Tuesday, May 31, 2016


Eighth House Evisceration




Jim Morrison digs me.

The dream was so good it woke me up before noon. And now I'm ready to rule the world, or at least mail the Little Golden books I sold on eBay and get the rest of the stuff (clothes paintings collages books) out of my apartment. So I was riding around Oakland with James Douglas Morrison and a bunch of other fuckers, including Jim's "cosmic mate," Pamela Susan Courson. I was sitting in Jim's lap, facing him, and we were looking into each other's eyes, talking, making out. Pam was so pissed! Then we stopped at a liquor store and Jim bought Pam a couple of bottles of champagne and she was appeased. He bought me a bottle, too. It was probably bottom shelf whiskey.

Jim's sun was on my Juno to the motherfucking degree. His sun was also conjunct my Neptune, trine my Chiron, sextile my Venus, sextile my Uranus. His moon trined mine. His Mercury was conjunct my Mars, square my Pluto, trine my ascendant and moon. His Venus was sextile my Mars, ascendant and moon. His Mars was conjunct my Saturn, trine my Pluto, trine my Venus, opposite my Neptune, sextile my Chiron, square my moon. His Jupiter was opposite my sun, quincunx my Jupiter, trine my Eros, sextile my Uranus. His Saturn trined my sun and my Uranus. His Uranus trined my Pluto, squared my ascendant and moon, opposed my Neptune. His Neptune was conjunct my Pluto (tight), square my Mars (tighter), sextile my Neptune. His Pluto sextiled mine and trined my Neptune and opposed my Venus. His north node aspected my stuff in the same way as his Pluto did as they were conjunct. His Chiron was conjunct my moon, wide. Most astrologers wouldn't count it as a conjunction but I'm greedy. His Chiron trined my north node and vertex tight and opposed my Mercury and squared my Juno. His Chiron was quincunx my Chiron. Jim's Lilith opposed my sun and Venus, trined my Juno and Chiron, sextiled my Uranus. Jim's ascendant was conjunct my Venus, sextile my Juno and Neptune and Chiron. His MC was conjunct my IC, sextile my Jupiter, square my sun.

The Lizard King probably would have fucked me at least once.

Sunday, May 29, 2016


All art is for sale, always! Commissions? Yes, I'll take those. Perhaps you fancy a scented marker sketch of Big Foot riding shotgun in a UFO. You dictate. I create. I won't consider myself a sell-out until I can treat my son to froyo with cash rather than a credit card! PayPal: roxixmas@gmail.com. I don't name prices. I name the crazy ass characters in my books. I should start an art gallery called Stock Photos. I should start a production company called Lites Camera Action. Yoko Ono wrote Grapefruit. It is up to me to write Nectarine. Today I sprinkled cinnamon on a baked apple pie, placed it in the oven. It was quite good with vanilla bean ice cream. There was a dead scorpion in the swimming pool. It didn't hurt anyone. I wanted to see Mars through the telescope but there were too many clouds. Now I'm going to wash my hair, comb it, put on my footie donut pajamas and get in bed with Fuckerbutt Happy Time, a manuscript. Tune in tomorrow when Holly walks through a time doorway and finds herself at The Peach Pit with Dylan and the gang. Boy, she can't get back to Grumpy soon enough!




#scorpion #arachnid #DeadScorpion #muerte #Texas #SouthTexas #SanAntonio #ChupacabraDisco

A photo posted by Roxi Xmas (@ebulliencepress) on

Saturday, May 28, 2016


Yes I know I'm wearing purple lipstick and showing off my nipples in my profile photo and I haven't listed any previous work experience. Never mind all of that. I'm banned from OK Cupid. Short story but I'm tired of telling it. I'm an outlaw but I don't own a gun. I was wanted in four or five different states in 1995. That shit has been cleared up. I've never been booked. I'm lucky like that. I babysat quite a bit back in the day. I didn't lose my virginity until I was twenty-two. I've waited a few tables. I worked in a factory once for a month. I kept waiting for Richard Gere to rescue me. I sold panties over the phone for Victoria's Secret. I worked the pole from Arlington to Las Vegas. T-Mobile. Blah. Angelito's. Yada. Burger Time. Blah. Fredericksburg Christian. You know it, motherfucker. Texas State University. Omega Xi! Schreiner University. I was invisible but I showed up. Publication credits. Huh? Grocery list tattoo. UTSA. I pissed off a professor so she sent me an e-mail IN ALL CAPS. Class. I think I graduated but I'm still waiting on the piece of paper to prove it. Better Than Your Mother cleaning service. I cleaned and bled and sweat for $5.25 an hour. The Bridgeport Index. $5.25 an hour. Jay left a note on my desk. "I apologize for my error. 'Nope' is not a word." I never made cheerleader or homecoming queen, that's for damn sure. Bukowski wouldn't have fucked me. We would have met at a party after a damn open mic and he would have leered at me from across the room and said,"You're too uptight, baby." I make my own vinaigrette out of olive oil, honey and apple cider vinegar. I put coconut oil in my hair. I've been selling on eBay since 2008. I was inspired by Paula Deen's book that same year and baked a bunch of peanut butter cookies for my mom to sell in her office and my husband at the time complained that I was making him sick. I auditioned for disability in 2011. I got the part. My ex-boyfriend told me I needed to get a real job so he booted my ass back to college at the age of forty-one. I thought I would die. I'm still alive, drinking green tea and buying the occasional scratch card. "You always lose," my son says. He's smarter than I'll ever be. Sure. I can help you organize your office, run your errands, decorate your cocina for fiestas, feed your fish. I cannot help you with your cats, dogs, tarantulas or snakes. I will not fuck your husband while you watch. Don't ask me to file your taxes or cut your hair. I won't take your kids to see "Angry Birds." I will bring you froyo with peanut M&Ms on top. I will clean up your manuscript. I will e-mail your boss and keep the adverbs and expletives to a minimum. I will board your train. If I wake up tomorrow in Willoughby I'll have no one to blame but one Rod Serling.


This is not a paid endorsement. I try to burn it down but the haunted house keeps blooming back up with a disco witch smile. YOU MISSED A SPOT. Seymour, Texas. I'm twelve and not yet bleeding. My cousin has boyfriends. Prince, Madonna and Cyndi Lauper are on the radio. I'm standing in Seymour, Texas on a Saturday night smack dab in the middle of summer drinking a can of Budweiser.

"You're cool for a kid. Where do you live?"
"Where's that?"
"West Texas. Middle of no damn where."
"Do you have a big sister?"
"Too bad. I bet if you had a big sister she'd be hot."
"Yeah, probably so."

The Brazos is my Hudson. I walk across the bridge and think of "Saturday Night Fever." Could a guy like Tony ever love a girl like me? Only if I grow up to be Stephanie. I'll need to be pretty and sassy. I'll need to know how to dance and type. I cannot grow up to be Annette. I would rather die.




These words must die.

Literally. Totally. Rad. Apparently. Obviously. Actually. Fart. Clearly. Abs.

Read this, if you want to. I skimmed it because I'm trying to figure out how to work from home. I'm being asked for professional photographs for various profiles. Blue lips are not professional. Topless photographs are not professional. I struggle on various levels.

Friday, May 27, 2016

I'm pathetic at eBay.

La verdad. I am pathetic at eBay and a few other places. Don't cry for me, Argentina. The truth is I'll never be Madonna and the closer I get to fifty the more okay this fact feels. I began buying and selling at eBay in 2008. I lived in what I lovingly refer to as The Crack Whore Shack with my infant son and my second husband. Only one adult could fit in the bathroom at a time. There was a mural of a cartoon monkey on the bathroom wall. The floors were slanted and ripped in places. The washing machine and dryer were on the tiny back porch. One night I spent an hour or more washing my son's bottles, nipples and nipple rings by hand (no dishwasher)...put it all in the drying rack, left the room, returned to find a gargantuan cockroach crawling all over the clean dishes. So what did I do? Well, I killed the damn thing then washed everything all over again in scalding hot water. My husband was working on an offshore drilling rig. We were still broke, still living on government cheese. So I started buying (cheap stuff, so that I could establish myself with a rating) and selling on eBay. I'd sell crap I bought at the Port Arthur Goodwill. I once sold a bunch of plates my mother-in-law gave me. I don't know who in the hell she thought I'd be entertaining in The Crack Whore Shack. Anyway, the buyer sent me a message complaining that all the plates were broken but no surprise there since I'd wrapped them in paper towels. I was that stupid. I begged the buyer to please not give me negative feedback. She was decent about it. She got her prompt refund. Oh, and I sold a collector edition Barbie to some guy and got pissy because he didn't pay me right away. I bombarded him with messages until two weeks later he sent me a condescending message and the payment. Well shit. Then a couple of years ago a woman complained that I sold her a "broken dress." The dress wasn't broken when I mailed it. I don't know what the hell. How does a dress break? So she left me some shit ass feedback. Then last December I listed a train someone gave my son (he doesn't play with trains). Only one person bid on it and the price was too low (I started the bidding at $25...the train is worth at least $100) so I sent the guy a message telling him not to pay for the train because it was no longer available. He sent me an incredulous message. He won the train, fair and square! He wanted his damn choo choo! I told him I didn't feel like discussing my personal life with him. Ha! I was going to give him some bullshit story about how I had a restraining order against my psycho ex but he broke into my house during the holidays and stole the train in some weird ass form of revenge. But I didn't want to go there. So the guy went ahead and paid for the train and I canceled the order and he left me shitty feedback. The train is now listed at eBay not as an auction but as a Buy it Now item. So. Yeah. I'm pretty pathetic. But only at eBay and a few other places.

(I'm a dumb white guy.)



((( eBuLLieNCe )))


Rocking. Rolling. 123.

Welcome to Texan Unicorn diary. Are you drunk? Stoned? You don't have to be. I suck at issuing prescriptions and suggestions. I woke up, called my bank. I have eight dollars in my account. I was dismayed at first but then I was jubilant. I don't have to leave the house today! So I haven't. I've been posting naked selfies at Instagram and working on a novel I started writing in 2014. Fuckerbutt Happy Time. I was at Facebook in 2014, calling everyone "fuckerbutts" with affection. I told my son that I wanted to use the word "fuckerbutt" in my title. "What goes good with 'fuckerbutt'?" I asked him. He thought about it for a few seconds then replied,"Happy time."

Yesterday when I picked my son up from school I said,"It's a perfect day for bananafish!" He asked,"What are bananafish?" I told him about the story. Then I told him about a Ray Bradbury story I read that made me sob. The Messiah. He listened, asked questions. I told my son I love him more now than I did when he was a newborn baby because now we can talk and there's more of him to know.

My maternal grandmother's fourth baby was a stillborn. I may have the year wrong but I think she was born on February 18, 1962. I was born on February 17, 1973. My aunt's name (even though she was born dead and never became a person I refer to her as my aunt) is (not was...is) Velvet Lou Ferrier. My name when I was born was Misti Velvet Rainwater. My name is now Misti Velvet Rainwater-Lites but this confuses many a motherfucker so you can call me Cookie/Misti/Roxi Xmas/Kim Wu/Koko Loko. So much depends upon a damn hyphen.

I put Velvet in my novel Walking The Earth. I deleted the novel from my storefront but plan to revise it and publish it again. In Walking The Earth she is Ava. It's a nonlinear, often surreal narrative. It was inspired by a man, of course. Capricorn sun. Taurus moon. Libra rising. We were in a Laundromat in Eagle Pass, Texas and I was upset because I'd received a judgmental e-mail from my Libra sister. My man at the time said,"What's your family's problem? They should be glad you're still walking the earth." BINGO.

I scrawled the rough draft of Fuckerbutt Happy Time in two different red journals and a Justin Bieber notebook. No, I'm not a Justin Bieber fan. I've never heard any of his songs (that I'm aware of, but shit is always blasting across the fuckscape without my consent). I'm a fan of cheesy notebooks. I am eternally twelve years old. The other day I was watching "Juno" and saw my El Diablo metal lunchbox in Juno's room. The Juno character is sixteen. But I am eternally twelve and crushing on David Lee Roth in the "Panama" video. "Reach down...between my legs...and ease the seat back." BABY.

While revising today I added some new stuff, as I am wont to do. I appropriated Gertrude Stein's If I Told Him: A Completed Portrait of Picasso. Stein references Napoleon in her piece. I reference Travolta in mine. There are other differences. I'm by no means married to Stein's words. I'm only married to mine. We are still very much in the honeymoon phase.

The manuscript includes a love letter to Richard Ramirez. I'm not one of those sick chicks who creams over CSI episodes and slasher flicks. I don't collect serial killers. Manson and Bundy do nada for my libido. But I watched the prison interview at YouTube years ago and crushed on the guy. Today I looked up his chart and my crush makes perfect sense. I put his astro info in the manuscript. The manuscript is loaded with astrology. And crushes. And actual sex with actual men. I'm not naming or damning anyone. Fuckerbutt Happy Time is not a memoir, an indictment or a cautionary tale. It is an eBuLLieNT googly eyed spitfire FUCK YOU scrawl. It's a mess. It's Kathy Acker and Henry Miller in a Ninja...that's a food processor. It's my blood my stars my fire my water. It's me gasping for air in 21st century San Antonio, Texas. That's all. I will promote the fuck outta my book once I publish it.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

I'm still learning.

A motherfucker has to touch my chart ruler.
That's the sweet spot.
Mercury at fourteen degrees Pisces in the seventh.
Tightest aspect? Saturn at thirteen degrees Gemini.
If a man is oblivious to this,
refuses to touch this with a pole ten feet
or longer,
there really is
no point to us.
This is not a poem.
I'm tired of pointing this out.
This is another Texan Aquarian
unicorn diary entry.
I'm retired.
My brain is a soggy pretzel
falling to pieces in much too sugary marinara.
But Mercury. Yes. Pisces. Yes.
Neptune? Seven degrees Sagittarius in the fourth.
I don't believe in reincarnation.
I don't believe in soul mates.
But I'm still dreaming of the whitest xmas.
Him The Hymn, me the shattered stained glass,
cozy and holy before a roaring fire
in our gingerbread cottage
everything not only working
but SINGING because he thrums my chords
and I light up his limbic xmas tree.
I join those sites that think in terms
of penis, vagina, coffee, wine.
I delete my account after a few stale hours.
is non-negotiable.
Because I was sixteen years old
riding around in the rain
in Midland, Texas
with my Gemini sun Aquarius moon mom
and on a whim she stopped at a used bookstore
and I found Sun Signs by Linda Goodman
("I wish they were peanuts.")
and I had Rhett & Scarlett on my wall
and fairy tales on my shelves
and snowflakes in my little glacial
Venus in Aquarius heart
and I knew it would take much more
than a Beatles song
and much less than Moonlight Sonata
on busted junkyard radio
but someday he
would occur.
I'm still tap dancing in my stolen red shoes.
Something GOOD is gonna


!!! FROYO !!!


I just took a fingernail quiz. Based on the shape of my nail beds, the size of my index and ring fingers (my index finger is longer than my ring finger), my color preferences (I want to paint my hypothetical bedroom walls this color), my favorite sweet indulgence (raspberry cheesecake wasn't an option so...donut), my favorite movie genre (documentary wasn't an option so...horror...old school stuff, not the new shit) and various other brain tingling things (my dream vacation is NOT sunning in Bali or skiing in Gstaad...it's looking at old monuments in Japan)...I AM A MILD-TEMPERED ROMANTICIST!!! Excuse me while I kiss the sky.




Wednesday, May 25, 2016






Capricorn Woman/Gemini Man


Tonight was so strange I thought the moon must be
in Aquarius but no. It's still in Capricorn.
This is not a poem.
This is not a love letter.
This is not magic realism.
This is Texan unicorn diary entry.
I ate Tex Mex with my Taurus sun Libra moon father
and double Scorpio Taurus rising son.
My father talked about the Alamo and the haunted hotel
and Mexico and his upcoming wedding.
He drank two large frozen margaritas. Salt on the rim.
My son drank Sprite.
He talked about shanks and prison.
He makes shanks at school when the teacher
isn't paying attention.
He's preparing for his future possible incarceration.
He will cut the bars and escape.
He also told me that when he dies
before he goes to Heaven
he wants to jump into a volcano
because it won't hurt.
The other day we watched "Joe Vs. The Volcano,"
my favorite Tom Hanks movie.
"I thought you were a woman of substance," a Gemini cook
told me when I mentioned the fact.
Damn it, I AM a woman of substance.
Fuck Meg Ryan.
I'm talking about TOM HANKS
having the balls to JUMP INTO A VOLCANO.
I have loved five or six or seven or eight motherfuckers
in my short lifetime.
None of them would at any point
jump into a volcano.
I'm still stuck on Amy Schumer in "Trainwreck"
even though the flaws are obvious.
She figured out at the end that she loved the boring guy.
I thought that was brave of her.
I'm still a cheerleader.
Look. Mira.
(Mira the Spanish verb not Mira the ugly name.)
I was never a cheerleader will never be a cheerleader.
I am not bubbly blonde accessible aesthetic.
I did okay once on the comedy club open mic stage
but I read my routine from my Star Wars journal
and that was pretty pussy of me.
But. You.
Dear you.
Capricorn sun Taurus moon Libra rising you.
I tried really fucking hard to shine for you.
I joined Planet Fitness, for fuck's sake.
If that ain't love, love does not exist.
But you know this.
You've dismissed this.
You can do so much better!
And you.
Scorpio sun Taurus moon Leo rising you.
I only fucked one other guy when we were
taking a break last December.
It was only one time and I was so drunk
all I remember is me babbling and crying
at the end and him taking me home and me
saying,"Thanks for the memories."
I hope you're flossing and selling.
I'm still trying. Not for you.
For the fat lady.
You know, Seymour's fat lady.
Seymour Glass?
Oh fuck.
Never fucking mind.
Thanks for all the canvas.
And you oh you oh soul mate you.
You're the one who said "soul mate," darlin'...
I'm simply bein' a smart ass parrot.
I chronicle.
I smirk.
Mercury in Pisces in the seventh opposes
and squares and squares again.
I'm such a mess in my Mexican dress.
But you oh you.
Am I arrogant?
I've earned every damn syllable.
Cancer sun. Scorpio moon. Unknown ascendant.
We only danced twice.
But baby.
We danced.
Send me a smoke signal from Panama.
The nursery window is always open.
Mars and Venus Siamese twinned in Gemini.
I'm hardly Wendy.
I'm still the mermaid.
What the hell is a mermaid doing in a nursery?
Your guess
is as good
as mine.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016




Douse yourself with peppermint oil.
Wasps won't sting you.
Deactivate your Facebook account.
People will fuck with you but not as often.
Tweet your ass.
You will get a million followers, a book deal,
a McMansion, a soul mate and most importantly
Kylie Jenner will be your BFF.
Learn how to suck dick.
You have to do something with your mouth
when you aren't eating because you want to rock
that Wal-Mart bikini.
Join a boxing gym.
They will laugh at you and the next thing you know
you'll be Sissy Spacek standing onstage covered
in pig's blood.
We're all gonna fucking die.
That shit is carved in stone.
Open mics.
Fucked up fast food orders.
Bad television, worse politicians.
Get on a plane to Bora Bora.
No problems.
The ocean will rock your baby butt
to sleep.

Sunday, May 22, 2016









My mind has been brambled in the forest beyond fuck since 1977 or 1981. I don't trust numbers. Mercury at fourteen Pisces squares Saturn at thirteen Gemini. Moon is in the mix at six Virgo. Neptune spoons the soup at seven Sagittarius. The metaphor is a familiar one and I feel so common and obtrusive referring to myself once again as the shivering waif in rags with nose pressed against cold candy shop window. Candy does not sympathize and all those sugared lights made of strawberry syrup and citric acid, so much caustic smirk. I'm a knock knock joke. Flat on my ass in North Texas mud. The blood is my currency. Two days ago I bought a lavender pony. Comb included. I'm Gluten Free at Ashley Madison. At OK Cupid they know me as Fat Grams. For the purpose of this program I'm Sprinkled Donut. You cannot wash me down with almond milk, green tea or bottom shelf whiskey. I lodge in your throat much like Laura Palmer. I trust men who don't consult therapists or tarot cards. Mars in Capricorn squares Pluto in Libra. It's hot in here. It's just me. It's ninja kitchen. My heart is God's chopping block and so suddenly I'm Franny without the perspicacious siblings and killer view. My son is safe at the sno cone stand so I pace the attic which is my palace and bother Greg with the details. Wasn't it enough that Greg was born and buried in Texas? Now he has to hear my battle cries. All caps. No punctuation. I scream my wounds my grammatical errors and I tell him.

No the piece of paper with my gringa blood all over it is no kind of key I'm still locked out I'm still the strangest cloud to ever shadow fried chicken picnic I'm still weird white bitch from the yellow side of the tracks but if I can't have Peru if I can't have Lisbon if I can't have HOT JOY and one true king and no pretenders and dream city pillow and purple fountain then let me die and wake up in goldest hum because I've earned that much but as long as I'm here there will be prayer without punctuation. No mas AMEN no mas SELAH no mas SO MOTE IT BE. Consider my life an open-ended prayer. My heart ain't chopping block at all it's sky cathedral it's transmission ZOOM it's me the queen of any room I enter because sun because Venus because Uranus because yes. It's the answer I'm helping myself to.

Free of charge.


Saturday, May 21, 2016









This morning I dreamed of my ideal man. I vaguely recall the details but he was a weirdo loner. He sang Bob Dylan songs to me. He wasn't Latino. He was white like me, whatever the hell that means. I certainly don't feel white or Caucasian. What the fuck is Caucasian? I think Caucasian is some made up bullshit. I believe race is a construct designed to keep people fighting like crabs in a barrel. We're all in the same barrel. Class is real. I watch the Kardashians enough to know that shit straight and for a motherfucking fact. Do you have a private jet? Two or three houses? Neither do I. So we are much the same.

My intuition tells me that ideal dream man, a construct of my subconsciousness, is an Aquarian with Venus in Aquarius, Capricorn rising, a Sagittarius moon and Mars in Scorpio. I'm not sure about the other stuff. He questioned me when I reached for his hand but I'm accustomed to that sort of thing. If a man coos and goos all over me he ain't the one for me. I need a cold, withholding, calculating motherfucker. Otherwise I'll have no idea who or where or what I am. Business as usual on the Uranus side of the street.



I've been living with a raw manuscript for a couple of years now. Fuckerbutt Happy Time. It's a nonlinear novel. While chasing dick all over San Antonio, attending UTSA, singing karaoke, kicking a soccer ball around with my son and hunting chupacabra I have been taking notes. People who whine about the constraints of the novel forgot about or never read Burroughs and Acker. I have not forgotten Burroughs. I live and breathe Acker. So I am not whining. I'm writing my ass off, per fucking usual. I'm putting raw carrots, onions, broccoli and organic dark chocolate in a cauldron and hoping for the best. The raw manuscript began in a Justin Bieber notebook. It is now scrawled and sprawled across three or four different notebooks and journals. I hope to publish Fuckerbutt Happy Time my damn self before fireworks splash across American skies. My novel will be legit. Epic, even. But it will NOT be rad. Do not ever utter the word "rad" in my presence. I will turn you to stone.

p.s. Should I mention Gertrude Stein? No. Of course not. I'm the only one who digs Gertrude Stein and her FUCK YOU nonlinear rambles.


Tuesday, May 10, 2016



I get on my high horse. I don't know why. I don't know where the high horse comes from. I have Mars, Jupiter, north node and vertex in Capricorn in the fifth house. I have a Virgo moon in the first house. My Pluto in Libra squares Mars in Capricorn tight. In the progressed chart I have Venus and sun conjunct in Aries. But I get on my high horse and I burn bridges left and right. I tell what I think needs to be told. I vent. I bitch. I kvetch. I do go on with much muchness. I'm ridiculous. Most of the time I just want to escape. I want to run and hide, give myself a new name. Roxi Xmas. Some unpronounceable symbol. Then someone goes and humbles me. I'm forever humbled by the holiness in other people.

Yesterday I found out that my final grade in math is a C. I was certain my final grade would be an F. I was certain I wouldn't receive my BFA, finally, at the age of forty-three. I won't walk across the stage. I couldn't afford the cap and gown and didn't like the idea of waiting for hours just to hear my damn name called. So the paper that proves I accomplished something will be mailed to me.

I still feel like I have just won an Oscar. I had Oscar fantasies when I was a kid. I was bullied throughout childhood and adolescence. I was never a cheerleader or an honor student. I never sat at the cool table. Never went to a single prom. When the cool kids were going to parties, getting drunk, getting high, getting fucked, I was babysitting and mooning over Beatles records. I was reciting all of Vivien Leigh's lines from "Gone With The Wind." I would wake up someday and be Scarlett O'Hara and various motherfuckers would be crazy in love with me. I would wake up someday and be Vivien Leigh and I'd stand onstage in a designer gown without any blood on it and I'd give a speech. My speech would not be gracious. My speech would be a big FUCK YOU to everyone who ever shit on me and spit on me.

This will be cheesy as fuck and I don't care. I'm not being timed. I'm standing onstage and I can stand here until I've delivered my speech. And it isn't a FUCK YOU at all. My gratitude is sincere. Thank you to Cindy for giving birth to me. Thank you to Fred for teaching me hatred, fear, guilt, shame before I even knew what my name was. Thank you to my little sister for worshiping me before she learned that I was a wreck of a human being. Thank you to my little brother for sucking his thumb and listening with big blue eyes when I read books to him and for growing from Dusty to Dustin, a man who floors me with the beauty and strength of his character. Thank you to my maternal grandmother for reading fairy tales to me from those beautifully illustrated Childcraft books and for telling me stories about Pocahontas and Indian Chief and Suzie and for baking M&M cookies with me and taking me to the park in Bridgeport to climb the rocket. Thank you to my cousin Shane for walking away from the tacky little girl who showed him her pink panties and following me outside and reaching for my hand. Thank you to Greg for lighting up every room he ever entered and for sending me a letter from prison with a picture of me with stars in my hair and telling me I could shine as brightly as any other girl in the world. Thank you to Chase for being the first man who tried. Thank you to Brian for not loving me because if I'd gotten my wish and married him it would have been a disaster. Thank you to my first husband for loving me long before he knew me and for loving me after he learned my ugliness.

The man who inspired Walking The Earth gets his own paragraph. Thank you for giving me a home and for telling me if I ever got fat you would dump me so fast my head would spin. Thank you for inspiring tears, endless tears in me. I've never cried harder. Right now I'm forty-three years old and I've never loved a man as deeply as I loved you. I still don't know why. I have a few ideas. Limbic xmas tree and all of that. Thank you for trying. Thank you for taking me to your mother's house. Thank you for introducing me to your family. Thank you for showing me your son's grave. Thank you for being the drill sergeant with the boot up my ass. If it hadn't been for you there is no way in seven hells I would have ever passed remedial math and made it to this bright, bright day. The last time we spoke on the phone I told you I'll love you until the day I die. Man, I hope I was lying.

Thank you to Mrs. Becker. She was my fifth grade homeroom teacher. She told me she looked forward to the day she would read a book by Misti Velvet Rainwater. I made her laugh until she cried.

Thank you to my acting professor Jay Jennings. I dreamed of him the other night. Holy holy holy.

Thank you to the professor who did not accept my sloppy research paper on The Yellow Wallpaper but made me jump through flaming hoops of fire until I got that shit straight.

Thank you to Prince. I started praying to you the day I found out you had died.

Thank you to Shari Oestreich, the only friend I made in Fredericksburg, Texas. The day I found out you had died I searched until I found the typewritten letter you sent me, apologizing on behalf of all the football players who mocked me as I wandered down the hallways of Fredericksburg High School, a frizzy haired brunette lost in a sea of perfect Germanic blondes.

Thank you to every family member every boyfriend every friend every professor who ever wrote me off as beyond hope and redemption. Thank you to Amy and Anna for shitting all over me in sixth grade. Thank you to Tonya for feeling superior to me and judging me for working as a topless dancer for one semester when I was attending Texas State.

Thank you to Todd Moore for gracing Instant Pussy with your fire and for inscribing my copy of that outlaw bible with "misti...yr a helluva poet" and for inviting me to your 70th birthday party and for telling me to "hang in there." I can't believe I'm still here.

Thank you to Hollie Stevens for inspiring me and for being a catalyst in my life. I never met you but when I learned of your death I mourned as if you had been a family member. Holy holy holy. Hollie.

Thank you to Henry Miller. Someday I'll make it to Big Sur. I might be ashes in an urn but I will make it to Big Sur and Moonlight Sonata will play.

Thank you to Erica Jong for writing How To Save Your Own Life. Thank you to Sylvia Plath for Ariel. Thank you to Anne Sexton for The Death Notebooks. Thank you to Gertrude Stein for Tender Buttons. Thank you to Yoko Ono for Grapefruit. Thank you to John Lennon for everything. Thank you to Jimi Hendrix for every damn thing but especially "Bold As Love" and "If Six Was Nine." Thank you, Bon Scott. Thank you, Janis Joplin. Thank you, Jim Morrison. Thank you "Lizard Queen" for trashing me online after sending me a letter written on parchment in purple calligraphy, thanking me for knowing the truth when I read it. Gracias, Sandra Cisneros. Girl, we got a chingon in common! You tried to seduce him. I successfully seduced him more than a few times and threw back with him in Progreso and Matamoros. La verdad. But I'm pretty sure that Iowa Writer's and Loose Woman trump dick so...you win.

Thank you to Elsa for inspiring me and countless others, tirelessly. I am honored to know you, know of you. Your light is one of the brightest I have ever witnessed.

Thank you to the manager of the hot shit designer boutique on Union Street in San Francisco who raked me over the goddamn coals during a ten minute job interview. You inspired me to take the bus to Golden Gate Bridge and contemplate jumping off. Powerful stuff, words.

Thank you to every small press writer/editor/organ grinder who wrote me off as a bat shit crazy broad. You were/are all so fucking right. Namaste, as they say.

An infinity of gratitude to my son and his father. There will never be enough words. The love floods me. The love shown to me by the double Scorpio and the double Leo is the most humbling thing I have ever witnessed and received on this god awful glorious planet.

Thank you to my mom's third husband for loving my son as if he were his own blood. Thank you for telling me that if you had been my husband you would have thrown me out on my ass. You intensified my self-loathing when that and a car loaded down with everything I owned packed in Wal-Mart bags was all I had.

Thank you to Mamaw Crenshaw for always telling the truth. Straight. No chaser. Sagittarius women rock pretty fucking hard.

Thank you to the man who inspired Bullshit Rodeo. I agree. The giving tree needs to be put out of its misery with a chainsaw.

Thank you to Andy the Artist and Andy The Retired Vice Cop. Scorpio. Cancer. I dig watery men but alas, they do not dig me.

Thank you Stepdad for getting down on your knees and kissing my hand that December day in the hospital in Midland, Texas. I try to tell myself that I am a queen and queens do not accept crumbs. Crumbs are for cockroaches. That day you saw me and my swollen eyes, swollen from crying for hours...and you saw a queen. I looked out the window. The sun was setting. I was holy, holy, holy.

Thank you to every Baptist preacher who ever Baptized me. I'm pretty sure that unlike the dead butterfly referenced in Bullshit Rodeo I will make it to Heaven.

Thank you to Dolly Parton for "Hard Candy Christmas" and thank you to Patsy Cline for every damn thing and thank you to Pluto and beyond to Billie Holiday. Girl. I feel ya.

Thank you to Nicole. When I sat on the futon in your den almost catatonic in pain you handed me that necklace with tears in your eyes and spoke words I don't exactly recall but I recall the tribute and the praise and I will never forget that moment. You held me up. I wanted to die when I was thirty-nine. I thought my life was over. You assured me that it wasn't.

Thank you Famous Poet for writing shitty poems about me and my tears. I'm crying right now but my tears have nada to do with you. You got good taste in records and books. Bravo.

Thank you to Peach. Thank you to Lauren. It's so fucking rare that I connect with women. Because...Texas. Pinterest. Women who define themselves solely through their men and alla that noise.

Lastly. Thank you to Erica Warthen for blowing me away on the open mic and for hugging me and praising me and for asking for a copy of Bullshit Rodeo. I am humbled as hell. Holy holy holy.

Wait. I forgot Seymour Glass. But he already knows.

p.s. okay so there was some FUCK YOU to this and there is blood all over my designer gown but really and truly, y'all...I'm happy to be here and we are all connected in some weird mystical way and I can dig it...hope y'all can, too!

p.p.s. BILLY FUCKING JOEL!!! "She can't be convicted. She's earned her degree." WORD.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016


Howdy, y'all. This here is a novel, that's right, a NOVEL...not a memoir, not goddamn creative nonfiction...written by a native Texan. Jesus ain't the main character.


I'm residing in a cave in the Silver Creek apartments in San Antonio, Texas in name only. The truth is I am living in a much safer location where the raccoons will never find me. This is just to inform the mildly curious and the generally apathetic that the Silver Creek apartments are slums. The manager doesn't know how to take care of business in a flash like our boy Elvis. The raccoons remain but I'm gone. Peace out. BE SURE TO DRINK YOUR OVALTINE.






My name...Alena. To me...29 years. I very much I
like to enter into campaign.
I want to find my love in my life.
The main thing in my person...love, trust.
And mutual understanding.
I see your structure, and you are interesting to me, and I
want to study more about you.
If I too interesting to you write me.
I agree to answer all questions it interest  you.
I shall wait your letter.