Wednesday, April 27, 2016

MESSY


WALLOW IN OUR DEPTH


VIRGO RISING


NOW IT'S YOUR TURN


eBuLLieNT voMiT


YOU GROW UP CROOKED

You grow up crooked in rural Texas.
You hear "pretty is is pretty does"
but wake up with a headache
from the wire rollers your mama
stuck all over your head.
You take off all your clothes
when you are four
and swim in a mud puddle
then wake up when you are eight
in a baptistry
because Love Lifted Me
because Old Rugged Cross
because his truth
is marching on
(do lord oh do lord oh do remember me).
It isn't Texas gothic at all.
It ain't Southern gothic.
It isn't Carson McCullers
or Truman Capote
or Tennessee Williams
or goddamn Dorothy Allison.
It's business as usual in Wise County
and all of us have fallen short
of The Glory of God
but let's go to Dairy Queen for sundaes and gossip
then go to sleep like the Waltons
all snug and crazy
up in each other's business.
Once I twirled a baton.
Once my drunk grandfather held me in an RV as he sobbed
and I looked out the window and saw a Frito Lay truck and said,
"This will be over soon."
"It's never really over. It's just over there." (Carrie Fisher)
Next thing you know
you are forty
waking up in a tub in The Holly Inn
in Eagle Pass
and you reek of Jack Daniels vomit
but the strange man in the bed
likes you enough to fuck you
and take you to Chili's for dessert.
Billy Pilgrim never had it so good.
Each day a bead
fingered but not counted
on a much mistier
planet.

SIX FLAGS

It was your gold card, not mine,
but I still receive the e-mail.
All I wanted in life was to ride
a goddamn roller coaster with you
follow you to the ocean
die beside you
wearing a ring
tangible proof
of some kind of something
more than most of us
will ever know.
It's true.
I wanted your name.
Your hands were the hands
I hoped would scatter
my ashes into the Pacific.
I'm old now and I'm a little bit smarter
than I was when I drove to the police station
that night and thought by filing a report
I could erase you forever.
You remain.
Last night I read about a hotel in Peru.
It was only a few sentences
in a much larger book about the Inca.
I'll never see that hotel.
The lights.
The marble.
The godliest gleam.
I'll die with an unstamped passport
no ring on that finger
and wah wah woo
life is such a George Jones song, baby.

PRESIDIO & CALIFORNIA


TWO DIFFERENT MEN

One is an Aries.
One is a Cancer.
Last year the Cancer said
he would give his arm
to have my talent.
This year the Aries said
most people would cut off
an ear
to have
my talent.
As a deaf mute blind amputee
I find their word choices interesting.
I don't have much left.
But Tara.
Yes.
I still
have that.

FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER

There have been variations but it is
always beautiful to hear.
"Oh, Misti. I just want to scoop Baby Misti up
and hug her and love her and take away
all the hurt."

I'm forty-three years old
and today is the first day
in my long life
when I have said those words
to my
damn self.

PLEASE NOT ANOTHER DIALOGUE

It's never really a dialogue.
It isn't a conversation.
It isn't a dance.
It's a monologue and it isn't starring you.

"Misti," she said.
And then Jesus.
And then sorry.
And then "breaks my heart."
And why.
And why.
And when.
God.
When.

Mary Kay.
First Baptist of Monahans.
Kelview Heights.
Precious Moments.
Hallmark.
You're The Reason God Made Betty Crocker.
And these curtains will save what is left of your life.
And if the curtains don't save you...
the paisley comforter just might.

Sorry.
I'm not a colored girl but I've considered suicide
because the rainbow ain't never
enough.
Ntozake, I feel ya.
All those sorries.
And you could wash a car.
Clean a carpet with all
those soggy sorries.

Sorry is no
kinda currency
here.

BOLOGNA ON WONDER

I never finished reading Bukowski's Ham On Rye but the crux of the novel is when he is a little boy being beaten with his dad's razor strop. That fucking resonated with me. Splattered my heart all over the linoleum. Maybe because I was whipped a few times with my dad's leather belt. That shit stings but the physical discomfort isn't the worst of it and Bukowski got this and he put it in Ham On Rye and I read it and my tears plopped down on the page. The worst of it is when your parent fucking hates you. Maybe your father hates the fucking world but his hatred is concentrated and focused on YOUR ASS. You feel the hatred in red spastic waves. Why are you hated? You are four years old. You haven't killed anyone. You haven't raped anyone. You haven't filed false rape charges. You haven't lied in court. You haven't bullied anyone. Maybe you wet your bed. Maybe you went inside the next door neighbor's house and ate a fried pie in the kitchen. Maybe you showed your cousin your naked Ken doll. Maybe you didn't eat all your Dairy Queen onion rings. Maybe you walked in on your daddy crawling toward your mommy in his Fruit of the Looms. Happy Father's Day, my ass.

We Followed The Baby Jesus Dolls

This essay by Ruxandra Guidi in Mutha Magazine almost brought tears to my eyes. Today is a dry Capricorn moon. I am not crying. I cannot cry, although my progressed moon is in Pisces and sometimes I cry often and when I do cry I sob. Today was my last creative nonfiction writing workshop. I thought I would cry but I didn't.

These past eight years have been the most challenging of my life. I have been a mother since 1996 but I have been the mother of a child I can almost call mine since 2007. My son is not mine. I share joint custody of my son with my ex-husband but he is very much the parent in charge...the custodial parent, the provider, the one who takes my son to urgent care and all the rest. I have been challenged by strangers and family members. I have been taken to task. Raked over the coals. Threatened. Misaligned. Judged. Condemned. There is a toxic person who knows who she is. I won't name her because she would like that too much. She has been stalking me since "befriending" me at MySpace in 2008. Our poems appeared in the same small press anthology. When I wouldn't let her crash on my couch for a week she sent my husband at the time our private MySpace conversation in which I had confided in her about my dipshit crushes on random small press writers/editors. Oh the drama. She then proceeded to move across the country and befriend my two best friends and try to turn them against me. I know. It reads like a really shitty Lifetime movie starring Tori Spelling. Eventually my friends recognized her for the psycho she is but she's still making the open mic rounds and still leaves nasty comments about me at random websites. I am certain she is the "concerned anonymous citizen" (puke) who contacted my mom's employer in 2012, alerting her to a YouTube of mine in which I strum an electric guitar and sing about blow jobs and flashing my tits. My mom's employer was Child Protective Services. I don't believe in Hell but I can describe every inch of HELL (poverty/anxiety/depression/obsessive thoughts/alienation/unrequited love/fanged hatred that gnaws at your guts). I wish I believed in instant karma. I do not. Hitler had a good run right up until the bitter cyanide flavored end. He had friends and plenty of pussy. Jim Jones? Ditto. I can no longer expend any energy in anonymous psycho's general direction. Because shit, man. LIFE. "Got my own world to live through & I ain't gonna copy you." Jimi Hendrix sang it. Educate yo'self.

So. These past eight years. Yes. I am the mother of a beautiful, brilliant, sweet, infuriating little boy and all I can do is apologize to him for my myriad flaws and for this piece of shit world that he has inherited. I was driving today in a car that was gifted to me by my mom and her third husband (all of my cars have been gifts and I don't feel thrilled about the fact that I have never made a car payment I wish I were Beyonce all independent and fierce and shit) and I was thinking about reincarnation. I don't believe in it. But I was just musing out loud, talking to myself because American radio sucks some serious goat balls, and I said something similar to this:

"Fuck me. Who would choose to come back to this planet? Hell. We're all gamblers. We love to bet on the horsies and be lulled by the blinking dazzling orgasming slot machines and tricked by the loaded dice. So maybe our pale hovering spirits say...yeah, the last lifetime sucked...got raped a few times, never made any money, got bullied at Goddard Junior High in Midland, Texas by all the rich bitches whose mommies were brain surgeons and daddies were fat cat oil magnates, never found Mister Soul Mate(s), found one too many cockroaches in one too many bowls of Malt-O-Meal...but this time will be DIFFERENT. I'll be born a Kardashian! My tits and ass and face will be ADORED by the MASSES. And I will, like, totally be the darling of Instagram, the toast of YouTube, the Whore of Babylon! Wheeee! Pale spirit, that is an idiot gamble. No one is born a Kardashian. The Whore of Babylon is MADE, not born, and you have to know where to get your nails done, hair removed, asshole bleached and for fuck's SAKE don't send your pussy pics to the wrong motherfucker!"

It's like that. And it don't stop. The bulbs in my limbic xmas tree are just about burnt out. So Daddy was mean to me for my first six years and then he left me (and Mommy and baby sister and baby brother) for a fake tit flashing Cajun Gemini bruja bartender in New Orleans and the next few times he saw me he was all "don't wear shorts to the zoo, you whore" and blah yada blah. He hasn't liked me in four decades and that shit ain't about to change. So I fall, have been falling, for these men since I was four or so and there is always always (always) a bizarre love triangle of some kind. His dick is in my mouth but his heart is stuck on rewind, dreaming of The Gal That Got Away. Or better yet...The Bitch Who Never Was. Ouch is right. There's no pill for THAT. Would an hour on a couch each week untangle that kind of knot? Signs point to PROBABLY NOT.

So I come here. And I write. This is my unicorn diary with a busted lock. You are so welcome!

BREAK FROM REGULAR PROGRAM

I just want to interject, proclaim, scream:

GODDAMN I FEEL GOOD TO BE ALIVE!!!

I don't know where the hell the moon is right now but it feels like it's in Sagittarius because I am a balloon. Bitch, I AM A PURPLE BALLOON! WHEEEEE! You can't catch me. Don't even try. I'm floating so high I am in CLOUDS.

Por que? Oh shit. I don't know. I have no reason for this current ecstasy. I may or may not graduate. I'm ignorant. I'm specially challenged. I'm a broke ass motherfucker. Yes. I am quite disenfranchised. I am running out of groceries!

But our boy Henry comes to mind. I paraphrase/rearrange:

I have no hope no resources no money.
I am the happiest bitch ALIVE.

eSa MonTaƱa

Ayer fue la de mi padre
63rd birthday.
(Ć©l es un tauro.)
Ɖl no me conoce.
So what else is new?
Fathers do not know their daughters.
Sales clerks ask you your bra size,
favorite color, sun sign,
cash or debit or credit...?
Lovers know your scent.
Sometimes they know
your ice cream.
I once knew a man named Paul
but only in the King James biblical sense
which meant he was underlined,
marginalized, transmitted to
my Mercury in Pisces
via la palabra.
& God shall wipe away
all tears from
her eyes.
I can dig it.
I know that life
(not the stuff on nearest shelf)
is in the same category
as light
& radio waves
& sometimes, motherfucker,
shit resonates.
Solo se sube allĆ­
en las montanas
de dolor primal.
Subo, tambiƩn...
por lo que mi padre se le perdona.

EL MUNDO QUIERE LA BASURA

Say what, Pippilotti?
Que pedo!
No artificial growth hormones.
Que. Que.
Estaba rodeado de mƔquinas y fantasmas.
¿CĆ³mo puedo creer el cristal?
(para el EspĆ­ritu todo lo.)
& i was with you
in weakness
& in fear
& in much trembling
(pero nosotros tenemos la mente de Cristo.)
HabƩis sido comprados por precio;
no os hagƔis esclavos de los hombres.
From henceforth let no man trouble me
porque yo llevo
en mi cuerpo
las marcas del SeƱor JesĆŗs.
No daƱaran la hierba de la tierra.
Ahora mi madre puede estar orgulloso.
All those tap lessons.
Acting coaches.
Beauty pageants.
Truly.
Nothing
was
wasted.

FOUND BECAUSE OF THE BENEFITS

Today passed a charming young couple . The girl was with a lot of balloons and a bouquet of flowers but I did not see the spark in her eyes that she was in love with his chosen. Do you think that the right person gifts or yourself emotions by meeting with your loved one? What is necessary for you?
Of course, in today's world there are people who are found because of the benefits, but we did not like you? We present to you?

Your gentle Irina.

Monday, April 25, 2016

POCAHONTAS

Also. I have Pocahontas at 22 Scorpio conjunct Sequoia. Pocahontas and Sequoia are also cojunct my IC at 29 degrees. And I've got Ledzeppelin at 2 degrees Pisces conjunct Iris at zero degrees and Beagle at 3 degrees Pisces. Also. I have MOSS (caps not mine) at 4 degrees Aquarius trine Pluto at 3 degrees Libra, sextile Neptune at 7 degrees Sagittarius, square Beegees at 4 degrees Scorpio. Also. I have Warhol at 26 degrees Sagittarius trine Havanna at 22 Aries, sextile Irene at 26 degrees Aquarius and my sun at 29 degrees Aquarius. Warhol also sextiles my Uranus at 22 degrees Libra.

So what does all of this mean? I'll have to get back to you after I've had a couple of glasses of bottom shelf pinot grigio. But I think it's safe to conclude that I was born to rock out with my mythological cock out. Peace. Fried chicken grease. The disco won't cease. I've got mad mutable eyes and American thighs. Whole Lotta Rosie. Nobody knows me. Bye.

SPECIALLY CHALLENGED STORY

One day my kitty cat died and I was sad so I sent rainbow balloons to Lucky Charms God and he sent me a prize which had never been included in any of the boxes and it was a mood ring and I'm always sad so it was purple. But then it was Halloween and I was 1983 edition Madonna and everyone loved me so I smiled like I meant it and baked a slutty unicorn cake and jumped out of it naked and became the darling of Instagram until Evan Stone kidnapped me, drugged me, married me in Vegas and said,"Look, little lady. You belong to me now and I don't want any other motherfuckers to see your goodies." So I kept myself under wraps except for when I was prancing around for Mister Mine and he told me I was Cleopatra Meets Ava Gardner meets Angelina Jolie and I believed him so now I'm as happy as I'll ever be claimed as I am by someone who matters.

FUNNEL CAKE

It's Fiesta so funnel cake.
It's Fiesta so beer.
It's Fiesta so vomit.
It's Fiesta so piss.
It's Fiesta so shit.
We're all gonna DIE.

LITTLE BONES

A temptation any temptation is an exclamation
if there are misdeeds and little bones.
One day less pineapple but the soothe
buried gradual beneath beige paper.
Una rebanada repente cambia toda la placa,
lo hace de repente.

An imitation, more imitation,
imitation succeed imitations.
Yesterday with mayonnaise
unless pickles confusing fish authority.
Sospechar una sola flor con mantequilla,
sospecho que, sin duda, sospechar y luego deslizarse,
¿eso no altera el conteo.
Una suerte violenta y una muestra entera
y aun asĆ­ tranquila.

A puzzle, a monster puzzle, a heavy choking,
a neglected Tuesday.
Rotary phone with sugared gurgle, honeyed pause.
All of us in the bubble glimpsed crooked.
La burla es tierna y tratando y reflexivo.
Uno, dos y uno, dos, nueve, segundo y cinco y eso.
A blaze, a search in between, a cow, only any wet place, only this tune.
With searching the lavender and always vanilla less chilled.
Una notable grado de rojo significa que, se hace un cambio notable.
Circus an egg and eventual the balloons rustled beyond mention.

Todas las mercancƭas son robados, todas las ampollas estƔn en la copa.
Grapes conspire in given religion, more common than colored saucers.

Cubos frĆ­o, frĆ­o de alegrĆ­a ninguna alegrĆ­a.

Bacon alarmed but never reduced in shadowed bucket.
Solos pescados solo pez solo pez berenjena vista solo pez.
Cake is singing cake is screaming cake is sultry adrift in swirls.

ASTEROIDS ARE HILARIOUS

Check it out. I've got Beer at 19 degrees Virgo in my first house where it belongs. Beer opposes Mercury in Pisces at 14 degrees. Mercury says,"Misti, you don't need that beer." I say,"Fuck you, Mercury!"

Picasso at 27 degrees Pisces is conjunct Beatles at 29 Pisces. I think I can paint. I think I can sing. I know I can't play the guitar, though, and I don't play well with others so no worries. I won't be starting a band anytime soon. But I will paint por vida because Painter Bob tells me I should. My clouds ain't too happy and my trees are lonely as hell and you should see my hair. Yet I persist.

You know I've got Beegees at 4 Scorpio, sextiling the FUCK outta my Mars at 4 Capricorn. I should be dancing, yeah. I know how to do it.

Speaking of trees...I've got Sequoia at 22 Scorpio. I loved a Scorpio tree once. He was quite stoic but he wasn't as tall as I am, especially when I'm wearing my cowboy boots. But yes. My Sequoia does in fact sextile my Jupiter in Capricorn so I'm pretty lucky when it comes to trees.

My paternal grandmother's name was Lora Irene Moore Rainwater. I've got Irene at 26 degrees Aquarius conjunct my sun at 29 degrees Aquarius. I am not joking. My Irene and my sun do in fact trine my Uranus at 22 degrees Libra.

Now you know everything you need to know about me so when I'm dead, finally, you can say,"That Misti Rainwater-Lites bitch? Yeah. I knew her. She had Beer in Virgo, Picasso in Pisces, Beegees in Scorpio. She liked to post naked pictures of herself filtered purple. She was a native Texan. Bless her heart."

TAXI LOCO

Una noche que estaba haciendo
mi trabajo.
In other words I was driving my taxi
down a dark desert highway,
cool wind in my hair.
Yo estaba con vida?
Creo que estaba.
I had pussy on my tongue.
So it was night in the desert
and I was doing my job
driving my taxi
and yes.
I was quite alive.
De repente...La Llorona.
La ruca queria un paseo.
"Cuanto cuesta?" ella pregunto.
"Dos pesos," indique.
La luna era un culo gordo.
Todos estaban felices.
Incluso las aranas.
Hice el dinero esa noche
and then I went home
to my sanguine wife.
GUAPO (she calls me)
y papi grande
y mijo.

NADA EN ABSOLUTO

El momento en el que hay cuatro opciones y hay cuatro opciones en una diferencia,
el
momento en el que hay cuatro opciones hay una especie y hay una especie.
Supposing there is a bone. There is a bone.
Shadow in a kitchen.
Cada pequena cosa es mas grande.
El estaƱo no es una lata y una estufa
es difĆ­cilmente.
Hope in spoons.
La esperanza en las mesas.
Claiming nothing.
Reclamando nada.
Please spice.

¿cuĆ”l es la nubosidad?
Something is preserved.
Darkness very dark darkness is sectional.
Lo hace un techo sucio.
All this makes a line.
Un desayuno brillante, un brillante desayuno,
no hay diferencia, sin la prƔctica,
nada, nada en absoluto.

THE DISH


ABSTRACT FERRIS WHEEL

Nunca cabalgamos la rueda
de las luces y que no han viajado
a laguna de la sirena.
¿quĆ© mĆ”s se puede hablar?
The little dog has recorded each beso
in his ledger made of orchids.

¿Es suficiente el agua caliente?

(Iris sent me.)
Todavia no se nada.
Me quedo frio.
¿dĆ³nde estĆ” mi luz amor?
I stumble in my cave
doped up on blue Equate pills.
In dreams the bells chime
and time melts chocolate
on our thick lazy tongues.
No se agrieta
mi codigo de colores de corazon.
Tu podrias tambien
un cachorro
persiguiendo su cola
como mariposas van mareos
con morado y azul
y los angeles sueno de oro.
This particular box
does not contain
a prize.

maS moRado


MAS BASURA


PAGE FROM MOON JOURNAL


MUCHO TEQUILA


NOT FRIDA KAHLO


CHOCOLATE COFFEE ES NO BUENO

I take my coffee like I take my life.
Black.
That's right, nino.
No goddamn azucar.
No goddamn leche.
You can keep your candy ass flavors.
You can keep your froth.
You look good in foam.
My home is on the dank and crooked
side of el barrio.
Don't bring your Jesus to my door
because natally my moon is at
six degrees Virgo
and I can tell you all about
the longest night
in the darkest garden.
I have Actor at 7 Pisces.
I give good suicidal outsider artist.
Aesop at 5 Scorpio.
Check out all these golden eggs.
AFRICA at 26 Gemini.
I would never shoot a lion.
ALASKA at 22 Taurus.
I'll build an igloo out of my ice queen corazon.
AMERICA at zero Capricorn.
Give me food stamps or give me muerte.
ANGEL at 4 Virgo.
Willie Nelson wrote that song about me.
I've run out of language.
I am quite irrelevant on any continent.
Tea time.
Cinnamon scented carpet.
No roaches today.
Tejano radio.
I've got POE at six Pisces.
I'm Annabel Lee. So soggy.
I've got Caballo at 17 Capricorn.
Don't bet on me unless you're Bukowski.
I've got California at 17 Scorpio.
I've got the poison to prove it.
I've got Camelot at 21 Aquarius.
My sun shines all over the grassy knoll.
I've got Candy at 24 Capricorn.
I'm still stuck in molasses swamp.
I've got Brontosaurus at 26 Aries.
I wasn't the smartest creature.
I've got Brianwilson at 5 Pisces.
I can't hide in my room playing in sand.
I don't got it like that, pendejo.
I've got Bettiepage at 26 Pisces.
Many motherfuckers wish to marry me
but content themselves
with jacking off
to the occasional filtered fantasy.
I look best in purple.


Thursday, April 21, 2016

MY RELATIONSHIP WITH PRINCE

My relationship with Prince began when I heard "When Doves Cry" or "Let's Go Crazy" on the Texas radio. I was probably twelve. Last Saturday I was watching the last fifteen minutes or so of "Purple Rain" on my ex-husband's big ass television. I told my son to show reverence when Prince sang "Purple Rain" because it's one of the greatest fucking songs ever recorded. I told my son that I've owned more copies of "Purple Rain" than any other record. Motherfuckers were always stealing my "Purple Rain" cassette. I still have the cd somewhere but I do want to get "Purple Rain" on vinyl. I once said that "Flash Gordon" was my favorite film of all time and my favorite soundtrack. I fucking lied. I was probably trying to impress some comic book geek. "Purple Rain" is my favorite album and film of all fucking time. I'm just that stupid. No. I'm filthy cute and baby I know it. Here are some facts:

1. I karaoked "Darling Nikki" in San Francisco in 2013.
2. I once sorta loved a guy who had "The Beautiful Ones" on his iPod.
3. The man I loved most on this planet sorta loved me because I have the same birthday as his ex-wife. He loved that like his ex-wife I love "Purple Rain." The song. The soundtrack. The film.
4. Apollonia Kotero, as she appears in "Purple Rain," is my feminine ideal.
5. Purple was my favorite color when I was a kid.
6. My favorite color is currently turquoise.
7. If I don't inspire some semblance of the passion expressed with such musical and lyrical and spiritual eloquence by Prince in "The Beautiful Ones" in a man I really don't see the point in fucking him.

THE BEAUTIFUL ONES


CANDY ASS TRIBUTE


call up that shrink in beverly hills


Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Fred & Cindy


SLUDGE

My brain is sludge. I haven't been on meds since 2011. I don't believe my problem is chemical. I believe I have blockage. Maybe I have mud in my third eye. "There must be something wrong with the machinery." I have resided on this planet for four decades. I feel like I should have shit figured out. I should own a cracker box casa. I should be able to tell people with a clear conscience:

Hello. My name is Clarity Such&Such. I live at 2222 Winner Way. I identify as White Heterosexual Honest Wage Earner Practicing Episcopalian. My ancestors came to America from Switzerland and France. Yes, I do donate to various charities and I attend open mics and art exhibits on a gregarious basis. I colon cleanse with alarming alacrity. LOL. Yes, I do shop at Whole Foods and I do believe America will transform into Rainbow Unicorn City (UTOPIA) when Bernie Sanders is sworn in as the 45th President of The United States of America. Last year I vacationed in St. Croix. This year I will vacation in The Hamptons with my wonderful husband, Brett (he's an orthodontist), and our beautiful matching children, Basil and Turmeric. I know these are challenging times which is why I shine my light at etsy and Pinterest. God is good!

OLDER THAN WATER


OXFORD


NO SPEAKO GOODO

Mi lengua diabla blanca fails me, papi.
I cannot begin to tell you
in the truest possible breath
of my immutable majesty
and how it is so drastically reduced
each time sus ojos
fill con lagrimas
cuando you hear
that song.

EN OTRAS PALABRAS

The jaguar has spoken.
Esta es la noche.
Amaremos mediante
cada pulgada
de mierda.
La serpiente estaba
diciendo mentiras.
El amor es nuestra manzana.
Dios vive duro
dentro nuestras bocas.
This will not
be destroyed.

PASTO DE LA VACA

Who the fuck would miss
that couch?
All the stains and crumbs.
Coins forever lost.
Y la television gritando.
Mundo Del Elmo.
Pistas Del Azul.
Calls from Twilight Zone phone.
No comprende.
And love of the invisible variety
reeking in
both yards.

NO MAS DULCES

The curse meant for the star throated princess
has fallen in my sack.
I left home a demon
and returned a witch.
I expired last Tuesday
when the moon was in Taurus.
Oh luna loca.
Mi madre pobre.
I can't win the war
with all these frogs.
I know the smoke.
I know the bloat.
But this rote right here
won't clear the moat in time
for fresh beggars' ball.
Cursed to crawl one last mile
in the season's coolest ashes.
At least I smell familiar.
Flores para los muertos.
When I get to the radio junkyard
I know who to listen for.
The commercials all rhyme with
burrito.


CASCADO

Pendejos.
Brave mi nada
at your
own risk.
I'm not responsible
for any amount
of damage.
The most exciting thing
that has happened lately
is when I was waiting
for the elevator
in the art building
I saw a cockroach
eating a Cheeto.
Mi carne blanca
es nada enchilada.
What do I have?
I'm a vacant house.
The wind roars through
mis ventanas rotas.
Last night was
otro sueno morado diferido.
Que es lo que tengo?
No tengo nada.
Corazon vacio.
Aguas turbias.
La tormenta
no termina.
Galletas sin frescas.
The cupboard
is quite
bare.
You persist because
you see sea in
mis ojos
like mi verde con azul
has shit
to do
with you.
You weren't there.
You're of no use.
This was created
when you were still crawling
through primordial sludge.
I'm higher than you can climb, perrito.
The world is filled
with much
easier
bones.

Friday, April 15, 2016

ONE DAY BUKOWSKI

One day Bukowski was standing there in the grass with his dog. I don't know what kind of dog it was but it was little and ugly. Bukowski was scowling in my general direction, smoking a cigarette, styling and profiling in a yellow tank top and stained work pants. I was intimidated but I knew what to say.

"I've read all your books. I'm really good at blow jobs."
"You must be confused. I'm not a writer."
"Okay. So I'm not your type."
"I don't know that I have a type. But I know I don't have a typer."
"You ARE Bukowski! Bukowski called typewriters 'typers.' You dig Beethoven, right? Mahler? Wagner? Betting on horses? Getting drunk with whores? You staged a good death. People are right about you. You are a genius, baby. No one would ever think to look for you in San damn Antonio!"
"Lady, I don't know what you're talking about. Never heard of this Bukowski fella. Can't afford whores or horses. I do get drunk on occasion. I'm drunk now. I'll let you buy me a drink at the corner store and then you can join me in my humble abode for some good old-fashioned dick sucking."

He wasn't really Bukowski. He had Catholic art (Jesus and the saints and various angels) all over his walls. No radio. No books. But he bought me a Shiner Bock and a Slim Jim so I followed through and then I thanked him profusely for giving me something to write about.

SINHALESE COCK BLOCK

Discombobulated twist.
Adjust your blocks.
Finish mysterious.
Morph your time.
Digitally captured.
Crazy focus.

DISTANT EASTER


VEGAS THE HARD WAY

MAS AZUL


Lluvia de Noviembre

Was it April again?
No, pendejo.
It was November
and the profusion
of marigolds
confused a gringa bitch
who didn't know Jose Alfredo Jimenez
from Freddy Fender.
Meanwhile the rain
rushing used condoms
and losing lottery tickets
down las calles torcidas.
Mira, mi amor.
No lo se
que hacer
con todas estas espinas.
"Marigolds ain't got no thorns."
Like I told you, papi.
I am
confused.

AGUA MAS FRIA

Soy acuario.
Lo siento.
Virgin imbued.
Fish blued.
All these hues fall flat
at raw umber feet.
Taurus trod.
Oh Capricorn god.
Quiero mas azucar
en mi tazon.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

HARRY HAYES

Harry Hayes is the lead singer of IRONTOM. I did not know this until I consulted Google this morning. Why did I Google "IRONTOM" this morning? Well, because I dreamed that I was at a party in California and I met Harry Hayes and we hit it off. It was TRUE LOVE. All caps intended. I saw IRONTOM perform at the Aztec last May. I went there with my friend because her friend scored free AWOLNATION tickets for us. IRONTOM opened for AWOLNATION. All these caps are starting to make me nervous. My Virgo moon does not approve. But I approved of Harry Hayes in this morning's dream. I approved so hard! I knew what he looked like because I saw him in concert and I've watched this video a few hundred times. I don't know why it appeals to me. It just does. I don't know anything about Harry Hayes. I'm not going to start stalking the guy. We had our moment. It was quite good.

FINAL ART PROJECT


My painting for non-majors professor told us to find an image for our final art project. Originally I chose a vintage Frankenstein mask. I liked the bright, garish colors. It reminded me of the Halloweens of my youth...going to the five and dime to buy a costume. Then last night I Google Imaged for hours. I was getting frantic. Vintage Valentines. Vintage corn dog ads. Vintage Fiji posters. Then...blacklight posters. BOOM. I found this amazing discolicious blacklight black panther. Motherfucker don't take no mess. He WILL GET YOU. This is what I looked like yesterday:

Simpatico, right? Panther. Tiger. I've got Mars in Capricorn in the fifth house. That might as well translate to Tiger in Cage. When the tiger is freed from the cage...look out.

MOTHERFUCKER SHOW THYSELF

Dream a motherfucker up and he will manifest. I've done love spells. They work. I wanted to provide a visual for my current idea of The Ideal Man but when I Google imaged variations on "hot Latino" I was bombarded with the usual cliches. A lot of the men who came up are probably gay because they look like they're taking the whole body sculpting thing way too seriously. There were also mug shots and pictures of Antonio Banderas and Ricky Martin and Mario Lopez. My Ideal Man is not a celebrity. He is not gay. He doesn't spend five hours in the gym every other day and live on protein shakes and kale. My Ideal Man is not in jail or prison or on probation. But is he Latino? Is it shallow of me to say that of all my exes the one I loved the most was a Latino from San Antonio, not because of how he made me feel (he usually made me feel like shit) or what he did for me (he let me live with him but I was always moving out because he made me feel like shit) but because of how he looked? I once told him that he was the most beautiful man I had ever known. He said,"Well, I can't top that." I guess he set the standard, physically. I loved his arms I loved his legs I loved his brown skin I loved his brown everything. God that sounds gross. It goes beyond the physical. He lit up my limbic xmas tree. He withheld he punished he put me down and don't you know that felt oh so familiar? Thanks, Dad.

So. Yes. My Ideal Man is Latino. Maybe he's from Cuba. Maybe he's from Puerto Rico. Maybe he's from Mexico. Maybe he's from Spain. Maybe his Texas roots go way deeper than mine. Maybe he's a tenth generation Texan. Maybe he's never been to Acuna or Matamoros. Maybe he has no idea how to say "kiss my ass you fucking bitch" in Spanish. But that hot Latino blood courses through his veins. Of that I am certain.

What's the astrological data? Shit. I don't know. I have a few ideas. Last night I looked at my copy of Linda Goodman's Love Signs. It was on the side of my bed. I said,"I'm going to open the book to the sun sign of my Ideal Man." I opened the book to the Taurus Man Aquarius Woman chapter. Shit. I had a Taurus boyfriend once in 1999. He made it clear that he didn't love me but he loved fucking me. In 2013 I had sex a few times with a Taurus in San Francisco. Then I lived with the beautiful Latino who lit up my limbic xmas tree. Capricorn sun. Taurus moon. He made a big deal over me having the same birthday as his ex-wife. I think that's what he liked about me the most. Then there was my most recent ex-boyfriend. Scorpio sun. Taurus moon. He signed his xmas card to me "sincerely." He never once told me that he loved me. Because he didn't. He liked the sex. That's common. I can't do anything with that. I'm looking for much more than an occasional sex partner. My dad is a Taurus. We don't have a relationship. So I'm thinking if a man has a drop of Taurus in his chart I should stay the hell away. But I can be surprised and even astounded. I'm open to surprises and astonishment. I do think there has to be some kind of moon connection. The moon is important. I don't want sympathy but empathy would be nice. So my Ideal Man might have a Pisces moon in my seventh house...maybe conjunct my Mercury and opposite my Virgo moon in the first. His Mars has to like my ridiculous Venus in Aquarius. I'm wearing blue lipstick today and all black with my cowboy boots. So Ideal Man must have Mars in Aries in my eighth house conjunct my Chiron, opposite my Uranus in Libra, sextiling the hell outta my Venus.

I don't really know anything. I'm just guessing. Most of us guess until the day we die. A lucky few get it right. My Taurus dad will marry his third Gemini this year. This will be his fifth marriage. He's convinced he has finally found his Soul Mate at the age of sixty-two. Maybe he has. I have no clue.

I will not abide ambivalence in a man. I will not abide hearing him wax poetic about The One That Got Away. If he wants to talk about her so damn much he needs to go beat down her door, grab her by her hair and drag her into his damn cave. If he can't manage that he can masturbate to her memory. Ain't no room in my bed for a man who is still stuck on someone else.

If a man picks his nose I don't want to know about it. His sheets better be clean. He better shower and floss on the regular. "That shit is petty. Doesn't need to be addressed." Oh. Yes. It certainly does. I've dated men in San Antonio who have damn good jobs. Some of them even own houses. And they can't nail down the basics. And when it comes to making me cum...forget about it. But that's what my vibrator is for.

Do I care if a man is an artist or a writer? I think at this point I'd prefer a man who is neither of those things. I'm thinking Ideal Man is an auto mechanic or maybe he works on airplanes or rockets. Or bicycles or motorcycles. Hell. I don't know. But he'll be wOwed by my writing and art. He'll think I'm Frida Kahlo meets Anais Nin.

I'm forty-three years old and I'm still sending my messages in bottles out to sea. Is this tacky of me? Probably. Yet I persist. "Trout Mask Replica" (that's a record album) at the ready.

Monday, April 11, 2016

GRINGA PROM GOWN


SUGARED LUZ


AZUCAR


BLOODIEST MILE


ZERO FAT GRAMS


SAGITTARIUS DRUMMER


DECEMBER 1973


FRIED CHICKEN AND COFFEE

Here are two of my stories. Enjoy.

VELVEETA LUST THRUM


ARIES SALAD


BEAUTIFUL T-SHIRT


MY CONFESSION


HONEY FOR LIMP DICKS


A COMMON LANGUAGE

Hello! I am Katty! ! I'm 30. I'm looking for a man to build a relationship.
Only serious relationship!
I was born in Ukraine but now I live in Russia, in city called Samara.
I hope that the distance will not be a hindrance to our friendship?
I'm not looking for sex for one night!
I am a decent girl and do not play games!
If we are not on the one way, or you're married, do not answer me.
I hope that we will find a common language. We could take a closer look.
I will send you my photos. Write me, I will wait. Ekaterina!


SEXFRIEND

I'm so sorry my sexfriend.
I found your pictures on Twitter.
You are cute!
I just want to get my pussy fucked hard.
Want to bang me?
My account name is Mae95.
It's my photo:




Friday, April 8, 2016

PEP TALK TO SELF

1. Don't apologize.
2. Don't hide.
3. You are not a beggar. You're a fucking goddess.
4. You're bigger than your world now.
5. Heal thyself. Thou art healed. Now boogie.

DAMES ARE NO DICE


FUCKED UP THE ASS

When life fucks me up the ass harder than usual I consider cutting off all my hair, maybe shaving my head, getting a bunch of random bullshit tattoos, moving to Vegas or Fiji, changing my name to Tampon Hysteria, going off the grid for good. No mas disco. No mas xmas. Various people fuck with my shit and I just want to crawl into a cave and HIDE. Live out the rest of my days wild, naked, answering to no one but the jaguar down the lane. I've heard a rumor that the safest place in the jungle is inside his mouth. I believe.

ONE PESO LEFT

I'd forgotten this gem. Sometimes I'm so stunned by stasis that I check up on my former self and the junkyard that is my old blog. Enjoy.

AZUL


BLUE LIPS


BLOODIEST MOON EVER

Bloody fucking moon in Aries. Worst dream ever. Worst dream since I dreamed he stabbed me in our bed. We were in his ex-wife's house in Alamo Heights. He showed me the Mexican Coca-Cola in the fridge, told me it was so much better than American Coke but I wasn't thirsty. We weren't kissing or fucking or touching in any fucking way. Coldest winter since January 31, 1949. He was the Capricorn. Saturn. I was the Aquarian. Uranus. I still shared a birthday but not birthdate with his ex-wife. She was a year older than him. I was still fifteen years younger. He had Pluto on my moon so he had all the fucking power. His Mars in Sagittarius was not exactly slobbering all over my sixth house Venus. Fuck. It was Monopoly and I'd never win. All those red and green pieces of plastic would never be mine.

"She could be back at any second. Let's get the hell out of here," I said.
"What's your rush? You got a hot date with the guy at Taco Cabana?" he asked.
"No, he works at Popeye's. Get it right."
"Bitch."
"Pendejo."
"If you were a man I'd knock you on your ass."
"Or if I were your ex-wife. But you don't love me enough to hit me."
"BITCH. I should have never told you anything. You use it all as ammunition."
"I've got an arsenal of spitwads. Ain't afraid to use it."

The door opened. The better Aquarian was home. She was shocked. Outraged. I apologized profusely on my way out the door. But then we were all three across the street at the horse stable and the man I loved more than Chef Boyardee pizza and peanut M&Ms combined was helping his ex-wife fix something. I told her I knew about the restraining order and wondered why she had given her ex-husband (the man I loved to Pluto and beyond) a key to her house. Oh, in case of a water emergency. Gotcha. Dry spells in San Antonio can be rather harrowing. Don't throw anything away. Keep those numbers in your phone. They might come in handy.

God. The BLOOD. Then we were all three back in the coldest casa in San Antonio. It was a goddamn mausoleum starring me. There was no me. There was only them. The Capricorn and The Aquarian who met in high school, fell in love, got married and made four sons. I did not exist. I was the cracker from the North Texas sticks. He took his shirt off and I loved him harder and deeper than Priscilla ever loved Elvis. I wanted to devour him but he was not my candy to savor. The Real Aquarian ran her nails down his chest and he laughed because he loved her and it was ON like Donkey Kong so I made my meaningless invisible gringa exit and it was the darkest night on record but I somehow found a church and I was climbing the spire to get closer to God and then I saw two black wolves snarling in my direction and I knew they would eat me because finally I was seen and smelled but then I woke up. Scentless.

COUGAR & SALLY GO TO VEGAS

Cougar was making a veritable killing working for CaboVillas.com. He kept Sally in Star Wars collectibles and lithium. While Cougar worked his ass off Sally indulged in the usual diversions. On Tuesdays she trolled the Futurama forum. On Wednesdays she played Bloodrayne. Thursdays were all about the buffet at Cheap Chinese 4U, followed by a couple of hours at the boardwalk arcade. Every other Friday Sally smoked a bowl with Logan, her newest fuck buddy. Saturdays were spent stalking old fuck buddies at Facebook. Sally's Facebook name was Danica Platonic. It was some kind of weird pop culture reference that only made sense to Sally. In her heavily PhotoShopped profile picture Sally/Danica was sixteen years old and hotter than all those bitches from "Saved By The Bell" combined.

"Cooooougar. I'm bored, baby," Sally whined. She sat on the futon bloated from the Chinese buffet. Her stomach bulged out over her Bert & Ernie pajama pants.
"What do you wanna do, baby? I'm here to enable and facilitate," Cougar said, rubbing Sally's large, crusty feet.
"I wanna go to Vegas and see the tigers and shit."
"That's my girl. God I love you. I'll go to cheaptickets.com right now."

Five hours later Cougar and Sally stood on the sidewalk in front of Treasure Island with a bunch of other gawking dipshits watching the epic pirate battle. Sally felt that in another life she was Blackbeard. She wore a souvenir eyepatch and plastic hook on her right hand. Cougar grabbed her fat ass with glee. God he loved the nutty bitch. Couldn't imagine life without her.

"Don't ever OD," Cougar grunted in Sally's ear after a couple of hours of anal sex in their room at The Whole Year Inn.
"But I wanna go out like Bon Scott," Sally said with a pout.
"Sorry, baby. You're already too old to realize that dream."

Sally spit in Cougar's face and he giggled. God he loved his gal.

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

WRONG NUMBERS


WAR DECLARED


DIVERSIONS


This Comforts Me.

We all have a shelf life. Expiration date.
Mediocre poets. Shitty poets.
The brilliant poets live on in suicide notes.
I'm not encouraging you to kill yourself.
Mediocre poets and shitty poets don't
go that way.
They live the longest.
Check out your Twitter feed for all the proof
you'll ever need and a whole lot extra.
Today mediocre New Country stars
are expressing their love
for Merle Haggard.
Oh shut the fuck up.
Go home.
Listen to "Misery and Gin"
and slit your goddamn wrists.
Just joking.
Just venting.
Brilliant bloggers don't joke or vent.
Do they get shit done?
Probably not.
But the cookies are in the oven.
I'm just wondering, cockroach cowgirl.
If the mountain didn't move
for Patsy Cline
what the hell
do you think
will move
for you?
Think about it long and hard.
Snort some meth.
Drink some top shelf wine
with your husband's hard-earned dollars.
Whatever floats
your sad
little boat
until the next
open mic.
Someday you will rot
like the chapbooks
you couldn't give away.
You're rotting now.
I don't need proof.
If the suspense doesn't kill me
the generic allergy pills
just might.
This is
not a poem.
It's a grocery list.
Be sure to drink
your Ovaltine.