Wednesday, April 27, 2016







eBuLLieNT voMiT


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


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.




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.
I still
have that.


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.


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.

Mary Kay.
First Baptist of Monahans.
Kelview Heights.
Precious Moments.
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.

I'm not a colored girl but I've considered suicide
because the rainbow ain't never
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


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 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!


I just want to interject, proclaim, scream:


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 MonTaña

Ayer fue la de mi padre
63rd birthday.
(él es un tauro.)
Él 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 allí
en las montanas
de dolor primal.
Subo, también...
por lo que mi padre se le perdona.


Say what, Pippilotti?
Que pedo!
No artificial growth hormones.
Que. Que.
Estaba rodeado de máquinas y fantasmas.
¿Cómo puedo creer el cristal?
(para el Espíritu todo lo.)
& i was with you
in weakness
& in fear
& in much trembling
(pero nosotros tenemos la mente de Cristo.)
Habéis sido comprados por precio;
no os hagáis esclavos de los hombres.
From henceforth let no man trouble me
porque yo llevo
en mi cuerpo
las marcas del Señor Jesús.
No dañaran la hierba de la tierra.
Ahora mi madre puede estar orgulloso.
All those tap lessons.
Acting coaches.
Beauty pageants.






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


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.


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.


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.


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 así 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 mercancías son robados, todas las ampollas están en la copa.
Grapes conspire in given religion, more common than colored saucers.

Cubos frío, frío de alegría ninguna alegría.

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.


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."




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.


El momento en el que hay cuatro opciones y hay cuatro opciones en una diferencia,
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 estaño no es una lata y una estufa
es difícilmente.
Hope in spoons.
La esperanza en las mesas.
Claiming nothing.
Reclamando nada.
Please spice.

¿cuál 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 práctica,
nada, nada en absoluto.



Nunca cabalgamos la rueda
de las luces y que no han viajado
a laguna de la sirena.
¿qué más 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.
¿dónde está 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







I take my coffee like I take my life.
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

((( purple eyes like rings )))


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.




call up that shrink in beverly hills


A horny Latina chick wants to get a huge dildo tonight.
My pussy is so lonely currently.
Will give you the best handjob ever.
See my profile, and you will never refuse to bang me.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Fred & Cindy



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!




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.


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.


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.


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


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
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

Friday, April 15, 2016




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.


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




Guardo los de conchas bonitas.
Count the beads
around my neck.
I promise you, guapo.
Mis ojos
have seen
some shit.




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


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.

Daffodils Doin' Their Thang

The beer was delivered.
The shades were drawn.
La Fiebre was on the radio.
The hands were on the ass.
The dick was in the mouth.
April in San Antonio.
Viva El Culo!
Viva La Chula!
Picasso's oils ran
down the walls.
Later paletas.
Then siesta.
Suenos de las uvas mas morado.




Thursday, April 14, 2016




I mentioned the raccoon that lives inside my wall at the astrology forum I frequent and a friend provided me with this link. Last year I thought my apartment was haunted. I kept hearing these weird sounds at all hours. Then I thought I had rats in my attic. Pest control set traps in the attic. I was wrong. Finally I discovered that there was an animal or animals (raccoons) living in the wall behind my sofa and bookcase altar. The wall was bulging from the rocks the animal had used to make its nest or what the fuck ever. I need to Google raccoons. Do raccoons make rock nests? So I bullied and threatened apartment management until finally they cut a hole in my wall. For a while I thought the problem was solved. Oh, before I noticed that the wall was bulging I blasted my "Trout Mask Replica" album and played my $20 keyboard to scare the raccoon away. It only worked temporarily. Now the raccoon is back. I have left my radio against the wall blasting Tejano, rap, static, Christian preachers and political talk shows while I'm gone. Motherfucker ain't about to budge. Maybe he's down with all that shit. He obviously is. I e-mailed the manager again today. "Have you contacted pest control yet? The animal needs to be removed ASAP." The manager replied,"Miss Rainwater-Lites, pest control will be in your apartment tomorrow morning. Have a great day!"

I do look for signs and synchronicity in every damn thing. Did you miss the fox in "Wild"? The fox was trying to tell Reese Witherspoon as Cheryl Strayed something. The raccoons of the world are speaking to me. I need to fucking listen. A few years ago I was visiting a friend in California. He was talking about the raccoons that visited him. They were so fucking smart. I was jealous. I wrote about my jealousy in Bullshit Rodeo. And a year or so ago I saw two sick raccoons on my ex-husband's front porch. I took a picture of them. I was scared they were going to attack me. They didn't.

I'm willing to learn. I'm willing to listen. Raccoons and raccoon type people keep popping up into my life. I try to scare people away. They stay. Many people are smarter and more tenacious than I am. I need to learn clever coping skills. I need to learn tenacity.

I do know this. I ain't goin' anywhere. I'm rooted right here. I'm living in neon. Blast any kind of music you like. To me it's all disco and I know how to boogie.




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.


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.


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


Words are chupacabra slobber, mi amor.
Throw pebbles at my ventana
some Sabado when the moon is in Scorpio
and all the numbers in your phone
have melted into Crayola puddles
you cannot use
not even in
a half-assed
There isn't much between us.
Dirty laundry and broken dishes.
Last night's rain on the bluebonnets
informed my allergy pill dreams
of you fucking me in the dark
which is how you liked it best
because in the light
I'm much less possible.
"So good," you said.
I heard you loud and clear
all the way to Helotes.
Bueno is even better
and I am the wettest
witch you ever spilled
across Texas.
Bruja blanca.
Gringa loca.
Token consolation prize.
Another carnival has come
to Taco Town
and my heart is
still tick tocking past
despite the
dull dirty knocking.
I'm not selling anything.
Nothing left to loan.
Words are rocks sewn inside
a wolf's black stomach
before he's thrown into the lake
to drown to make
a safer