Wednesday, November 30, 2016



Just awoke from a dream so vivid I'm writing it down. I was newly wed and listening to various Beatles songs with my new husband. "Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds" began to play and I started sobbing. The song had such a powerful effect on me it was as if I was hearing the song for the first time. I remember thinking in the dream,"Fuck. Who needs drugs? This song is a drug. And The Beatles are still alive and will always be alive inside this song."

A few months ago I bought Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band on vinyl. I made my son, who was eight at the time, listen to "A Day in The Life" and "Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds." I thought for sure his mind would be BLOWN. He sat there with a bored expression on his face and started making weird little distracted sounds. I said,"No. Show respect. This is one of the greatest albums ever recorded. You have to hear every note of this song. I'm just making you listen to this song and one other. When you get older you can listen to the entire album on your own." He was very relieved to return to his video games after listening to those two songs. Maybe he'll never be a Beatles fan. Maybe we have to find great music on our own. But I did turn him onto "Love Will Tear Us Apart" years ago. And at one time he loved "Spanish Bombs."

My son's middle name comes from my favorite uncle, whom I lost to lung cancer in 1999. My uncle gave me his Magical Mystery Tour album when I was in kindergarten. "I Am The Walrus" lit a bonfire inside my mind. It terrified, repulsed and fascinated me. That song planted a seed that grew me into the manic writer I am today. I share my dreams and fantasies and fears and compulsions and sad little love affairs with anyone who stumbles across this spastic space, this glittery unicorn diary with the busted lock. To be a writer you absolutely have to have a functioning ego and a touch of narcissism. You have to assume the world gives a damn about the stuff that floats through the hallucinatory rivers of your hopeless romantic mind.

You have to have energy to write. You have to have energy to fuck. You have to have energy to love, really deeply truly madly love, a motherfucker who may or may not deserve it. It never is about deserving. It's about taking, giving, allowing. Needing. Wanting. I'll never be a Buddhist. I'll always grapple with desire. It takes energy, massive energy, to record an album like Sgt. Pepper's. So thank you, George Martin and John Lennon and George Harrison and Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney and everyone else involved in the endeavor.

Monday, November 28, 2016

The day the fish died.

Men won't let me write. Men muzzle me. Men talk at me from the kitchen about shark steaks and mushroom rice. I'm wearing donut pajamas in the afternoon. My face is wrecked from stress and bad food and toothpaste. White toothpaste zaps zits. Men murder me in my sleep. I'm dead. I'm dreaming of a writer's retreat in New Mexico. I didn't sign up for this. No one will sympathize. We get the hell we pray for.

Last night I swallowed two blue pills and read about Jessica Wakefield's wedding and sobbed because I am still twelve and in love with Bruce Patman and I am still five with a broken heart and a sore ass because Daddy has a leather belt and he ain't afraid to use it. No one can find Goree, Texas without a map. You love a man. You lose a man. You write it all down and that is betrayal and that is suicide. I know what it feels like to burn at the stake. That is hyperbole. That is projection. That is metaphor. That is Mercury in Pisces squaring Saturn in Gemini tight. I've been burned to ash six or seven times. That is understatement. I've ascended but not terribly high. That's Truman Capote with a dry martini in one hand and a pen in the other. He's still signing autographs and two nooses still swing in Kansas.

Do I love a motherfucker deep enough and hard enough and true enough to gouge out my own eyeballs and cut off my own arms and eat my own fingers? I pretend to be a mermaid but I don't dwell in a deep cold magical realm where sailors are the only lure. I live in the desert. Everything is spacious and dry. I might be a lizard of some kind. I know I'm not clever enough to be a spider. I'm not always one web ahead of tonight's juicy fly.

Once there was a workshop and my story was about a fish. The story was really about me. The fish didn't ask to be put in my story but there he was, splashing his little splash. I cannot pronounce his name under penalty of death. Today the fish died. He's still floating black in his too small aquarium. There will be a burial of some kind. "Fish don't ever last that long. He lasted five or six years. He had a good home. He was an only child."

I have some graves to visit but first I want to grow my own flowers. I'm tired of buying things that die. I'm tired of getting what I pay for. I've got blood on my hands. I've got blood in my eyes. I don't know what white is. It must be nice to be pure. It must be nice to be a bar of Ivory. It must be nice to be buried in snow or encased in ice. Glacier. Yes. Quite. God I want that feeling.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

DevilHouse Press Chap

Muchas gracias to Amanda Earl for publishing my latest chapbook, No Guns No Knives No Disco Biscuits. Only fifty copies of my chapbook are available. You may purchase a copy at the DevilHouse Press website for $10 or purchase a signed copy from me for $20. My PayPal is

Always Merry & Bright,


Saturday, November 19, 2016

maS aRco iRiS


I won't bleed my eyeballs out looking
at another chart
until I've been married
to my true fucking love
for fifty years.
Then I'll glance
at our charts
and say...
Ah. That explains it.


I got a lot of work to do. This is work. You can probably smell my disco sweat. You can probably taste my rainbow pegasus wedding cake. I am married to this process. I am married to myself.

This is secret diary busted lock celebration. Any last words? Eat them. So delicious. Dumb with yum. Wash them down with green apple wine cooler. Pour out the last swallow for all the dead homies. Baby. We have now achieved nirvana.

Friday, November 18, 2016



I ain't Ronnie Milsap. Ronnie Lee Milsap is an American country music singer and pianist. Also. He's a Capricorn. Born in 1943. I'm an American something or other. Also. I'm an Aquarian. Born in 1973.

Mr. Milsap likes to brag in that one song about how there ain't no gettin' over him. He sticks the knife in deep and twists it hard with his repeated "sweet darlin'." Well. It's my turn to brag. No gettin' over me, either, baby.


My best friend ever was a funny old lady. I only met her once. She babysat me one night when I was in kindergarten. Where did Mommy and Daddy go? Wichita Falls, most likely, to disco their asses off. Remember. This was 1978. I had long black hair. I was white. My eyes were blue. I knew nada.

The old lady fed me a Tony's sausage pizza and played Barbies with me. Ken got drunk and did the splits.


Funland wasn't much fun. Funland was a sorry substitute for Six Flags. But I was happy there that day riding the pathetic excuse for a train with my best friend Jennifer. Her sno cone was strawberry. My sno cone was blue coconut. We smiled cheesy for my mom's cheap camera.

I don't think I won anything worth mentioning with all those Skee-Ball tickets. I wanted to be Kimberly Drummond. Bitch had everything. Cute teeth. Carpet. Food. Daddy. The basics.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

This is fiction.

The fish is going crazy in the aquarium. The fish is too large for that small glass box. This is a story. This is not a story about a crazed fish. This is a story about a woman. This is a story about a girl. This is a story about a cipher. This is a story about a phantom. This is a story about a gringa. This is a story about a white rainbow. I do not know her name or blood type. She drives all over Texas crying to the Patsy Cline moon. Maybe you've met her at Valero. She never picks the winning cards. Scratch and scratch and scratch until there is blood. There is no dinero. One day she dreamed up a simple white wedding cake with a turquoise flower on top. One day she petitioned Our Father Who Art in Heaven.

God, she said. Look, she said. And she meant every syllable. God. Look. Please. Mira. Mira. Broken glass and me in the middle. Her in the middle. Bad luck for seven years. Saturn on her shoulder. YOU WILL LEARN. Bitch you will EARN every tortilla. Am I good enough do I look good enough is my lipstick the right shade will you drink my lemonade and ask for mas? Green sauce. Verde. Put me in the corner. Stuff me in the closet. Su chorizo por vida. God. You. Us. I'm confused. I was voted most likely to suicide in each creative writing workshop. Who is God and who are You and what is Us? Deleted text messages. Poisoned carrier pigeons. Blocked at Facebook. The phone rings and rings and no cubic zirconia, bitch, and no buttercream frosting, bitch, and no Corpus Christi and no sacraments and no redemption. What is sacred? Sangre. Daddy's sangre all over El Alamo. My double Sagittarius maternal grandfather...white, quite...dying his love into my ear from hundreds of miles away. Bridgeport by morning. Hell by noon. South of no north. "I love you so much. I love you so much." And I am worth exactly nada.

Hemingway is dead. Hemingway wrote fiction. My dad is alive. My dad lives fiction. "You're Hemingway without the typewriter," I told him once. She told him once. She is not me. She is a product of at least one imagination. She could be a tumor. But she won't kill you.




I'm sorry. I don't have any Mexican or Spanish blood. My birth. What a ridiculous thing to apologize for. I was born to two white teenagers on February 17, 1973 in Bridgeport, Texas. Fred is a Taurus. Cindy is a Gemini. Fred's parents were Scorpios. Cindy's mother is a Libra. Cindy's father is a Sagittarius. I have Cherokee blood on both sides. I'm proud of my Cherokee blood but my pride is useless. I can't do anything with it. I wasn't raised on a reservation or in Cherokee Nation. I was raised in rent houses, trailer houses and low-income apartments all over North Central Texas. When I was ten my mom married a mud engineer and we moved into a brand-new brick house in Monahans, Texas. There was nothing but dirt in the front and back. We grew our own grass.

I know about the Alamo. I know that Texas belonged to Mexico. I know about all the blood. I know that I love my Latino fiance. His family has been in Texas longer than mine. But I'm not telling his story in this space. I'm telling my story, my native Texan narrative. White people don't have any culture and if they do they are supposed to apologize for it. Well fuck that bullshit. This is what I come from.

I come from gun owners. I come from churchgoers. I come from cornbread, peach cobbler, sweet tea, poker, fried pork chops, Patsy Cline and George Jones 8-tracks, drive-in movies in Seymour, drive-in movies in Decatur, garage sales, riding down dirt roads in the back of pick-up trucks, cattle auctions, barbecues, factory workers, grocery store workers, C & F Answering Service, Cuba Road, Lake Kemp, beauty pageants, people who wear cowboy boots and Wranglers without irony, people who put family first, always, people who decorate for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, people who buy birthday cakes and birthday cards for family members from the age of one to the age of one-hundred plus. Everyone counts. Everyone is sacred. Doesn't matter if you've gone to prison. Doesn't matter if you're battling addiction. Doesn't matter if you don't have a pot to piss in. In my family there is a surplus of love and celebration to go around. No one is excluded.

I am not a Republican. I did not vote for Trump. Fuck politics. You can find all you want and a whole lot extra about the current shit show on social media. Walk out the door. You'll find it. This is not the space for that bullshit. I align myself with the dispossessed, the broken down but not defeated. I'm white. I'm a rainbow. I turned the best dream of my life into a book length poem and published it myself. Pretty Red Berries. It's no longer available. In the dream in the poem I was in a warehouse with hundreds of illegal immigrants. I was the only white human in a building filled with brown humans. There was a roll top door. It opened. Our names were called by machine gun toting border patrol assholes.

"Rainwater!" That was my cue. I stepped outside onto a loading dock. There was a green bush, inexplicably. I stood in front of the green bush facing a firing squad. They asked me if I wanted them to call a priest. They asked if I had any last words. "Fuck the priest. Fuck the last word. Make pretty red berries," I said, stretching out my arms. The bullets flew and sprayed my blood all over the bush. And then I was flying over the Rio Grande and a Walmart parking lot and I was so glad to be done with the whole damn thing.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

We ain't pretty, pilgrim.


I want Don Henley's money.
I want Donald Trump's money.
I want filthy lucre and I want it NOW.
I want Donald Duck's money.
I want Daddy's money.
I want wads of money.
I want your money and I want it NOW.
Give me all your money!
Put it in my PayPal!!
The other day I gave a
to a homeless man
in San Antonio, Texas
because he was wearing
a Painter Bob t-shirt.
I gave my son play money
for his ninth birthday.
He always kicks my ass
at Monopoly.
The white man always wins!
Don't tell that to Oprah Winfrey.
Don't tell that to Barack Obama.
Tell it to your mama and the chick
who paints your toenails.
I was evicted from a hot shit hotel,
left several books behind on purpose,
to the assholes at the front desk
because a white woman
always tips the maids.
I am not white.
I'm a rainbow.
Because you know.
Food stamps.
Because you know.
Because you know.
Because you know.
Financial aid.
Because you know.
Because you know.
Macaroni and cheese.
Because you know.
Fried chicken.
Because you know.
Bottom shelf tequila.
Puke and puke and
eBuLLienT voMiT
from Vegas to Miami.
I love mi papi.
He doesn't speak German.
The Smashing Pumpkins
sang it





Mucho action in la panaderia.
Henry and his galletas.
Waiting for my extra sugar.
He will be pleased with everything.
What is everything.
My cunt is everything.
So silent you might have heard
a coffee stirring.
After Easter a different
kind of ascension.
It's never too early
for Roxi Xmas.




Got a light, sugar?
Where's your light, sweetie?
This is my light, baby doll.
I shine. I shine. I shine. I shine.
If they wear a gazelle to breakfast
if they wear a gazelle
if they wear the correct size
and the color
and the designer
and the music sews
each stanza to each
dappled button
and enough cartilage
with plaid
and enough lace
with blood
and the skin so merry
in stitches
then package furious
then package numb
dumb in hum
all the way
to Nebraska.
A tiny princess.
A gargantuan pea.
A formidable tower.
A lonely braid.
A snowest whitest wild child.
A drop of envious witch blood.
A cupboard of dwarfs
and a coffin of virginity.
Ice and glass and nothing shatters
and no one melts
and no sleep
no sleep
no sleep till Portland.
Very red is mi corazon.
Very red and read and bread and bred.
Very corazon mis besos rojos.
Very eBuLLieNT voMiT.
Eat the rich? No.
I am
not bulimic.





Ella ha estado viviendo y trabajando, ella ha estado en silencio y de trabajo, que ha estado sufriendo y trabajando, ella ha estado observando y trabajando, ella ha estado esperando, ella ha estado trabajando, ella ha estado esperando y trabajando, ella no se pueda estar cambiando.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016




I just shot myself singing a familiar hymn from my childhood. The video is at Instagram. I blame my poor socioeconomic status on Instagram and a few other things. I dropped out of college the first time because of "The Real World," "Saved By The Bell" and "Beavis And Butthead." That go getter gene must have skipped a generation.

I come from hard-working barely educated blue collar Texans. Oilfield. Factories. Grocery stores. Dairy Queen. I'm certain my family members voted for Trump. We barely speak. We speak when someone is dying. We speak because I'm the mother of a beautiful, sweet, bright boy. Everyone loves him. My family has failed me. I have failed my family. And the world continues to turn and these are the days of our lives and all my children are available at eBuLLieNCe PReSs because as the cliche goes, my books are my babies.

My son is also my baby and today I apologized to him for this shit show that he has inherited. Am I complicit? Of course I am. I voted for Hillary but that is hardly sufficient. We aren't allowed to live in the dream sand singing karaoke and writing our little poems then show up to cast our little vote once every four years and bitch when a reality television buffoon gets elected. We are all complicit. There is real work to be done. I lack the gene and my natal chart is shit but I better get ambitious and smart and lucky real fucking quick because I don't want any part of this monstrous world that we have created. I have to stick around. I have to fight. Leaving the country is not an option. Suicide is not an option. My son still sucks his thumb and calls me Mommy. I've been called all kinds of colorful things all my life but nothing breaks my heart like Mommy. I do not deserve Mommy.

I would like to deserve Mommy and achieve some semblance of peace before I finally die. That is why I'm here.


We get the circus we deserve.
We get the shit show we signed up for.
It's endless night in America.
It's sweet delight somewheres else.
Oh Iceland.
Oh France.
Oh Peru darling Peru.
Fiji. Fuck me. Fiji.
No one can take me there.
Did I ask to be born to a white teenager
in Bridgeport, Texas in 1973?
I tell my brown boyfriend that I
am a rainbow.
He doesn't believe me.
Spanish is the national language.
I cannot speak it
but I'm stumbling through
the Spanish edition
of Fahrenheit 451.
Dio la vuelta y se marcho.
That was damn smart of him.
Scott Wannberg, I'm sorry.
My double Scorpio son, I'm sorry.
Every rainbow in America, I'm sorry.
We are the champions, my friends.
Because we shine where shining ain't allowed.
Because we scream
in quiet rooms from Memphis to Albuquerque.
Because when ordering enchiladas in Santa Fe
we order CHRISTMAS.
Because one color is never enough for our buffet.
We are winning harder than Charlie Sheen.
There is a victory parade inside every hell.
Yell it until you are dead.
Die dancing.
Die waving any flag but the white one.
Corey Hart approves
this message.


Today it is raining in Texas
and other places
and Trump is Daddy
and Trump is Father
and Trump is God
and Trump is King
and hatred rings triumphant
from sea to toxic sea.
Smug motherfuckers rejoice
over sweet tea and cornbread.
Cracker Barrel Nation.
This is Cheetos Country.
You look like you ain't
from around here.
Didn't your mama
teach you no manners?
I was born a coal miner's daughter.
From the bootstraps
to the Grand Ole Opry
in one cheesy lifetime.
We say grace and we say amen
and we can shoot a buck
and run a trotline
and in bed by nine and
thank you jesus
thank you lord
we can afford that Big Lots recliner
in which we sit
in which we reign
until diabetes finally sends us home
to Green Acres.
The place
to be.

America done died & gone to hell.

if you ever get close to a human...

Tuesday, November 8, 2016


I voted early.
I voted at the mall.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Instant Pussy.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
John 3:16.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Bullshit Rodeo.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
John and Yoko.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Fuckerbutt Happy Time.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Patsy Cline karaoke.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Mexican Coca-Cola.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Fingerhut engagement ring.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Arsenal of Spitwads.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
Oprah fucking Winfrey.
I voted for Hillary Clinton because
I could not
in good conscience
vote for a talking Cheeto.