shelf tequila.
Puke and puke and
eBuLLienT voMiT
from Vegas to Miami.
I love mi papi.
He doesn't speak German.
The Smashing Pumpkins
sang it





Mucho action in la panaderia.
Henry and his galletas.
Waiting for my extra sugar.
He will be pleased with everything.
What is everything.
My cunt is everything.
So silent you might have heard
a coffee stirring.
After Easter a different
kind of ascension.
It's never too early
for Roxi Xmas.




Got a light, sugar?
Where's your light, sweetie?
This is my light, baby doll.
I shine. I shine. I shine. I shine.
If they wear a gazelle to breakfast
if they wear a gazelle
if they wear the correct size
and the color
and the designer
and the music sews
each stanza to each
dappled button
and enough cartilage
with plaid
and enough lace
with blood
and the skin so merry
in stitches
then package furious
then package numb
dumb in hum
all the way
to Nebraska.
A tiny princess.
A gargantuan pea.
A formidable tower.
A lonely braid.
A snowest whitest wild child.
A drop of envious witch blood.
A cupboard of dwarfs
and a coffin of virginity.
Ice and glass and nothing shatters
and no one melts
and no sleep
no sleep
no sleep till Portland.
Very red is mi corazon.
Very red and read and bread and bred.
Very corazon mis besos rojos.
Very eBuLLieNT voMiT.
Eat the rich? No.
I am
not bulimic.





Ella ha estado viviendo y trabajando, ella ha estado en silencio y de trabajo, que ha estado sufriendo y trabajando, ella ha estado observando y trabajando, ella ha estado esperando, ella ha estado trabajando, ella ha estado esperando y trabajando, ella no se pueda estar cambiando.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016




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.


We get the circus we deserve.
We get the shit show we signed up for.
It's endless night in America.
It's sweet delight somewheres else.
Oh Iceland.
Oh France.
Oh Peru darling Peru.
Fiji. Fuck me. Fiji.
No one can take me there.
Did I ask to be born to a white teenager
in Bridgeport, Texas in 1973?
I tell my brown boyfriend that I
am a rainbow.
He doesn't believe me.
Spanish is the national language.
I cannot speak it
but I'm stumbling through
the Spanish edition
of Fahrenheit 451.
Dio la vuelta y se marcho.
That was damn smart of him.
Scott Wannberg, I'm sorry.
My double Scorpio son, I'm sorry.
Every rainbow in America, I'm sorry.
We are the champions, my friends.
Because we shine where shining ain't allowed.
Because we scream
in quiet rooms from Memphis to Albuquerque.
Because when ordering enchiladas in Santa Fe
we order CHRISTMAS.
Because one color is never enough for our buffet.
We are winning harder than Charlie Sheen.
There is a victory parade inside every hell.
Yell it until you are dead.
Die dancing.
Die waving any flag but the white one.
Corey Hart approves
this message.


Today it is raining in Texas
and other places
and Trump is Daddy
and Trump is Father
and Trump is God
and Trump is King
and hatred rings triumphant
from sea to toxic sea.
Smug motherfuckers rejoice
over sweet tea and cornbread.
Cracker Barrel Nation.
This is Cheetos Country.
You look like you ain't
from around here.
Didn't your mama
teach you no manners?
I was born a coal miner's daughter.
From the bootstraps
to the Grand Ole Opry
in one cheesy lifetime.
We say grace and we say amen
and we can shoot a buck
and run a trotline
and in bed by nine and
thank you jesus
thank you lord
we can afford that Big Lots recliner
in which we sit
in which we reign
until diabetes finally sends us home
to Green Acres.
The place
to be.

America done died & gone to hell.

if you ever get close to a human...

Tuesday, November 8, 2016


I voted early.
I voted at the mall.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Instant Pussy.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
John 3:16.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Bullshit Rodeo.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
John and Yoko.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Fuckerbutt Happy Time.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Patsy Cline karaoke.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Mexican Coca-Cola.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Fingerhut engagement ring.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Arsenal of Spitwads.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Oprah fucking Winfrey.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
I could not
in good conscience
vote for a talking Cheeto.

Thursday, October 27, 2016


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.
Bring it fast and furious
while I still
possess a damn.


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.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016


Hello. I am a special snowflake from Texas.
I can write, edit, proofread, publish
...draw, paint, wash dishes by hand,
make organic peanut butter cups,
scrub toilets (I leave NO SHIT behind)
and tap dance.
I can also karaoke.
I'm white but I sing Billie Holiday
and sometimes Prince and sometimes
when the moon is in Taurus...
I'm interested in a residency.
You have to be rich.
You have to live alone.
You have to have plenty of space.
You will provide me with free room and board
and a stipend of $3000 a month.
I like to get pedicures and massages.
I like to eat red potatoes drizzled with shoyu.
Please do not expect me to be the dumping ground
for your neuroses...that's what your therapists are for.
Please do not expect me to feign interest
in your attempts at blood on the page and canvas.
You do not have any blood.
You are anemic.
That is where I come in.
I will provide your beige life with much color.
Plenty of blood.
You can take pictures and post them all over
social media to prove to your friends
that you have relevance and cool cred.
No one will believe you but motherfuckers
are good at lying these days
what with Mars and Pluto
conjunct in Capricorn.
Power trips abound.
I will not play with your puppies or kittens.
I'm allergic to animals and bullshit.
I will not accompany you to the hot shit bakery
for sixty dollar cupcakes and lattes.
You've got equally fabulous cohorts
for that sort of thing.
Sushi? Not interested. Thanks.
I can stay in the attic or basement.
Out of the way to do my little mad
foaming at the mouth special snowflake thing.
I promise not to melt.


I'm a Pisces imbued Aquarian
because yes the sun was in Aquarius
when I was born
but 29 degrees not two degrees
and I've got Mercury in Pisces
and Neptune in the fourth
squares moon in the first.
Scorpio is my IC
and my Mars squares Pluto.
Bitches spit and shit on me
then whine when I hit back.
Unfriending me is fine.
Blocking me is cool.
Assaulting me with verbal vomit
and psycho projection
is something else.
I issue out warnings
because I've got Jupiter
in the fifth
squaring Uranus in the second.
Don't tread on me.
Well you can.
Results may vary.
I can't be held responsible.
Mars in the fifth protects
my first house moon
and lately
in the progressed
everything is in Aries.
I'm drowning in sangre.
Negan with his barbed wire wrapped baseball bat
disturbs me a little
but I get
the metaphor.
The macabre carnival
awaits us all.
Yes. We all get our candied muerte.
But some of us
get taste tests


I'm not Crumb.
I'm not Kardashian.
I'm not Madonna.
Even so.


I'm fake at Facebook. All my friends are Italian.
I don't know any of them.
I don't speak their language.
Perfect. No problems.
I'm myself only more so at Instagram.
Dramatic selfies are addictive!
So are hastily scribbled sketches.
So are a lot of things.
Judging a motherfucker
might take you as far
as the closest Taco Bell.
Eat that shit for me.
I'm at Subway.


Nothing aiming is a flower.
Dance a clean dream.
Why is there more craving than there is a mountain.
No mention of butter.
Wretched use of summer.
In this way they are allowed to retaliate.
There is very little to hide.
Later one knows there is a way of winning
by being intriguing.
We had a motto.
This is it.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016


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
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


Chess beyond the board
moves me to looking glass tears.
Taking the train to the latest queen's
paint dripping garden
puddles me
to twelve.
I wasn't even
bleeding yet.
Someplace higher
grows the only rose
that has ever listened
harder than stone
to my fumbled mumbles.
There goes Bill.
Yes. Yes.
Kicks transcend






The cubic zirconia burning a hole through my tongue
disagrees but please continue.
Bring the waves.
Bring the storm.
I live for the toss.
Inside me there are cookies
that do not crumble.
Inside me there are jars
that do not break.
Inside me there are lions
that yawn and sleep
and dream of tundra burglaries
and meadowed ice cream.
I know your bridge.
I remember shimmer.
Everything hazy even as rich white bitch
walking her expensive dog of some kind
drips derision on my toes
on her way to zip code made of crystallized snot
and fossilized blood
and galacticized sweat
and no amount of tears
because tears
are for
The pink Monopoly money greening
my hand me down jacket pockets disagrees
but do
go on.
I am here
to learn.

Friday, October 14, 2016



We don't die.
We just digress.
John Ciardi wrote that.
Sin, hell!
I've committed
every one.
Anne Sexton wrote that.
One night with you is what
I'm praying for.
Elvis Presley sang that.
If I go to church on Sunday
then cabaret all day Monday
ain't nobody's business if I do.
Billie Holiday sang that.
And on.
And on.
There's a rowdy hell choir
tolling proud bells
inside my skull.
One day I was sitting on the bed I made
strumming my man's guitar
singing a goddamn gorgeous song
I wish I had written
because it feels so true.
I mean I've pretty much lived
every fucking note.
My man kept cleaning, muttered,
"Sounds like a Bob Dylan song."
It was a Bob Dylan song.
And we are all idiots
and there is nothing left to write
but don't let that stop us.
Try, babies.


A few things have been lost in translation
and storage.
I don't miss the rings and dick pics.
I haven't burned the map yet
but I can taste the twin flame ashes
on my Mercury in Pisces in
the seventh tongue.
Bruja, he called me.
The witch brand is the only sear
I've endeared to memory
because baby
it's true.
I'm not ashamed of the magic
that brings the sailors
to my mermaid drown.
Numbers are irrelevant.
Name the latest hurricane.
Stay stuck in rewind
if that is the realm
of your choice.
My voice is still raspy from
screaming Billie Holiday and Janis Joplin songs
in a deaf Texas god's ears.
If the craziest most dangerous thing
about 2016 America
is pornography/Instant Pussy/timed selfies
of a disenfranchised white bitch's cunt
believe me babies
we ain't got




I never made it to CBGB's.


facebook your way to fame & fortune

I play with makeup & light.


Thursday, October 13, 2016

There'll be no more nappin!!!








I continue to quote Kanye.


A cone helps you get on top of things.
A garage is for all the art no one wants.
A cube is for licking.
A friend listens to your bullshit.
A lover holds you down until you drown.
A stew contains potatoes and vegetables.
A map helps you get there.
A heart is an ocean.
A mermaid is your compass.
A fairy tale is your natal chart.
An enemy is your catalyst.
A sun is your ego blooming.
A moon is your casa lit with candles.
A muerte is a candy trek.
A train is a looking glass, exploded.


I continue to adore this song.


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.


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.
I can hold




Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Pure? What does it mean?

If Sylvia Plath didn't know I sure as shit don't know. Fresh from my salt bath I stare into the cracked mirror and see Laura Ingalls Wilder. I have my pa. I have my penny candy. I've banged dust from erasers and put the chickens to bed. Hot double date tonight. Me. Almanzo. John Boy Walton. Kimberly Drummond. Will I order lemonade? No. Vanilla milkshake? No. I'm feeling kind of frozen margarita.


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.


Free books. Free besos. Free brownies. Free bibles. Free kittens. Free puppies. Free worms. Free branches. Free bruises. Free fire. Free salt. Free pain. Free nausea. Free stress. Free blanket. Free socks. Free coupons. Free barbecue. Free sex. Free circus. Free bondage. Free Barbie. Free lipstick. Free panties. Free Jaguar. Free slurp. Free nudge. Free fish. Free lecture. Free brick. Free pizza. Free hair. Free lion. Free song. Free grandfather. Free climb. Free glue. Free huh. Free oh. Free sugar. Free never. Free muerte. Free righteous. Free shudder. Free diet. Free Mercury.


Any breathing cognizant being can proclaim undying love for Yoko Ono. I LOVE YOKO ONO. Motherfucker did you HEAR me?! I said I wrote I asserted that I LOVE YOKO ONO!!! Yes. No doubt. You've purchased all her albums and books. If Yoko Ono has some big deal thing going on your ass is there planted in the front row. But were you there hugging Yoko Ono when she was covered in John's blood? Did you bake her a chocolate cake and make her a pot of tea? Did you babysit Sean for free? When your husband/wife said,"That Yoko Ono is one nutty witch." did you divorce his/her hateful smug Aquarius bashing ass? No worries, as they say. We are you are I am free to love Yoko Ono and anybody else I deem worthy from a comfortable distance.

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. 


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
quite dead
expired nickel


Do You Envy Your Friends?

You should do something about that. Become friends with people who haven't orgasmed since 1967. Become friends with people whose Facebook profile pictures are of broccoli and tampons. No one envies broccoli. No one envies tampons. Become friends with people who are runaways from Ronald McDonald House. Become friends with people who will kiss your toes in gratitude when you give them the fortune from your cookie. I met a chick on a Greyhound bus (Reno to Las Vegas) who was dying of some disease I cannot spell or pronounce. She was the best friend I've ever had.


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


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.


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.