FEEL GOOD FAST

Suckee. Suckee.
Fuckee. Fuckee.
Wheeee me into the middle of next week.
Yeah. Like that.
Harder.
Faster.
Deeper.
You gotta FEEL that shit.
I'm reading Joseph Campbell, eating Snickers
and watching Evan Stone at YouTube to stay alive.
Still raining in San Antonio.
I am not Bukowski.
I am not John Wayne.
I am not Laura Ingalls Wilder.
I am not John Boy Walton.
I thought you knew.
If you don't know you better AX somebody.
That's who you are.
Jack Nicholson in "The Shining."
All work.
No play.
All work.
No play.
All work.
No play.
Dull.
Dull.
Dull.
(we're all dying slow in Kubrick snow.)

MEMORIZE EL ALAMO

One morning John Wayne woke up with a hard dick so he decided to defend the Alamo. But first breakfast taco with a fuckton of Tabasco. Washed down with cerveza? You know it, motherfucker. Freedom ain't free and neither are your sins, ninos. Some motherfucker has to die in a big ass way. Might as well be John Wayne.

"How many pesos for a blow job?" John Wayne asked Natalie Portman. Natalie Portman is not a Mexican but if you squint really hard she could play the part. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Kind of sexy in a skinny farfetched way. Salma Hayek is sexier but she won't kiss John Wayne for any amount of money. Also. She has tits. Tits cause confusion within the context of historical romance. Tits are not allowed to outshine El Alamo.

John Wayne got his blow job but his dick was still hard (gracias, Viagra) so he got on top of the Alamo with a gun of some kind (it was really fucking big and really fucking LOUD) and started killing motherfuckers like some kind of Monster Energy Drink fueled video game warrior. Soundtrack by Judas Priest or Iron Maiden or maybe Metallica circa "Master of Puppets." There's a novel called Nova's Gone Potty written by a native Texan. The toilet talks in Ozzy Osbourne's voice for obvious reasons. No one dies but almost.

"I can't drive fifty-five," Sammy Hagar said.
"Bitch, please," Eminem said.

John Wayne didn't say anything because he died for your sins. A Zeta gunned his ass down in front of the sno cone stand in front of Ripley's Believe it or Not Wax Museum. You're welcome, babies.

CRACKER BOX

Anything essential can be packed into
a Nabisco Original Premium Saltine Crackers box.
Cracker bitch from the North Texas sticks
is on the road again.
Merle Haggard then Johnny Cash then
George Michael on the radio.
"Teacher! There are things that
I don't want to learn!"
Kills me every fucking time.

FAMILY FRIENDLY

I'm sure it's been said before. It's not an earth shattering revelation. But. You can buy guns at Wal-Mart but not vibrators. Because Wal-Mart is family friendly. It's friendly to kill animals and people (or just scare em a little bit, scare em enough to keep em off your plastic flamingo fabulous lawn) but vibrators are a dangerous perversion. Vibrators, butt plugs, watermelon lube, fuzzy handcuffs, bondage collars, rainbow unicorn dildos...keep that shit in Satan's basement where it belongs! If I were more ambitious perhaps I'd be a stand-up comic or a crusader of some kind. But I'm lazy so I blog and play with paint and publish my little books. It's all good in the clitoral hood. Keep America safe. Stock up on Great Value toilet tissue and guns.

GIVE ME A HOME

PRESCRIPTION

Excuse me. I have Saturn in the tenth squaring Mercury tight but you don't have to know astrology to know I mean serious business. See my rainbow wig and sloppy black eyeliner star? Yes. Precisely. I'm the new dope ass sheriff in Trouble Town. In a creative writing workshop the professor (she's a doctor she has a doctorate she knows shit she has a lot of books and a house and she's probably been to Europe at least once) suggested that perhaps I am not a good fit for a creative writing workshop because I get too emotional (damn you progressed Pisces moon! damn you tight Neptune in the fourth moon in the first square!). I was passionate about my stance on trigger warnings. No day I've ever known has come equipped with a trigger warning. I fall in love because he looks the right way and says the right things and BOOM. POW. He forgot to tell me about the bitch in New Hampshire who has never looked the wrong way or said wrong things in her right ass sweet ass hot ass life. So suddenly I'm dead, eating Ben & Jerry's out of the carton and walking around the vomitscape in my Wal-Mart donut pajama pants. I'm crying over Air Supply and Chicago songs and posting endless ambitious selfies to Twitter to prove that I exist. Or. You know how it goes in America and a few other places. You walk out the door. The sky is blue. You have twenty bucks in your pocket and the world is your ice cream cone. You're minding your own business doing the right thing looking both ways before crossing the street then SPLATTER. Your ass is mowed down by some drunk ass ice cream truck driver blasting The Greatest Hits of Sammy Hagar Suck Ass Version of Van Halen. "I Can't Drive 55" is the last thing you hear as you lay there dying in the wrong underwear. You should have worn your purple Fruit of the Looms, then maybe you'd still be alive, rocking out with your cock out to superior Van Halen. "Panama," baby.

So in all my Saturn in the tenth house squaring Mercury tight wisdom I shall issue this prescription. There are no trigger warnings. Most of us are Laura Dern in "Wild at Heart" screaming at Sailor to find something life affirming on the fucking radio. If it's all death and horror all the time it's up to you it's up to me it's up to all of us to find our own piece of inviolable blue sky. I don't follow any particular blueprint. I take the tacos where I can find em. I have Beethoven. I have Matisse. I have Frida Kahlo. I have Billie Holiday. I have my Snoopy diary. I have the ten of cups. I have a rainbow wig and lipstick every color of the rainbow. I have love that lisps sweeter than Cindy Brady.

What's in your wallet?

How Much Mas?

A bucket of blood.
A pint of plasma.
It's hard to fathom
the vomit and tears.
Bleed.
Breathe.
One day in the barrio.
Una noche in the ghetto.
Another afternoon in the trailer park.
Televisions toxic sex stoic art is
Playboy calendar on the wall
ex-wife's birthday written
in red ink
sink busy with Busch cans
and plates pretty
with bacon grease.
The soggy Pisces moon
is inches from Aries
and we wake up
to dead babies
dead celebrities
dead slide riders
dead popcorn munchers
dead animals on Kardashian dolls.
No motherfucker on this planet
is more dead
more doll
than me
crawling across another prison playroom
licking flowers from
stale yellow paper.

FOR JANE

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

Charles Bukowski

MEMORY LESSON

Once upon a blue coconut sno cone I was a Snoopy diary.
There were exclamation marks and scratch-n-sniff stickers.
These days are tiger's blood in flavor roller rink in tone
and I am compromised rainbow unicorn diary
with busted lock.
You're welcome.
De nada.
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I'm gonna let it SHINE.
If Satan can't blow it out, baby,
you know your ass
is outta luck.
May the Billy Corgan ice cream truck save us all
from chainsaw wielding cannibals
and the brutal July baked highway
from Seymour to Goree.
I have stories to sell.
Here. You can have em.
Cautionary tales and magic spells recalled
when the progressed moon left Pisces for Aries.
The security guard uniform makes me itch
because I'm a witch most at home
in my own skin and M.A.C. war paint
loose and lucid somewhere south of Dixie.
There are plenty of tricks
and you can find them all in a Lucky Charms box
circa 1976 when I made my Donny doll
kiss my Marie doll's nipple free boobs.
Staying alive without John Travolta's approval
is the trickiest trick of all.
Where do you go when Gilley's burns down
and your only dream
was to ride the bull?
You hitch a ride to the diner
where strawberry milkshakes are free
and the jukebox vomits endless
doo wop disco.
The floor lights up.
Suddenly you're Stephanie.
You knew it all along.
You shake your ass as everyone around you dies.
You add another layer of gloss to your pout.
Last call are the ugliest words.
Good thing my daddy
has his own
bar.

EXPLOITATION

I can and will exploit the English language.
I can and will exploit the Texan American nightmare mythology.
I can and will exploit myself in the name of ART.
Rather than committing a literal suicide or literal homicide
I will kill myself and many others
again
again
again
in the inviolate confine
of endless pages
smeared with metaphorical viscera.
It's fiction.
It's process.
It's unholy creation.
It is not memoir.
It is not creative nonfiction.
I'm sick of explaining things.
I will keep explaining things.
I'm Clarice Lispector thrown into a Ninja
(that's a food processor)
with Kathy Acker and Gertrude Stein
and Larry McMurtry circa The Last Picture Show.
Comprende, friendo?