Monday, August 22, 2016



Suckee. Suckee.
Fuckee. Fuckee.
Wheeee me into the middle of next week.
Yeah. Like that.
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.
(we're all dying slow in Kubrick snow.)


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.

Saturday, August 20, 2016


Pluto is my well-worn bondage collar.
Mars is my butterfly cowboy boots.
Venus is my blue lipstick.
Saturn is me in first grade missing recess
because I had to write the words
over and over
and over again.
I was stupid and sloppy.
My letters were too big.
I'm still stuck in that classroom.
I look out the window at all the lucky assholes
on swings and slides.
Fuck you, fuckers.
Uranus is the alligator I keep in my tub.
Neptune is me the mermaid somewhere
north of Los Angeles.
Mercury is this mix tape.
Jupiter is today.
Taking my son to Whole Foods and Trader Joe's.
Pickle chips. Various cheeses. Hippie soap.
The sun is tomorrow.
Lonely but bacon.
Lonely but coffee.
Not lonely at all.
The rain is falling tonight
and I can hear voices in another room.
I'm here.
I'm alive.
I'm loved.
I'm wearing donut pajamas and dangerous hair.
I must be here on purpose.
I'm a real live doll.
Pure melancholy but you should hear my laugh.
The moon is this song on repeat.
Please. Daddy. Make it stop.
The casual observer doesn't believe I'm forty-three.
Thanks, Virgo vampire ascendant.
The south node is Dairy Queen.
The north node is Africa.
The vertex is me passing out in Jack Daniels vomit.
The Holly Inn.
Eagle Pass, Texas.
Yeehaw, y'all.
Somehow I've survived to issue this transmission.
Things are shining in the progressed.
Aries sun and Venus and soon...Aries moon.
I couldn't hope
much harder.

Thursday, August 18, 2016


The poem I just posted isn't art. It's a cereal prize. So I can explain it. I was watching "90210" on a big ass television. Don't ask why. I was amused to see Brandon and Dylan hanging out in a sweat lodge. They thanked Grandfather for anything and everything. The next morning they discussed their deep revelations while eating cereal out of little boxes. That's a Chupacabra Disco poem right there.


You won't find Family Dollar in the 90210.
You won't find Instant Pussy at The Peach Pit.
You won't find meatloaf in a Cracker Jack box.
You will find me sweating it out with Dylan
and Brandon in one of those quaint lodges
somewhere east of Malibu.
What are we hoping to find?
Some kind of damn epiphany.
Couldn't we have found it
in the comfort of Kelly's condo?
Billy Joel is an accessible motherfucker.
No one is going anywhere.
You can sweat on a Texas highway.
You can sweat on an Acuna disco floor.
You can find God in your Froot Loops
and most of his kin in mud puddles
from Seymour to Tahlequah.
"Nobody's perfect," Dylan says.
"I could have told you that several miles back," I mumble.
It's all such a miracle.
You bet your sweet ass
we're grateful
to be here.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

I can't stop hearing this song.

My fucking Venus makes one aspect too many.


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.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

a horse with greenblue eyes

what you see is what you see:
madhouses are rarely
on display.

that we still walk about and
scratch ourselves and light

is more the miracle

than bathing beauties
than roses and the moth.

to sit in a small room
and drink a can of beer
and roll a cigarette
while listening to Brahms
on a small red radio

is to have come back
from a dozen wars

listening to the sound
of the refrigerator

as bathing beauties rot

and the oranges and apples
roll away.



Fuckers say,"Happy birthday, Bukowski."
They toast him with Coors or Johnnie Walker Red.
It's the thing to do because Buk will never be dead, babies.
He lives on in racing horses, Beethoven blaring radios,
wallet stealing whores and the hungover postal workers
who abide them.
He lives on in me
sitting here in my dirty blue jeans and Jimi Hendrix t-shirt
at my ex-husband's computer
with Love is a Dog From Hell in my lap.
I could tell you some things
but all you need to know is
in a few hours I'll drive too many miles past
Family Dollar
Taco Bell
Speedy Cash
Babies R Us
to sit in some stale hell for nine hours
learning how to sell the American customer
more shit they think they need.
An overweight chick in pigtails is celebrating her birthday today.
She's bringing cupcakes.
"Does anyone have any food allergies?" she asked.
No one said anything
so no one will die.
I don't think Bukowski ate much birthday cake.
I think Bukowski would agree with me
that you don't blow out candles
and make wishes beyond the grave.
But it's good people are toasting him instead of Madonna,
a lesser Leo born on the same day.
It's a material world.
We're all material girls.
Until we die.
Then we're something much less Black Sparrow Press
and MTV.
Or is it much more?
None of us know shit about shit.
It's kind of cute
how we pretend otherwise.
This Shiner Bock
ain't gonna drink

Saturday, August 13, 2016


I did not attend art school.

There's a full moon over Tulsa.

My Great Value toilet paper is stronger than any problem. Any conceivable problem can be solved with Great Value Ultra Strong toilet paper, Dr. Pepper and this playlist. America. Fuck yeah.


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.


I love my art enough for all of us.


Wednesday, August 10, 2016


It's this Mercury in Virgo business.

Busy busy busy.
Busy as a bee.
I'm scrubbing baseboards.
I'm washing drying putting away clothes.
I'm ignoring the dishwasher.
I'm washing dishes by hand.
I'm hula hooping.
Green tea. Yes. I'm drinking it.
Greek yogurt. Yes. I'm eating it.
My supervisor texts me, begs me to work
an extra shift.
I refuse but I'm polite about it.
I tell him I have plans.
I don't tell him my plans include
watching the meteor shower
and painting my toenails.
The usual ideas swirl
but they're swirling faster.
I don't notice clocks but clocks notice me.
I think of cutting up all the books into confetti.
I think of tearing down this blog, selling my car,
flying away, changing my name, sending postcards
to four or five different people.
I'm staying.
I'm building.
I'm planting.
I'm affirming.
I'm not a robot but I can't prove it.
But at the end of the dog day
I'd rather be Mercury's bitch
than Neptune's wife.
Ever woke up in a travel trailer
soaked in your own vomit?
Then you know exactly
what the hell
I'm talking about.


General Antonio Lopez Santa Ana brought
chewing gum to the United States for all to enjoy.
History doesn't teach you that.
Let me recite what history teaches.
History teaches.
(stolen from Gertrude Stein, lo siento)
Red fish blue fish bed fish glue fish.
Wrigley money.
Swedish Fish.
"You see it, you buy it."
Variegated zigzags intermingling with flatter textures, etcetera.
The flutter of a postcard.
Nu chto ya mogu!
In three days the hermit will send forth his urine.
In six days he'll go on walking his fences.
Bread Loaf isn't the largest but it is big enough.
John Ciardi left these crusts:

Art is a window, not a door.
Show it, don't tell it.

Want a trigger warning, ninos?
Read Mayakovsky by the light of lone Virgin Mary candle.
Read Lorca by Braille with fingers blistered from
picking coffee beans.

In Greek the word is ikon,
implying holy image.

It could have been Tulsa or Dallas or San Diego.
The kids were stoned and ready to love Jethro Tull on cue.
And they did.
Oh they did.
Ticket stubs prove it.
Go to any Hard Rock.
Sit near any frame.
(Things are framed.)
(Things are preserved.)

The planet bulges
with proof.

another excerpt from Fuckerbutt Happy Time

No clue who or what or when or why or how he is. He's Alex Jimenez. He has a Gemini sun. Twenty-six degrees. His moon is at nine degrees Taurus. His Mercury is at seven degrees Gemini. His Mars is at seven degrees Libra. His Jupiter is at zero Scorpio. His Venus is at twenty-one degrees Taurus. degree Sagittarius. Neptune? Twenty-five degrees Sagittarius. Pluto? Twenty-four degrees Libra. Vertex? Twenty-seven degrees Leo. Ascendant? Twenty-three degrees Capricorn. He hates social media. He has strong hands. He fixes things. He fishes. He plays the guitar. He can dance. He can fuck. He can kiss. He brushes and flosses his teeth. He doesn't collect anything. He reads. He can bake a cake if he feels like it. He has no love for silly vapid self-absorbed bitches. He smells really fucking good.


My pubic hairs ain't trending.
Tender Buttons ain't trending.
The bitchy phone call I just made to Slate (that's a credit card)?
Not trending.
People who buy their groceries at Family Dollar?
Not trending.
People who have never eaten Greek yogurt?
Not trending.
The plastic cowboys & Indians (Native Americans)
I drown on canvas with swirls of acrylic paint?
Not trending.
The thirty pounds I gained from stress eating at UTSA?
Not trending.
The Nutella and green tea diet?
Not trending.
The guy who sent me a Facebook message years ago
asking me to please delete the books we had collaborated on
because he was embarrassed by them?
Not trending.
The psycho bitch who has been stalking me for years
while playing Candy Crush and pretending to be
a shut in genius?
Not trending.
The animals my dad has killed in Africa
and used for interior decor in his McMansion?
Not trending.
Family members who spy on me online
and pretend to like me once or twice a year?
Not trending.
Captain Kangaroo ain't trending.
Buzz Crenshaw ain't trending.
Randy Trahan ain't trending.
Seymour, Texas ain't trending.
Bullshit Rodeo ain't trending.
Fuckerbutt Happy Time ain't trending.
Trailer trash in prison ain't trending.
Raped but dropped the charges
Not trending.
Capricorn Man Aquarius Woman.
Not trending.
Karaoke bar on South Padre Island.
Not trending.
San Antonio vice cop with a love for Oscar Wilde.
Not trending.
Allen Ginsberg's asshole.
Not trending.
Award winning potato salad recipe.
Probably trending but who has time
for mustard?


I just read Split by Jennifer Haigh. I don't read much online. I prefer books and magazines. But Rusty Barnes recommended the story at Twitter and I trust his judgment so I followed the link and read the story. It resonated with me so I'm providing the link here. Enjoy.


bleeding rainbows across amerikka

a kind of anthem

one day so usual

We were eating Fruity Pebbles with regular cow milk because the corner store was only a block away and Whole Foods was in another less convenient zip code. POW. POW. POW. There was gunfire outside but not close enough to cause panic. There was no television so we were listening to "Story Lollipop" on Hansel's radio. Get it? Stories are for suckers! We were all suckers so we listened. Incense was burning. I forget what it was called. Fairy Fuck Forest. Yes. Fuck Forest incense was burning, tickling our nostrils as we slurped our Fruity Pebbles soggy from regular cow milk. The spoons were plastic. Fuck forest, indeed. Fuck forest. Fuck fruited plains. Fuck tundra. Fuck veldt. Fuck every subdivision from Daly City to Muskogee. So the first story was about three brothers. Tiger, Cheetah and Taco. Taco, the youngest brother, didn't know what the hell he wanted to be when he finally grew up. Tiger knew straight and for a motherfucking fact he wanted to be a tax attorney. "Tax attorney? Is that even a thing?" Taco asked Tiger. Tiger replied,"Yes, Taco. A tax attorney is indeed a real thing. I'll be making a fuckton of money while you're still scratching your ass questioning the relevance of the cosmos." Taco laughed, said,"Fair enough." He wasn't troubled. Oh and Cheetah? Yeah. Cheetah was certain he wanted to be a paramedic when he grew up. "Could be dangerous," Taco told Cheetah more than a few times. "Fuck off. It's honorable, at least," Cheetah said each time.

Finally when Taco was forty-seven years old he decided he wanted to be a cartoonist even though he was terrified of paper and pencils. It was 2019 so Taco could make the cartoons on a computer. He did. He made a cartoon called JISM. It was a sex cartoon. Colorful. Pop culture savvy. Sexy without being too sleazy. Funny without being too smarmy. Similar to anything ever done by R. Crumb but with much less detail. R. Crumb is a Virgo. Taco is and was a Pisces. So he was kind of sloppy yet fascinating. Good thing Taco wasn't an addict of any kind. He enjoyed the occasional burrito but that's about it. He would throw back the occasional case of Coors but he didn't drive or have a girlfriend or wife or kids so no harm no foul. Someday Taco would die like anyone else but what a cool ass tombstone he would have: TACO. That's it. TACO.

What happened to Cheetah and Tiger? Oh. They made money. Cheetah married a former cheerleader named Velveeta. They had three children: Braxton, Bunni and Bryce. Tiger married a Mary Kay consultant named Natasha. They had twins: Starla and Karla. Cheetah's house was worth $250K at one point. Tiger's house was worth $450K at one point. Tra la fucking la.

The second story was about a welder named Liz who awoke one morning covered in alien cum. Liz realized she had been visited by an alien while dreaming of Bobby Ewing. In the dream Liz was Pam but she looked like Lucy so Bobby wouldn't kiss her. Liz took a shower and drove to Walgreen's. She spent a few bucks on a home pregnancy test and a bag of Cheetos because anxiety made her crave orange junk food.

"Are y'all still listenin' to that stupid show? Come on. Superb Owl is playin' at Tomorrow's Circus," Roxi said. We all had a crush on Roxi so we turned off the radio and followed Roxi down the street to the venue. The bar was packed and smelled like Greyhound Bus ass but we got our buzz on and lifted our Solo cups high when Superb Owl sang "Fuck Y'all, I'm From Texas."


I'm twelve.


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.
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.


Tuesday, August 9, 2016

This painting is noisier than most.

(eBuLLieNT Scorpio Moon)


I get on the wrong bus. I don't know what I'm thinking. I'm seven years old and eating a Heath ice cream bar in my grandmother's den. Reagan was shot. It's on the news. The television tells the story. I'm sixteen years old. I'm reading Linda Goodman's Love Signs. Leo man. Aries man. Libra man. Great ideas for an Aquarius girl interested in becoming a woman. I'm twenty-three years old. I'm reading Dr. Seuss books to my daughter as she sucks her thumb in my uterus. I'm forty years old. I'm lighting Easter candles in my room at The Holly Inn. The plumber doesn't comprehend my tears. I get on the wrong bus and end up downtown with the drug addicts and whores and tourists. A smelly white man in a Bob Marley t-shirt says, "Hey, mama. God loves you. Got some change?" I hand him a five dollar bill and tell him,"I know he does but I wish he'd be more covert about that shit."

The Story of Me (ABRIDGED)

When I was born I was ugly and red and screaming. I looked like some kind of demon toy recalled by Mattel because it gave too many children too many nightmares. I know because I've seen the pictures.

When I was four I was in love with a Pisces named Shane, my first cousin my favorite cousin and my best friend. I know because I was there.

When I was five I carried around a portable tape recorder. I made up skits and songs. "I'm just a raindrop falling from the honey tree." That was a song. In my favorite skit I pretended to be a man interviewing a bumblebee.

"Hello, Mr. Bumblebee. How do you do today?"
"Bzzzzz. I do just fine. I'm just flying around stinging people and I'm about to sting YOU!"
"Aaaaaaah! Help me! I'm being attacked by a bumblebee!"

When I started kindergarten in Munday, Texas I asked my mom to pack mustard sandwiches in my lunch. Just mustard on white bread. That was my favorite sandwich. My mom refused. "People will think we're poor," she said.

In first grade in Jacksboro, Texas I tried to ask my teacher if I could go to the bathroom. She told me to go away, she was busy. I was much too terrified of authority to leave the classroom and walk down the long hallway to the bathroom on my own so I wet my pants and rode the bus home that day soggy.

In second grade at Kidwell Elementary in Iowa Park, Texas the class clown (Jeremy) fell in love with me. He gave me a picture of himself riding the mechanical bull at Gilley's with a bubble coming out of his mouth. "Will you mary (sic) me? Yes. No. Maybe." (I circled YES.)

In fourth grade at Jefferson Elementary in Wichita Falls, Texas my best friend was a Sagittarius named Jennifer. One night Jennifer and Emily (a girl in our class with pretty long black hair and brown eyes...I don't know her sign) spent the night with me in the government subsidized apartment I shared with my single mother and my two younger siblings. We were all three on the fold-out sofa in the den. Jennifer and Emily thought I was sleeping so they talked trash about my apartment. They wanted to go home to their nice houses. I sat up with tears streaming from my eyes and screamed at them. Jennifer lived in a brick house on a cul-de-sac with her parents and little brother. She had her own room. There was carpet on the floor. She had a canopy bed. Trampoline in the backyard. I was envious. One night I ate dinner at Jennifer's house and I'm sure to her it was just an ordinary meal but I was blown away...there was meat and vegetables and cornbread and dessert. But some of my most eBuLLieNT memories are from the time I spent with my family in our shitty little apartment with no carpet on the floors and nothing on the table but fish sticks and Malt-O-Meal. I would ride my bike to the arcade and play Donkey Kong, Q-Bert, Ms. Pac-Man, Skee-Ball. I would shoot hoops until ten o'clock at night on a school night. I would hear songs like this on the radio and get giddy. I wanted to grow up to be a Solid Gold dancer. I sent John Travolta a fan letter and his people sent me an autographed 8X10 glossy. Wheeee. (Love.) And I rode my bike to the Hallmark store across town and spent my pocket change allowance on a Snoopy diary. That was the beginning of my writing career.

When I was twelve I lived in a brand-new brick house in Monahans, Texas with my mud engineer Virgo stepdad, my gorgeous Gemini mom, my little bratty Libra sister and my adorable and hilarious baby brother, a fellow Aquarian. I had a black Labrador Retriever named Pickles. I named her that because her dad's name was Pepper. One night at a barbecue the older Capricorn boy across the street pissed me off because he told me he didn't believe in Jesus. I screamed at him until I cried, told him he was going to go to hell when he died. He laughed at me. Later we were a couple but only for a few days. I wasn't feeling the chemistry. I would hide in my walk-in closet and read books after my stepdad turned the lights off. My friends Amy and Anna thought I was immature. They had tits and periods. I was a late bloomer.

My only friend at Goddard Junior High in Midland, Texas was a Cancer named Tiffiny. I was only friends with Tana, also a Cancer, because she and Tiffiny were tight. Tana got on my last motherfucking nerve. She was so self-righteous and prissy and unimaginative. Tiffiny cracked me up. We had the same warped sense of humor.

I almost died when I was fifteen. I lost more than half the blood in my body. Menorrhagia. They gave me blood transfusions in the hospital, the same hospital I would visit in 1996 when I gave birth to my daughter then handed her to the adoptive father I chose for her in my fifth month of pregnancy.

I never went to prom or homecoming. I was a wallflower. I attended my first dance when I was thirteen. Goddard Junior High. I stood against the wall in the gym watching couples dance to Bon Jovi songs. Then I sat alone on a bench in the courtyard, looking up at the moon. I cried that night in my bed. A Rhett and Scarlett poster hung on my wall and my bookcase was filled with stuffed animals and fairy tales and Sweet Valley High books.

My parents were snooping around in that same room when I was seventeen. They were worried about me because I didn't have any friends. I was obsessed with The Beatles. I had a crush on Ringo Starr. My stepdad found a notebook filled with poems. In one of the poems I wrote about checking into a seaside motel and killing myself. That poem was influenced by this movie.

So they sent me to a psychiatric hospital in San Antonio. The doctor put me on Prozac. I got turned onto Pink Floyd because they made us watch "The Wall" and then listen to the soundtrack. I wrote more poems. And I cut my hair myself. I gave myself a choppy uneven bob. My mom was horrified when she dropped by for a visit. She has always taken my hair pretty damn seriously. She has Venus in Leo opposite my Venus in Aquarius.

My mom had a fur coat once and she's owned diamond rings. Her favorite perfume is Knowing. I've never had a fur coat. I've never owned a diamond ring. My favorite perfume is Guilty. I've been told that I'm beautiful since I was a child. I've always felt pale and insignificant in my mom's formidable shadow. When she was younger she was femme fatale Marilyn Monroe Ava Gardner Elizabeth Taylor beautiful. She had power. An ex-boyfriend, a Capricorn, told me in 2014 that I was a bruja at the peak of my power. I didn't believe him.

When I was eight years old I stood on the stoop outside the trailer house on Cuba Road that I shared with my mom and siblings. I wished for true love. I'm still making that same wish at forty-three.

(first saw it at the drive-in, Seymour, Texas)


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
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

Saturday, August 6, 2016


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?
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

((( swooncaKe )))

submit your swooncaKe
to the moon
Mars is in Sagittarius
and we're all high
on Neptune in Pisces noise
and this is the only summer
and last summer has melted
and we're feeling roller coaster
Jupiter roller coaster
Saturn carousel
Venus laser show
glow harder
only slow down
to smell the pancakes in Libra
and that intoxicating
black Scorpio coffee
sugar will end us all
so swooncake swooncake
to the Aries moon
sooner than the spoon
that digs every piece of gold
from the Capricorn mountain
you're too drunk
to climb

Thursday, August 4, 2016




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
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?

Russians dig me.


I've been thinking about Conway Twitty lately. Not the man. I never knew him. When I say I've been thinking of Conway Twitty lately what I really mean is that his songs keep popping into my brain. Why? What the hell? What the fuck? Your guess is as good as mine. I thought he might be a Gemini. Nope. Conway Twitty was a Virgo. Gemini and Virgo are both ruled by Mercury. I have a Gemini mom. My Saturn is in Gemini. My mom's second husband, the man she married when I was ten years old, was/is a Virgo. I'm sure he's still alive. I have Virgo rising and a Virgo moon. I was upset when I was a teenager and discovered that I had a Virgo moon because I so wanted a Leo moon. I wanted to be Scarlett O'Hara. Jessica Wakefield. Anyone fictional and fabulous and femme fatale. Anyone other than who I was, a socially retarded bookworm who played with Barbies well beyond puberty. I lived vicariously through my Barbies. I majored in theater arts for a couple of semesters when I was at Texas State in San Marcos. Improvising terrified me so I switched my major to English. This is my favorite Conway Twitty song. The truth packs a punch.

I eat books in my sleep.