Monday, February 29, 2016



Today I enjoyed some success. I passed the Human Growth & Development CLEP exam. As I took the test I thought,"There is no fucking way in HELL I'm gonna pass this bitch. Shit. Shit. SHIT." I studied in a half-assed way for three weeks. My brain feels like Swiss cheese most days. I can't retain information for shit. My younger sister once told me that it would make me ill if I knew how easy it was for her to breeze through four years at the University of Texas at Austin. She rarely studied. She aced her exams. Here I am at the age of forty-three...currently failing introduction to mathematics (I'm going to meet my professor in her office on Wednesday and I'll start attending tutoring sessions at the campus library this week) but otherwise set to finally receive my BFA in May. I grinned as I exited the test center this afternoon. This song was blasting from a sorority tent. Thus. Kanye is my spirit animal.






Misti Rainwater-Lites
frequent uSeR


Thursday, February 25, 2016


Dear Olga,

I hate it when people assume shit. Does SPAM ever work? It did not work in this instance. Wedding bells will not ring for us, alas. I do not have a penis. This is art, Olga. this is NOT.

I was born on February 17, 1973 in Bridgeport, Texas which means that I am an Aquarian with a Virgo moon and a Virgo ascendant which means that:

1. I offend Pinterest moms.
2. I defy category.
3. I do not enjoy anal sex.
4. I do enjoy my purple elephant vibrator.
5. I write books and shit.

Much Sincere Disinterest,

Misti Rainwater-Lites


Hello my new friend!!!

You are probably surprised where did I find your email. Ok, I will try to explain. It is first time in my life to have acquaintance through the internet. It is new to me. I was never been registered on Dating Sites. That’s why I addressed to the agency of acquaintance to find friend through the internet.
They gave me your email and said that you are also trying to find someone, partner in life. I hope I wrote your email correctly and my email will come to you.

Let's get acquainted! Just a little bit about me;
My name is Olga.
I am from Russia and I hope you are not afraid that I am not from your country.
I am the same woman from different countries, with heart and soul.
I am 29 years old. I was born on 25 of August. It mean I am a Virgo.
My height is 5,7. My weight is 121,25 pounds.
I have high education and work by my diploma. I work in a computer store. I am selling computers and other staff. So I don’t have any problems to write you emails.
Sometimes, once in a week it will be impossible to write you because of my weekend but I will let you know about it.
I am not married and have no children. I decided to look for a man over the Internet. I do not care what country he is.
I have a few questions, I hope you answer me on them.
Have you ever been married?
Do you have children?
How old are you?
I also send you some of my image for you to understand with whom are you talking. I hope you will like it.
This is just my first email to you. Hope my letter will come to you and we will continue to speak.
Waiting for you email.

Sincerely, Olga.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016


Yesterday on VIA a young guy in glasses who looked like a current or past member of Sonny And The Sunsets struck up a conversation of some kind with me. Before exiting the bus he glanced at my cowboy boots and said,"I like your boots." Maybe he was nineteen. Maybe he was twenty. I was mildly attracted to him. I've found myself thinking on random occasions these past few years that maybe I need a younger man. My two husbands were older than me. My two most recent ex-boyfriends are older than me. The Scorpio artist (my most recent ex) is eighteen years older than me. He was born in the the Year of the Horse. I was born in the Year of the Ox. Thus. We are not compatible. I'm being specious. We are not compatible because he's fine with minimal contact and anal sex and I'm an old school Court My Warrior Queen Ass But Don't FUCK it kinda gal. Last night I treated myself to three or four orgasms courtesy of my purple elephant vibrator. Then I dreamed of alligators. I dreamed of other stuff but the alligators are what I remember the most. In the dream I thought,"Fuck. What a shitty ass way to die. Being eaten by an alligator." I was not eaten by an alligator in my dream. In another dream a few days ago, the same day the nut in Kalamazoo shot and killed a bunch of people at random, I dreamed that I was walking around this sepia tinted middle class neighborhood. People were in a panic. They all had guns. Killers were on the loose. I didn't have a gun. I walked alone. Unarmed. Then I saw them. The killers. A woman and a man. They resembled Dog The Bounty Hunter and his wife (I watched the show a few times at my mom's ranch on her big ass flat screen). They were carrying machine guns. They looked at me and dismissed me. "You're too old to kill," the bitch snarled. I walked into a childcare facility and pulled the director aside for a private conversation. I told her about the killers. The children needed to be protected. That's all I remember. I'm hungry. I'm going to work on my latest manuscript then reward myself with a Subway sandwich. There will be vegetables and pepper jack cheese. Wheat bread. Salt and pepper. No condiments. Oh yeah. I wanted to write a blog about Dear Dawn: Aileen Wuornos in Her Own Words. My good friend Peach (she's smarter than I am and she has a better heart because she is a Leo...I'm not being specious) sent me that book for xmas. I keep returning to it. Like a lot of other fuckers I saw "Monster." Charlize Theron did a damn good job portraying Aileen Wuornos. I admire any actor who gets that close to so much pain. Because if you're a true actor, which Charlize Theron certainly is, you are a conduit and a shaman. In an interview Val Kilmer once said that he was more Jim Morrison than Jim Morrison was. I understand what he meant. He obviously had to do intense research to portray the adult Jim Morrison. He was concentrated Jim Morrison. Potent Jim Morrison. Didn't matter if he was portraying Oliver Stone's version of Jim Morrison. Doesn't matter how true to life his portrayal was. He had to get in a head space that he imagined to be possessed by Jim Morrison. But I'm bat shit crazy. I was obsessed with The Doors (and Jim Morrison especially) after I saw the film. I bought every related book I could find, even Jim's shitty poetry. I sent a letter to Patricia Kennealy. She sent me a kind reply. Purple calligraphy on parchment paper. Then, inexplicably, she trashed me on her blog. Anyway, I remember sitting in the dark listening to "The End" over and over again in 1991, drinking Jack Daniels from the bottle. And I remember walking around the Talking Leaves Job Corps in Tahlequah, Oklahoma in 1994, listening to "The Soft Parade" over and over again on my Walkman. Bat shit crazy. Yes. Fuck you. But have you ever HEARD "The Soft Parade"? It's fucking brilliant! YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER. The Lizard King was in some pain, y'all. I feel it. Val Kilmer felt it. That's all I'm saying.

And Aileen Wuornos knew from pain. Girl survived some hardcore shit. Rape is a tough issue. A divisive issue. I don't want to talk about rape. But I will. Technically I lost my virginity to a rapist. I met him in a bar in Kerrville, Texas. I was twenty-two years old. I got drunk off my ass. Then back at his place I drank some more and we shared a joint. Then he started fucking me and I was a virgin and even with all the alcohol and the weed it hurt like fucking hell. I asked him to stop. "I can't stop, baby. You feel too good." So he popped my cherry and then I got into it. Various positions. I got into the dirty talk. I felt it. I felt it to my fucking marrow. And like any woman with low self-esteem and daddy issues I have sought similar experiences ever since. Intense sex that I feel to my fucking marrow. Do I want to be raped? I do not. Once I met a guy from Our phone conversations were gross. He kept insisting that I send him pictures of my asshole. He was much younger than me. This was a couple of years ago. I knew better than to meet him. Why did I meet him? I couldn't tell you at gunpoint. I could say,"I was hungry. I wanted a boyfriend. I am an idiot. I am human. I'm a love addict. I'm a Wet-N-Wild girl living la vida loca in a Mary Kay/Urban Decay world." I showed up at his place. Trigger warning. You should stop reading now. You should read a Sweet Valley High book or something similar. You should treat yourself to a pedicure. You should go to a Taylor Swift concert. Go buy some frozen yogurt. They say it's good for you. He opened the door wearing a white towel. I wasn't attracted to him. He had shark eyes. No soul. No warmth. Too tall. Too skinny. Too nada. White. I like to say that the plumber ruined me for white men. I do tend to favor Latinos. I won't apologize for that shit. We didn't kiss. We hardly spoke. There was rumor of a spaghetti dinner. No spaghetti. Just his large drooling dog (I hate showing up at someone's house and being assaulted by his stupid pet) and his raging dick. He wanted a blow job. I wasn't deep throating him the way I'd promised I would. He sprayed some throat numbing shit in my mouth. Then after he discovered I sucked at sucking his dick he asked me to join him in the bedroom. He put some lube on his dick then fucked my ass. I guess he didn't use enough lube because I bled for two weeks. But that wasn't rape, right? He didn't hold a gun to my head or a knife to my throat. I wasn't a kid. I was a middle-aged woman. I drove to the apartment of a man I'd never met in person. And my ass bled for two weeks. I could go on about this but I don't really want to. I want to talk about Aileen Wuornos, who (by her accounts, and those are all we have) was raped numerous times by numerous men. Reading the details of some of her rapes in the book (her letters to her friend Dawn) I hate myself for ever using the word "rape" because what I went through is so nothing in comparison. I read her letters, most of them loving and ebullient, some of them making me laugh out loud, and I think,"I am a piece of shit." And I am humbled by a convicted killer who died on death row. I guess it's politically correct to say,"I don't condone the killings. My heart is with the victims and their families." I won't say that because that's some bullshit. My heart does not bleed for the victims and their families. It just doesn't. Do I think the men deserved to die? Do I think Aileen Wuornos was morally correct to kill men she fucked or was going to fuck for money? No and no. But I don't know the men or their families. After reading Dear Dawn I know Aileen Wuornos and I love her. These men were not men I'd like to know, I know that. Married assholes who picked up an interstate hooker. What kind of piece of shit does that? You could say,"What kind of piece of shit is an interstate hooker?" And I'd say,"Fuck you." Because I was brought up Southern Baptist and I don't come from money but my mom has owned various houses and my dad has a two-story house and a pool in the backyard and he has been on safari in Africa numerous times and will be returning to Africa in the near future with his latest soul mate and once when I was thirty-nine years old I gave a man who called himself Richie (true story) a blow job in Berkeley for BART fare. We met at OK Cupid. I was going to spend the weekend at his condo, do my laundry, get some money for groceries. But I just gave him the blow job and felt like quitting. So I am a failed prostitute. He gave me $20 and I rode BART back to San Francisco. It's no one's FAULT. IT JUST IS.

And so I still dream of putting together a nonprofit with my friend and attorney (I'm Hunter S. Thompson and she's my attorney) and helping women who have "chosen" shitty lives for themselves (we are all connected we are all complicit we have all created the vomitscape that is 2016 American) become empowered through creativity (writing, mostly...I ain't talkin' about makin' JESUS SAVES plaques and sellin' that shit at etsy). And when I grow up I want to be Hollie Stevens.

I'd move to Ecuador.


I'm so discombobulated at this point I don't know if I'm in Iowa or South Carolina. I'm definitely in San Antonio, Texas. Do I have a penis or a vagina? I have a vagina. Do I want gays to get married? Someone has to get married. Might as well be LGBT motherfuckers. I'm a weird flavored motherfucker. I don't know who or what I am. Okay, I love men to a distraction. I am consumed with dick. All the dick I want and will never possess. I live vicariously through my men because I am a voyeur. "Did you fuck her? Do you want to fuck her? Isn't she hot? What do you think of her tits?" I have a vagina. I have an ass. I have tits. I'm a woman. I don't watch porn. I have watched porn. I love me some Evan Stone. It isn't about his dick although he certainly has one. I love his face. I love his brain. I love the coffee porn he posts at Facebook. I've been married and divorced twice. I take my food seriously. I've lived with four different men. Do I think people should be able to own guns? No. If people stop buying guns people will stop making guns and if you want to kill someone you will have to use a knife or an ax or a chainsaw or a brick or a car or a tractor or a weasel or JIF extra crunchy. There are too many guns in America. There should be more rainbow weddings, less guns. The two issues are not related but everything is connected. Pee Wee Herman taught me how to connect the dots. I scribbled notes and turned them into a temporary tattoo on my left ass cheek. There should be more BOOKS. More consensual sex. More joyous sex. This IS the love crowd, right? I'm not sure I can trust a woman who stays married to a man who fucks everyone but her. I know I can't trust a man with hair like that. The truth is...I hide from the census people because I know I don't count. You should see all my Dollar Tree receipts. I think I have $22 on my Capital One. I have $40 in Chase and a $56 T-Mobile bill is due. I wanted to vote for Nico LaHood but I was hungover and my voter's registration card arrived in the mail a few months late. I'm not here. I'm still stuck in 1967. I was born in 1973. Don't eat Ding Dongs. Ding Dongs are terrible for you.

Friday, February 19, 2016




You're gonna need ginger. Turmeric. Water. Not bottled water. Not sink water. Some other kind. Water that won't kill you slow. You will need a hula hoop. Hula hoop at least ten minutes each day and hop up and down at least ten times upon waking. Kale. Bitch, you know it. Kale yes KALE. Any kind of kale as long as it's not on a Whopper or Big Mac. Don't put kale in your Blue Bell. Blue Bell will kill you slow. Do you have sex? Good. You need to have sex. But is it good sex or mediocre sex? Loving sex or hateful sex? You need to have good regular vanilla loving sex in order to stay alive. I'm not sure about that. I'm guessing. So you don't have a partner. Masturbate. I think orgasms keep you alive longer. Not sure. Ask Dr. Phil. Ask Oprah. Ask Ellen. They're sure about everything. Drew Barrymore has a book about hearts...photographs of hearts found in nature or some such shit. You need that book on your coffee table RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Do you have Drew Barrymore's heart book on your coffee table? Do you go jogging with your daddy each week and does he love you? Do you drink green tea? Do you make smoothies out of almond milk and blueberries? Do you clean your potty with baking soda and hydrogen peroxide? Do you clean your potty at all? How regular are your bowel movements? What color are your stools? They better not be purple! Do you cleanse yourself with apple cider vinegar and the mystical music of the spheres? Do you breathe in breathe out and conjure up the things you're grateful for each morning or evening? How's your Jupiter? How's your Saturn? If you have a bike do you ride it to the orchard? Do you pick your own apples? Well. You are going to die regardless. Maybe a dog will attack you. That is my worst fear. When I see a little piece of shit dog and it starts yapping at me I glare at the owner. How dare you inflict your animal on me?! I say this with my angry eyes. A lot of things can kill you. This worries me. Yesterday I witnessed a minor wreck in Leon Valley. The drivers just sat in their cars. Immobile. I screamed without screaming. What The Fuck Are Y'all Waiting For? God To Reach Down From The Sky And Put Your Cars in a Safe Place? God lets children die. Babies die. Rock stars die. I don't think God is sitting at a chessboard. I don't think we are God's Monopoly or Scrabble or CLUE. Do you eat Ramen doused with Tabasco? Do you wash that shit down with cold Mexican beer? Congratulations. You have something in common with me. I'm going to die, too. I expect parties to be thrown. Confetti. Beethoven's fifth. Poetry. Nudity. Cake of some damn kind.


As I walked across campus this ugly ass February morning I thought about cardinal energy. In my DevilHouse Press interview I named Hollie Stevens and Kathy Acker as my two transgressive role models. Hollie Stevens was a Capricorn and Kathy Acker was an Aries. Both women exemplified intense cardinal energy. They got shit done. TCB, baby. TCB. TCB = takin' care of business. Elvis Presley (Capricorn) wore a TCB lightning bolt necklace. It meant "taking care of business in a flash." I can dig it. Although I am an Aquarian (fixed) with Virgo (mutable) rising and a Virgo moon, I have Mars, Jupiter, North Node and Vertex in Capricorn and a first house moon. I was thinking specifically about the cardinal energy of my first house moon, which trines my fifth house Mars. I've never been a typical micro managing type A personality female. I've never been an overachiever. I could give a shit about Pinterest. The women in my family are the kind who like to plan weddings and parties and color coordinate and decorate and shop. That ain't me. My cardinal energy manifests in a militant moon. Which means what? Well I'm militant about my moods. I take shit personally. Lately I have realized that my first house moon has dictated my life. I have walked through life wounded, feeling sorry for myself and expecting everyone to show me compassion and respect before I've really earned it. And I've been selfish about it. I want to be able to cry on shoulders and count on allies in a crisis but when my friends are in crisis I don't want to be bothered. I realize this makes me an asshole. It's all ME all the time. I'm center stage. I have an audience and I have allies. Most people realize they can't count on me. This is not an easy epiphany. My mom has told me more than a few times that she feels like she's always walking on eggshells around me. My first house moon  has made me a kind of dictator. Cardinal energy is kick ass stuff when it comes to making films, writing books, publishing zines, recording songs, climbing a mountain, being a pirate, building a dream house from scratch. It isn't so kick ass when it makes you a self-absorbed asshole who wears the goddamn world on your shoulders. This is where I'm at right now. I can look back and assess my patterns and see my flaws with clarity. Now what the fuck am I gonna do about it?

Wednesday, February 17, 2016


I just love me some married Christian sex addicts. I wish I were being specious. I put a lot of stuff out there. Books. Photographs. Art. Attempts at aesthetic greatness. I fail. I fall short. A bitch tries and tries and tries again. A few years ago I was living in a cockroach infested cheaply carpeted ugly ass rent house in a glorified cow pasture south of Dallas. I was a terrible stay at home mom. I had my own bedroom. I painted the walls sky blue. I lived inside a sky blue cage. My wings beat furiously. My ex-husband had to put a padlock outside the door of the sky blue cage and take the key with him to work each day (it was my idea) so that I would watch our toddler son instead of sharing my tits with random assholes on social media all goddamn day. A mysterious man started liking every mediocre selfie I posted at Facebook. I put a fuckton of stuff out there and he liked it all. Turns out he was a writer and editor. We were members of the same online literary community. I found a couple of his photos online. This man of mystery and enthusiasm looked like a serial killer. White. Dour expression. Looked like he had plenty of bodies in the basement to keep him company. I was repulsed. We started corresponding/slobbering all over each other. "You're a brilliant fucking writer!" "No! You are! You're way brillianter (sic)!" I truly loved his writing. That wasn't bullshit. But I loved his attention more than anything in the fucking universe. My love for his attention eclipsed my love for my son. I was sick. I still am. But less so. No, I'm not on meds. I'm on life. I have no computer or television in my studio apartment but I'm addicted to my Android. I'll get rid of it eventually or trade it in for a Straight Talk piece of shit. I'm still parenting myself, reigning myself in, spanking my own ass at 42 (I turn 43 in a few hours). I make my own goddamn vinaigrette. I bake vegetables. I hula hoop. I ride the bus to campus. I learn shit. I show up. So I loved his attention. We had phone sex. It was gross. He encouraged me to invest in a vibrator. I bought a Rabbit. He asked for more more MORE. More selfies. Videos. I sent him a video of me choking myself with my ex-husband's leather belt. Are my cousins still spying on me and tattling to our grandmother? Fuck y'all. Ain't no reason for y'all to be readin' my shit. Ain't got shit to do with y'all. Go fuck your boyfriends/soon to be second husbands, you nosy ass bitches. DISCLAIMER: If you ain't in my phone you ain't in my life. Feel free to read and observe but do not fuck with my peace of mind. That goes for anyone and everyone. The fat lady. Jesus. Seymour Glass. Ghost of J. D. Salinger. At one point in our relationship the married Christian sex addict from Atlanta told me that I was one of a hundred or so women. I wasn't singular. He loved his wife but enjoyed mindfucking various women. I was just another random online slut/whore/skank/piece of abstract ass. Ouch. I mean...OUCH. Like me, he is an Aquarian. Unlike me, motherfucker ain't got no soul. If you were a walker ("The Walking Dead") and you ripped the man apart you would not find entrails. You would find wires. I blocked him. Dismissed him from my online life.

Let's just say I stay hungry. There have been more than a few online dalliances, a few of which turned into real life flesh on flesh affairs. Short-lived. I met my last two ex-boyfriends in the big bad real world. I met the plumber in a bar. I met the artist at my apartment. He just showed up one night. I was having a selfie party (yes, really) with a crazy artist chick I met at Facebook. I invited one artist but three artists showed up at my door. La vida loca, San Antonio style. But my dry spells have been legendary I mean BAD ASS I mean GOBI. The Gobi desert. Yes. That is my love/sex life. So last week a fellow Evan Stone fan found me at Facebook. He sent me messages right away. I checked out his pictures. He's a sanguine stocky fellow. He loves Budweiser and Sammy Hagar and exclamation marks. He owns a white Corvette! He has a hot tub in his backyard! He's met Evan Stone TWICE! He's been to AVN! So yeah. He had me eating out of the palm of his hand. I jest but not that hard. I wish I were 100% jest but alas I'm only 75% jest and the rest is serious. Do the math for me. Oh. He's a Christian. And oh. He's married. His wife is only in one of his hundreds of pictures. The caption: I love her so much! She is my soul mate!

He told me I'm a hot brunette. He told me he would enjoy bringing me to orgasm in less than two minutes with his tongue. He's a truck driver and a male dancer. He drives around the U.S. distributing magazines and shaking his ass. He said he would come to San Antonio and take me out to dinner then treat me to a series of orgasms. He asked all the usual questions. What is my favorite sexual position? Am I submissive? Do I have any toys? Kinks? Fetishes? Do I like anal? Would I please send him some hot pictures?

Last year I went to the open mic night at a local comedy club. I was the last person onstage. I rocked. I am thinking I should go back there. Material keeps happening. It just falls in my lap. I put a lot of stuff out there. Ad nauseam. You have to repeat shit to get your fucking point across. I learned that while squirming in various Baptist pews all over Texas. Those Southern Baptist preachers were my true writing teachers. Fuck Bukowski. He didn't know shit about shit. If you leave here tonight and are in a horrible accident and your guts spill all over the asphalt...DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU WILL SPEND ETERNITY? Powerful stuff for a nine-year-old kid from Bridgeport, Texas to absorb. I put stuff out there. I put a lot of stuff out there. People respond. Sometimes those people are horny writers. Sometimes those people are horny writers who wear many hats. Christian. Husband. Father. Writer. Editor. And sometimes goddamn I guess I really am desperate because shit, y'all...I almost had consensual phone sex with a horny truck driver slash male dancer who calls himself Mr. Buns. Yeehaw. Budweiser nation. Amen and all the people say it.




Don't trust superlatives. They will cheat on your ass with hyperbole. But thanks to Flapperhouse for this damn fine interview. I'm humbled. Love y'all mucho much.

p.s. This is the best interview ever.


Monday, February 15, 2016




Today I treated myself to several series of multiple orgasms. It had been years since I'd enjoyed such a delectable, addictive ocean of oomph. The multiple orgasms were partially sponsored by Budweiser. No, I was not drinking Budweiser today or yesterday or any day in recent memory. It's a bit of an inside joke. Are you curious? Okay. I'll tell you. I'll spill. I found a new boyfriend at Facebook. We were hot and heavy for a couple of days. We spoke on the phone twice. He called me "Sweets" and "Baby." I dig that sort of thing. In at least one of his Facebook pictures (I blocked him yesterday) he's holding a Budweiser in each hand. That didn't turn me on. The pictures of him at a Sammy Hagar concert didn't turn me on, either. I like that he used terms of endearment on me. I like that we're both fans of Evan Stone. Maybe you're wondering if he's gay. I don't think he is but I'll never know for sure. I suspect the man is married because in a bathroom selfie I can clearly see Bath & Body Works on the counter and the dreaded wedding band on his wedding ring finger. He said he would take me to AVN next year. I was hoping pretty fucking hard but then I pulled myself out of the delusion and blocked his Budweiser swigging ass. No harm. No foul.

I'm just glad I share his enthusiasm for my cunt, the cunt he will never see, taste, smell or fuck. The cunt that enjoyed several orgasms today. Time for art class. Painting for non-majors. We're working with oils.



Thursday, February 11, 2016


I thought of toning down my truth
to make your water
more comfortable.
Then the devil knocked
the angel off my shoulder
and into the middle of next week
and I said fuck that shit.
This is my truth and it's hard-earned.
I don't know cozy.
I don't know sanction.
It's hard to maintain sanctuary
on a city bus
when the bag lady across from you
channels Aileen Wuornos
reminding you of exactly who
you could be
if you were a few shades
This shit happened to me
and it happened hard.
You're forgiven.
You're absolved.
You don't need ashes on your forehead.
You don't need to give up cerveza
or porn for a week.
Carry on, mijo.
You'll make it to the Heaven you told me about
when we last spoke on the phone.
I'll be the gringa bitch in Hell
begging you for
a drop
of water.

Here's my resume.

Born in Bridgeport, Texas.
Teenage parents.
Cherokee on both sides.
Can't prove it.
So. No free house. No free land.
Too much Swiss, French, Irish
and Scottish gives me some kind
of privilege.
Can't prove that shit, either.
First job was probably a lemonade stand.
I've blocked a lot of shit out.
I remember a dark basement.
Eating peaches out of jars.
I remember French kissing
my favorite cousin
in our grandmother's closet
when I was seven and he was eight.
Dad's black leather belt.
Dad's killer cobalt eyes.
Dad's disapproving drawl.
John Belushi on "Saturday Night Live."
Tony's pizza.
Asthma attacks.
Nightmares inspired by "Little House on the Prairie."
Potsy serenading Joanie.
Tiger Beat posters on my walls.
Walking away from the rental house
(jug of Jack Daniels on top of the fridge)
when I was six
carrying my dad's cowboy hat
with the rattlesnake rattle in the band
and his old billfold filled
with pictures of him in cheap motels
with his one night stands.
The King James Bible.
"If it ain't King James it ain't right."
(Fred Rainwater)
In Midland I babysat a bunch of brats.
Ate their parents' Nacho Doritos,
watched softcore porn on Cinemax.
Danced around to Beatles records.
Imagined myself being some man's girl.
At sixteen I got a job at Burger Time
to pay for my first speeding ticket.
Bought a guitar. Pawned it.
Imagined myself Jessica Wakefield
the popular cheerleader
or Elizabeth Wakefield
the popular writer.
Either way I would win. Someday.
Hid in my closet with scented markers.
Imagined myself some kind of rainbow.
Read fairy tales believed fairy tales
at sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen.
Never got asked to prom.
I was pretty in pink without the sewing skills.
No Ducky or Blane in sight.
No Psychedelic Furs.
Slow to grow late to bloom.
When I was sixteen I wanted to marry Ringo.
After graduating from Fredericksburg Christian
(the principal lectured me on the evils of astrology)
I got a job as a cashier at Diamond supermarket.
Fired after a couple of months.
I sucked at counting money.
Waited a few tables in Kerrville.
They didn't like me much at the Bluebonnet Cafe.
I sucked at flirting with short order cooks.
I lacked a bubbly personality.
I didn't have bouncy tits and blonde hair.
Bad native Texan.
Where's your personality?
Where's your proof?
Are you sure you weren't born in New York?
Gal, you gotta SMILE
and MEAN that shit!
Mom taught me how to make peach cobbler.
Mom told me not to ask for favors
without my lipstick on.
I thought I'd die an old maid
but before I hit thirty
I married a man from New York.
He dug my poems and pre MySpace selfies.
He thought I gave good xanga.
Then I left the man from New York
for a man from New Mexico
and he helped me put together a zine
I called Instant Pussy.
I was an instant small press success.
I rocked mics from Albuquerque to Santa Cruz.
But I had to work double shifts as a security guard
to afford the airfare so I was still a loser.
Had a nervous breakdown working as a security guard
at the Citi Bank call center.
Husband #2 said stay home, little lady.
I'll slay the working class dragons for us both.
And we made a baby in 2007.
Year of the Golden Pig.
And I waited in line for WIC
and I waited in line for emergency food stamps
during the third or fourth hurricane evacuation
and I fell in love with poets slash editors
from Liverpool to Oakland
while sleep deprived
and anxious and depressed
and shackled and closeted
dreaming of Evan Stone
and a brighter day
when I would be muse to some
porn star slash comedian slash politically savvy
cult hero of social media.
I fell in love with a plumber slash plasma donor
and toughed it out in a bedbug infested
travel trailer in Balcones Heights.
Someday he would love me as much as he loved
the mother of his four sons and we would live
happily ever after hangover to hangover
in Corpus Christi, Playboy calendar on the wall,
our anniversary circled in red.
I wrote a few books.
I maintained a crazy ass blog
that would make Pinterest mommies from
Ohio to New Hampshire scratch their
suburbia smug heads.
I'll never make it to AWP or Bread Loaf
or Iowa Writers' or St. Mark's
but I've been on The Billy Madison Show
with my purple elephant vibrator
and I can still hula hoop at 42
and I'm still standing in front of a mountain
with a plastic spoon in one hand
and a black pen in the other.
I know nada.
I am nada.
But I love my son.
He's eight.
So I need to stay alive.
I'm available all hours.
Give me eighty hours a week
and a free membership to Planet Fitness.
I can start

Monday, February 8, 2016



Red. You're a cheetah. No one can handle your fiery ass.
Orange. You're a Cheeto. Some people are too smart to eat you.
Yellow. You're a damn recalled mermaid doll. No one wants you.
Green. You're a bud. You'll always be in style.
Blue. You're a Bee Gees record, always spinning somewhere.
Indigo. I don't know. Do you? Let's go to bed, baby.
Violet. You're an ineffable Mexican dream sponsored by...



Cougar got drunk, called Sally a bitch. He tried to hit her. She ducked.

Sally locked herself in the bathroom. Cougar banged on the door. The greatest hits of Conway Twitty were blaring from the cheap speakers in the den. Sally grabbed a razor. Sat on the toilet sobbing. Snot poured from her nose. She thought about slicing her wrists but nah. She didn't want to bleed.

"Sally! Baby! I'm sorry! Please open the door!"

Later there was sex and sweet words and in the morning there was breakfast at McDonald's. Everything worked out but then two weeks later more bullshit rodeo sponsored by Bud Light but then apologies sponsored by Hallmark and then cowboy church sponsored by Jesus.

One day Sally woke up and she was forty-four but she looked in the mirror and saw eighty-five.

"Shit," Sally said. She wanted to get on a Greyhound, run away to Alaska. But when she called Chase the robot said,"Negative four dollars."

This is fiction.

One day the chimpanzee named Koko Loko was curious so he rode a bus to New Orleans. He ate some gumbo. The roux was perfect, thick and spicy. Koko Loko washed down the spicy gumbo with some Mexican beer because that was just how he rolled. There was an old school jukebox in the corner, glowing green and purple and gold. Koko Loko fed it endless quarters because his progressed moon was in Pisces and he wanted to encourage his endless tears. Catharsis it be called, dawg.

Around two or three in the a.m. Koko Loko walked down to the river. It was mud and water as always but in his drunk dream monkey mind it was ink writing the story of his life.

"Nothing's superfluous about this circus," Koko Loko said.

He went on living. Fuzzy.



Get off your goddamn phones, zombies. You let people EXIT buses and elevators. THEN you ENTER. Civilization. Basic fucking courtesies. M-A-N-N-E-R-S. Civility. The Virgo in me growls all didactic and petty but damn this mouth breathing moron bullshit is getting on my last motherfucking nerve.

My son plays video games on his television and Kindle. I tell him to take a break. We cuddle. We collaborate on a story we write and illustrate. I'll publish it later at The title is 1...2 Freddy's Coming For You! After my son's bath I tuck him in and make his puppy dog security blanket cuss me out like I always do and he puts Puppy in time out like he always does and I tell him a Cougar & Sally story and then I read four chapters from The Barking Ghost.

I'm so tired I want to die but it isn't time for that yet so I drink green tea and eat raspberry filled dark chocolate and take the bus to campus and walk past zombies whose mommies didn't teach them the basics. I Google ghosts who look better dead than I'll ever look alive.

Channeling Kathy Acker. Channeling Richard Brautigan. I'm still showing off and not going viral.



Friday, February 5, 2016


Full color art accompanies black words on white paper. YOU WILL PURCHASE.
Contributors include Ben John Smith, Michele McDannold, Jay Passer, Rusty Barnes and a few others.

It's all good in the clitoral hood.

Wednesday, February 3, 2016




A more attractive than average man is eating fish sticks, drinking beer, watching the news on a cheap old school (boxy rather than flat) television. He is wearing basic white Fruit of The Looms. There is a knock on the door. The man says,"Shit." Stands up, turns off the television (no remote control...also, he isn't lazy, anyway). Opens the door. There's the woman who left him two or three years ago. Her long dark naturally curly hair is a mess, as always. Her red lipstick is smeared and so is her black eyeliner. She reeks of cheap wine and cigarettes. The woman is wearing an Incredible Hulk t-shirt and donut pajama pants and flip flops. The man's name is Jerry. The woman's name is Syrup.


What are you sellin' now? Girl Scout cookies?


Damn it, Jerry. Didn't you miss me?


Not really. My right hand works just fine.




Of course I missed you. You and your 99 problems. You and your ambitious mouth. Come on in, babe. Mi casa es su casa.

The woman turns off the television. The man closes and locks the door. The woman strips.


Damn, girl. You must still have that hula hoop.


Yes. And I ain't afraid to use it. Drop and give me twenty.


I'm the drill sergeant, remember?


I thought I'd change things up a little. If I don't discombobulate you I have no power and I'm not about to hike that tired trail again.


Shut up and suck my dick.

Syrup slaps Jerry then drops to her knees, sucks his dick. Cries as she sucks his dick. That is just her style. Jerry's face contorts as he cums. It's been a long time. Jerry wants to cum again. He has had pussy but not good pussy. Convenient pussy in the dark is a lot like that pizza they sell at CornerStore. You'll eat it but you won't enjoy it much and while you're eating it you'll be thinking of Papa John's pepperoni or maybe Pizza Hut Meat Lover's. Hell, you might even be thinking of Tony's, the frozen pizza that's always on sale at Wal-Mart.

They fuck in various ways, whatever the director thinks is hot. Doggy style, sure. Anal, certainly (Vaseline will suffice for the lube, this being a travel trailer and all). The soundtrack should be moody rather than corny. Think Echo and the Bunnymen meet Leonard Cohen.

Monday, February 1, 2016


SPRINT: How may we assist you?
mermaid: Ramen with Tabasco and green onions.
SPRINT: This troubles us.
mermaid: I need BEER.
SPRINT: Are you experiencing difficulty?
mermaid: Saturn in the tenth squares Mercury. Seventh.
SPRINT: Unfortunately I am having trouble understanding you.
mermaid: Born in Bridgeport, Texas. 1973.
SPRINT: Ma'am which device are you using?
mermaid: Andy Warhol said Edie said I could talk to God.
SPRINT: Unfortunately I will not be able to assist you.
mermaid: Crisco is the word.



I'm seeking a producer of existential porn. Has to be located in San Antonio. It isn't about lighting or the size of the tits or the girth of the dick or the quality of the cum (some cum is like Elmer's glue some cum is like Gorilla Glue some cum is like invisible ink). You know that song by Duran Duran? "The Reflex"? Existential porn can be pretty much summed up in the lyrics to that song. I don't recall the video but it's probably irrelevant. The video to "Wild Boys" might cum close to the vision I am trying to describe. Read at least one Kathy Acker book and at least one Richard Brautigan poem, take six gummy vitamins and call me in the morning. Gracias.


In one version I am giving a plumber
the best blow job of his life.
In another version I am beseeching 1999 Rotary Phone
(a kind of god) for less of a sharp angle between Mercury
and Saturn (Daddy).
I'm terrible
with numbers.

Do you want me in red sequins
or Hello Kitty velour?
Black latex or color wheel polyester?
Ray of sunshine rayon?
Returned to sender Valentine velvet?
Coconut scented?

No comprende.
Lo siento.
The first rule of oil painting:

Fat over lean.

The last rule of Chiron in Aries in the 8th:
If he fucks you up your drunken ass
without Vaseline, cowgirl, signs point to

It ain't love but it ain't bad.
Mantra courtesy of six hours of Shiner Bock
and Amy Winehouse karaoke.
Derelict dick.
Vagabond vagina.

Don't test me.
I'll fail.
I'm a hell of YES.
A swell of storm proud cerulean.

In other news I lose receipts
but hold onto Chinese cookie fortunes.
I know I'll need those when the new moon in Aquarius
starts stirring shit up.