BACON

Bacon is for breakfast. Bacon is for now. Bacon is bikini. Bacon is sex. Bacon is Kevin. Bacon is serious. Bacon is bueno. Bacon is flavor. Bacon is mine. Bacon with scrambled cage free eggs no cheese but onions and Tabasco. Bacon beach. Bacon casa. Bacon oh god yes and masmasmas. Bacon urge. Bacon splurge. Bacon baby. Bacon yes not bacon maybe. Bacon from pig not from turkey. Bacon on china. Bacon on tongue. Bacon in mouth. Bacon in belly. Bacon without jelly. Bacon without telly. Bacon washed down with cold lime infused cerveza. Bacon is art which outlasts la vida loca. Bacon bacon baaacon. Bacon beyond all borders.

Purple Jelly Beans

There is no reason on this planet for purple jelly beans to exist yet they do. With tongue waggling defiance purple jelly beans continue to be manufactured, purchased and consumed. Why am I zeroing in on PURPLE jelly beans? Why not white jelly beans or black jelly beans or green jelly beans. Or. Or. Am I a colorist? No. The only hair I dye is my own and I'm not especially good at it although I have thirty-nine years of experience. The idea popped into my head and I dug it so much I tweeted it. And now I'm Chupacabra Discoing it. Superfluity abounds on this pretty yet seriously distressed celestial body. Purple jelly beans. Red jelly beans. Crystal meth. Green Day songs. Green Day t-shirts. Beyonce songs. Tweets and essays defending Beyonce songs and videos. Creative writing workshops. Creative nonfiction. Memoirs. Paintings of cattle. Paintings of mountains. Facebook rants and raves and rambles. Poems about sitting in a bar. Poems about awkward encounters with the homeless. Sitcoms. Tom Hanks movies. Julia Roberts movies. Guns. Plastic spoons. Windex. Flavored condoms.

Business Cards. Books. Beauty Products.

The world is saturated with business cards and books and beauty products. This person has this business card. What does this person have to offer? Hot dogs. Mustard is extra. This person has this book. What is this book about? Baseball. Sex. Jumbo pretzels. Melting ice cubes. Pepsi spiked with Jim Beam. This book is about your mother's colorful uncle. He was famous for his freak show act. What did he swallow? Swords, I guess. Don't yawn yet. This person has this beauty product. You've never in your life seen lipstick this vivid. It stays on until you die so your mouth better not be fickle! You love that Stripper High Heels Red lipstick so much? You better marry it. There will be no divorce. 

GERTRUDE STEIN IS ROLLING

once lavender but pickle and urgency and less cordial
did flourish did amble did glisten did bible did suicide
oh gentle oh thimble and yet but oh and then and then
squirt squeeze pornographic oops butter oops aspirin
there is bottom in the vacant there is top in the capacity
eventually travel where Peru there Peru star the chart
and row and row and row and row
and across the block the fudge the mess
the bunny man arsenal
the vomit happy
on wheels they go
they do they go they do
where and who and what
squeaking needing never having
call them to supper
bell will wheedle
needle will darn
they're paper
they're yarn
they're nada
cake crumbs
dumb dolls
dregs
quite dead
expired nickel
valentines

PLUTO AIN'T NO COOKIE MONSTER

It should mean something fantastic, transiting Jupiter being all buddy buddy with my natal Pluto at three degrees Libra in the second house. There aren't any cookies in the oven. The carnival was chased out of town by the shadow people. And San Antonio has become the new Seattle. Fucking bullshit rain. I expect a heroin and suicide epidemic soon. Will the music and art improve? One can only hope. And in the fifth house, which in my case is Capricorn, transiting Pluto is ass fucking my north node and vertex at sixteen degrees. Que paso? Oh the usual. Bullshit bills. Too many dirty clothes, not enough detergent. The wrong songs on the radio. Moths. Wolf spiders. Hobby Lobby is closed on Sunday. Buy your art supplies at Walmart, Dollar Tree, Valero. Go Dumpster diving. Make your own paint out of M.A.C. cosmetics and Vaseline. Unless your brain is queso you'll figure something out. But last night on the patio we smoked cigarettes and I smoked the last of the Cohiba and I drank the bottle of prosecco and a glass of grappa. And then in bed I said I wanted to puke and my man encouraged me to puke, told me to stick my finger down my throat like Amy Winehouse (Amy Winehouse is my reference my man has no idea who Amy Winehouse was) so I got down on my knees and stuck my finger down my throat and puked into the potty like Amy Winehouse. There goes the Campbell's Noodle O's! There goes the Ghirardelli bar! It was really cool and I felt better, got in bed and my man brought me a bowl of Smartfood white cheddar popcorn. The salt helps, he says. 

What do we talk about when we talk about love? I'm no better than the weather. I stole that from The Plimsouls. The rain will continue but someday a desert with only the occasional monsoon. Misti Velvet Rainwater. I live up to my name. "You're demanding," he said. I reminded myself of the "Jenny Says" song as I told him to turn out the lights and tickle my back. He tells me he loves me and I say NO COMPRENDE. We swap war stories only his are literal. He tells me things I don't recall from the King James bible. His voice. My God. I have to love a man's voice. I adore his. When he paints I don't blame him. When I try to draw Dana Plato as a teenager in a rollerskate t-shirt and it looks like shit I can only blame myself. 

You watch "November Rain" and "Don't Cry" and think,"Great fucking couple. Great fucking idea." Aquarius man. Leo woman. Something went wrong in between the songs and the pages of the 1994 Victoria's Secret catalog. I don't pretend to have that sort of thing figured out.

OUTSIDE CHINESE BUFFET

EL CORAZON

It's a toxic world it's a tedious world and I don't have any answers for my son. I can Google the easy answers. Yes. Wolf spiders are poisonous. Yes. Juno is the space probe NASA sent to Jupiter but Juno is also an asteroid and Juno was the wife of Jupiter and the mother of Mars. My life is ridiculous. When I'm dead my ashes will fill a plastic Wal-Mart bag. But I'm here now and it's Saturday, the one day a week I spend with my son. He's eight. His father picks him up from school and karate. When I was eight I walked home from Jefferson Elementary each day. I crossed a highway. I walked up ugly concrete stairs. I unlocked the door and I was home. There were three or four channels on the television. I don't remember what I watched. There was food in the kitchen. Fish sticks. Malt-O-Meal. Canned pears. There was no carpet on the floors. I was jealous of my best friend Jennifer because she lived in a brick house on a cul-de-sac and she had her own room and there was carpet on her floor and she slept in a canopy bed. She had a trampoline in her backyard. Her dad was an asshole but he was there and they ate real food. My son is eight but I ask him if I can mute Nickelodeon and read him a few sentences from a beautiful book. "I guess," he says. He makes bored noises. I read the first paragraph of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I want to cry I almost cry but I don't. I tell my son how the story ends. I no longer concern myself with blasphemy. My son is eight and he's like most people I know. He likes to choose his own noise. He abides my noise for a few moments then returns to his show. It's a tired world it's a tacky world and my son will find this out on his own but not for a while. God. Please. Not for a while. Let him remain distracted.

SPAM SANDWICH

Stormi decided she should change her name to something more respectable, something much less white trash. Lisa. Anne. Joyce. Beth. The third or fourth creative writing professor suggested in a carefully worded e-mail that perhaps the workshop experience was not a good fit for Stormi. Stormi didn't cry or get drunk on Jack Daniels. She didn't kill herself. She showed up to the Wednesday night workshop in a SPAM t-shirt and sat back with a smirk on her face as her peers tore her story a new asshole.

"Um...I don't mean to insult you? But, like, this reads like something I might have written in a unicorn diary when I was, like, twelve years old," Hillary said.
"I have to agree with Hillary. I'm sorry. But your story is, like, totally...what's the word I'm looking for...immature?" Donald said.
"Puerile," Josh said.
"Yes! Exactly. Puerile," Donald said.

Fucking Ploughshares. Fucking Glimmer Train. Fucking Smug Society of Dead Hot Shit Writers. Stormi thought of the story about the man who swam through a series of swimming pools on his way home. What in the actual fuck of all fuck? Oh the symbolism was rich and the metaphors were quite puissant indeed. Alcoholism. Class. Alienation. Despair. Futility. But how many motherfuckers could identify with that New England upper class bullshit? Then there was Raymond Carver. Oh that motherfucker knew what he was doing, no doubt. But again. Everything smacks of Daddy. Daddy will not be dethroned. Daddy daddy daddy...throw poor little cracker bitch from the North Texas sticks a bone.

So Stormi wrote about a sandwich she remembered from Seymour, Texas. Her paternal grandmother fried the SPAM in a skillet to make it classy. Put it on white bread with mustard. BAM. Add some tater chips and a Coca-Cola. You got yourself a lunch.

And Stormi wrote about the Mexican (Hispanic? Latina? Chicana? In Stormi's memory she was a Mexican) mother who chased her out of her yard in Jacksboro, Texas with a broom and yelled at her in Spanish. She didn't want a white kid playing with her brown children.

And Stormi wrote about watching her favorite cartoon on the little television in the little den with blue and green shag carpet in Goree, Texas on Saturday mornings and then being babysat by the junior high cheerleading squad when her parents went to Wichita Falls for a date that one night and one of the cheerleaders whispering in her ear,"When Anna comes back into the room say Hey Hey Hey! It's FAT Anna!"

But then Stormi decided it hurt too much to go back in the mud of her past and dig for worms she would rather forget so she wrote about werewolves and chupacabra and shadow people who hissed bad news. The monsters were real but the names she assigned, those were all fake.

SAN FRANCISCO GOODWILL DRESS

Progressed Beauty Tips

Transmission from my progressed chart.
De nada, ninos.
My Aquarius Mars sextiling my Aries Venus
says thus.
Drink lemon water.
Drink green tea.
Fuck sugar.
You don't need that shit.
Let your Coca-Cola be hijacked
by a bumbling media saturated teddy bear.
Leave the glitter and sixty dollar lipstick pouts
to Disney Princesses and their dopey ilk.
Scrawl terror across your tabula rasa.
Esta es para La Raza.
Por que?
Because Lou Reed's "Transformer."
Because David Bowie, I guess.
Duran Duran? Yeah. Sure.
New York Dolls.
Absolutely.
You can follow Jennifer Nicole Lee at Instagram.
Brothel courtesans dig her killer body.
We should all be so lucky.
Luck? Fuck.
You gotta work, girl.
The mirror ain't magic and it owes you
exactly nada.
Once upon a time a very little girl.
Once upon a time a skeleton.
Once upon a time a puddle of puke.
Once upon a time muerte.
Once upon a time the warrior queen
who ate the fucking world.
You can count the stripes of blood
if numbers are your thing.

URGENT FUCK INVITATION

Hey, my bed is cold without you!
Touch my tits, (cum in my mouth, do what you desire!)
Kiss me all over!!!
Look at your naked naighbor (sic)
Find me in my place!

~Sex Trafficked Lolita (via SPAM folder)

TEXAN AMERICAN AMBITION

I haven't had much ambition since 1999 when I lived in a crap ass apartment (the plumber finally fixed the toilet and the problem was a rubber duckie, I shit you not) in the boondocks of Wise County. I was a reporter, op ed columnist, proofreader, typesetter and photographer for The Bridgeport Index. There never was much news to cover, just the occasional spelling bee and heated city council meeting, so I would clock in each morning then go home, have sex with myself or my boyfriend from Lawton, Oklahoma whenever he deigned to visit. Ausgezeichnet. Wahnsinnig. Liebling. Sicher. Warum nicht? Lo siento. My Gemini sun Libra moon  Leo rising boyfriend is texting me while I type this story. There are secrets between us I'll never spill but we both love us some Nutella from the jar. Thus, we work as a romantic sexual intellectual erotic congenial couple.

In 1999 I pretty much lived on Tostitos and pickled jalapeno slices from the jar and Red Dog beer. Sometimes I snapped into a Slim Jim. Other things were going on, it wasn't all fun in the sun, but I'll save those stories for another day. The only point I wish to make is this: magic happens hard and fast and you don't have to be enfranchised with a silver spoon up your butt to realize that the carnival happens to us all. Well. No. It doesn't. Some motherfuckers fabricate the carnival. Their carnival is indeed synthetic rather than authentic. There are no lights no purple plush boa constrictors no candy apples no Tilt A Whirl star swirl disco for the terminally spiritually unkempt. What do I mean by that? I'll tell you in another life when we are both Ch-Ch-Chia Pets. I'm lacking Texan American ambition but my carnival is more real than your bleeding pinky finger (your great-grandmother warned you not to tease her malcontent poodle).

Einfach Geil!!! The Gemini is also a native Texan but he grew his balls in Iraq and Germany. His Mustang beats your BMW to a bloody pulp. Don't try. Who said that? Bukowski said that. Hypocrite. He tried his fucking ass off.

San Antonio Zapatos

No condom exists for the mindfuck.

WHAT'S IN YOUR WALLET?

POR QUE?

REVENGE

"The best revenge you can have is happiness." (Aquarius mommy)
"No. The best revenge you can have is to wring your enemy's neck until
it cracks." (Scorpio son, eight years old)

CLEAN

BUSH STREET FRUIT

VERDE

NOT A HAIKU

Hush, hell choir inside
my grassy skull.
I have paid
the troll.