If Sylvia Plath didn't know I sure as shit don't know. Fresh from my salt bath I stare into the cracked mirror and see Laura Ingalls Wilder. I have my pa. I have my penny candy. I've banged dust from erasers and put the chickens to bed. Hot double date tonight. Me. Almanzo. John Boy Walton. Kimberly Drummond. Will I order lemonade? No. Vanilla milkshake? No. I'm feeling kind of frozen margarita.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
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.
Free books. Free besos. Free brownies. Free bibles. Free kittens. Free puppies. Free worms. Free branches. Free bruises. Free fire. Free salt. Free pain. Free nausea. Free stress. Free blanket. Free socks. Free coupons. Free barbecue. Free sex. Free circus. Free bondage. Free Barbie. Free lipstick. Free panties. Free Jaguar. Free slurp. Free nudge. Free fish. Free lecture. Free brick. Free pizza. Free hair. Free lion. Free song. Free grandfather. Free climb. Free glue. Free huh. Free oh. Free sugar. Free never. Free muerte. Free righteous. Free shudder. Free diet. Free Mercury.
Any breathing cognizant being can proclaim undying love for Yoko Ono. I LOVE YOKO ONO. Motherfucker did you HEAR me?! I said I wrote I asserted that I LOVE YOKO ONO!!! Yes. No doubt. You've purchased all her albums and books. If Yoko Ono has some big deal thing going on your ass is there planted in the front row. But were you there hugging Yoko Ono when she was covered in John's blood? Did you bake her a chocolate cake and make her a pot of tea? Did you babysit Sean for free? When your husband/wife said,"That Yoko Ono is one nutty witch." did you divorce his/her hateful smug Aquarius bashing ass? No worries, as they say. We are you are I am free to love Yoko Ono and anybody else I deem worthy from a comfortable distance.
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.
Monday, September 26, 2016
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
Saturday, September 24, 2016
"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.
She doesn't have any tattoos, though.
No interruptions to her pasty skin.
Her boyfriend is Mr. Swig.
Scotch is his thing but he makes a fuckton of money
so such pleasure is tolerated and encouraged.
He has a driver and his dick works so no worries.
Being the cool one the quirky one the writer one
of course Chlamydia keeps shit real
in her big deal designer dresses and high heels.
A handbag to match each gown, like Barbie.
Everyone loves Chlamydia at Facebook
and a few other places.
She's generous on her friends' birthdays.
Posts hilarious YouTubes to their walls.
Magick is the sultry one, the voodoo mama.
She scares hair from cunts and dicks alike.
No one fucks with Magick unless they're idiotic.
With each new moon cums a new boyfriend.
Magick prefers men with moon in Pisces,
Mars in Aquarius...maybe because her favorite
fairy tale is The Little Mermaid
and her favorite band is Wilco.
Shit. I don't know. Magick knows.
That's all that matters.
Kandee is the silly one.
No one takes that bitch seriously.
Tra la la la wheee.
Is the carnival in town?
If it is you know straight and for a motherfucking fact
that Kandee's silly ass is there
high on the Ferris wheel
her hot pink lipgloss all over
that candy apple.
Give her props.
She'll always be twelve.
It's challenging to remain prepubescent
in such tribulating (new word!) times.
There's a fourth one but I forget her name.
You know that L7 song?
Yeah. She bleeds like invisible ink
into crumbling Haight Street walls.
De nada, ninos.
My Aquarius Mars sextiling my Aries Venus
Drink lemon water.
Drink green tea.
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.
Because Lou Reed's "Transformer."
Because David Bowie, I guess.
Duran Duran? Yeah. Sure.
New York Dolls.
You can follow Jennifer Nicole Lee at Instagram.
Brothel courtesans dig her killer body.
We should all be so lucky.
You gotta work, girl.
The mirror ain't magic and it owes you
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.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
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.