Thursday, May 25, 2017

another automatic writing experiment

cougar sally bologna derelict
spam broken tired george michael
jose cuervo misti go to bed
misti get a job
misti show the fuck up
and do the fucking work
misti wake up
you are playing
with time
you are dying slow
go grab it
with both hands
and make
the motherfucker bounce
remember the letter I sent you
from prison
you were a teenager
hiding in your room
with the JcPenney's comforter
and Rhett and Scarlett on the wall
and Jessica Wakefield and Rapunzel on the shelves
and you had just started bleeding
and you wondered what it felt like
to be kissed by a man
and you dreamed
and you wished
and you ached
and you danced around to Beatles songs
and you mourned John Lennon
and I sent you a letter from prison
drew you wearing a crown of stars
and Misti
damn it
be that woman
be the woman
with stars in her hair
and open the door
and walk outside
you know there is nothing to lose
no one better than you
Ramona Ramona
all the guides
all the gods
all the lights
you've glimpsed heaven
while walking the dirt roads of Texas
remember that night
you stood outside the chapel filled with candles
and you cried and said
It's The Most Beautiful Thing I Ever Saw
and the typewritten letter from your first Scorpio friend
and you found it
after you found out
she had died
racing home past curfew
you've lived Texas
you've survived Texas
you've written Texas
you are not
to be fucked with
you are finally
fierce with reality
so fucking use it
already

Sunday, April 30, 2017

WRITTEN BEFORE YOU WERE BORN

This beast that rends me in the sight of all,
This love, this longing, this oblivious thing,
That has me under as the last leaves fall,
Will glut, will sicken, will be gone by spring.
The wound will heal, the fever will abate,
The knotted hurt will slacken in the breast;
I shall forget before the flickers mate
Your look that is today my east and west.
Unscathed, however, from a claw so deep
Though I should love again I shall not go:
Along my body, waking while I sleep,
Sharp to the kiss, cold to the hand as snow,
The scar of this encounter like a sword
Will lie between me and my troubled lord.


EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

ACUNA ROAD TRIP

I haven't been on meds since 2011. I have Medicare (the government put me on Medicare in 2012 without my consent when I was only thirty-nine...doesn't make any damn sense but not much does) which only pays for hospitalization. These past few years I have tried to maintain (and mostly have...no suicide attempts unless you count alcohol poisoning on my fortieth birthday AND I made the dean's list TWICE at UTSA and I FUCKING GRADUATED, finally) by meditating, exploiting the usual outlets (art, writing, having sex with random men), drinking green tea, drinking lemon water, eating a fuckton of kale and asparagus and sleeping much more than the average human being over the age of five. Planet Fitness treadmill. Hula hoop. Dancing in Goodwill heels. I haven't had sex since I broke it off with the last ex and I can't say I miss it. My vibrator works fine. I no longer have the stomach for half-assed ambivalence. You know how it goes. Maybe you don't. This is how it goes for me, a love addict in recovery: I fall for a man for whatever fucking reason. Maybe his Mars impacts my Pluto in a really poignant and potent fucking way. Maybe I like his command of a foreign language. Maybe I like his hands. His voice. That's the normal biological part. But then the limbic xmas tree bullshit kicks in and I HAVE TO HAVE HIM whatever the cost. So I go there. I go all out. Balls to the wall. "Why must I be a teenager in love?" Except I ain't sixteen. But oops...he still loves his ex-wife or some bitch who broke his heart in 1985. He digs me, make no mistake. He loves fucking me. That's the no duh part, the hard dick and wet pussy part. That's the Tecate and Amy Winehouse on Saturday night and breakfast tacos on Sunday morning part. But beyond a good purposeful easy fucking...there's the now what? There's the stale donut and shitty coffee. There's the,"Let's take it a day at a time, Misti." So you can see how a bitch could remain discombobulated. Romantic love has always been hard-won for me, even when I was seventeen and a size zero. I chased both men who decided to marry me. I had to convince them I was worth a ring. I cut my teeth on Rapunzel, Snow White, "Gone with The Wind." The fairy tale silver screen magic big deal big time LOVE thing never happened for me. I've been teased by it for four decades and I am finally done. I'm bitter, yes. I don't want to be. I have had plenty of highs. I can say I've been to the ball. I've been to the banquet. Selah.

But. Wow. Excuse the ramble. I feel like I need meds again because I'm in dangerous territory. It's getting harder and harder to get out of bed and leave the house. I've often thought of selling my car, taking off, living in some rat hole motel room or studio apartment in another state or country, just hiding out, writing my little stories and poems, walking to the store, talking to the shadows and constellations and planets. Being balls to the wall batshit crazy and not apologizing for any of it. Pero. I have a son. I love him too much to abandon him for good. The few months I spent without him in San Francisco and Eagle Pass were more than enough. I've stared down the suicidal ideations because, finally, that's a legacy I don't want to leave my son. It's the deepest, strongest love I have ever experienced. I'm constantly humbled and amazed. So. I'm thinking of road tripping to Acuna, Mexico and loading up on meds. Prozac. Celexa.Whatever I can crush and snort with a rolled up dollar bill. Whatever the fuck can make me feel halfway human. I haven't bought meds in Mexico since 1990something when I bought a year's supply of birth control pills for something like twenty bucks. The last time I crossed in March 2016 I showed the border patrol asshole my passport and he didn't give me any trouble, just the usual terse lizard brain Texas drawl condescension. I hadn't sinned. Just traded a pair of wedges an ex bought me at Target for a silver tortuga necklace. I'm wearing it now.

My favorite jewelry is the jewelry I give myself. All the other stuff ends up at the pawn shop or on eBay.

Friday, March 24, 2017

EFFULGENT

According to the gas pump at the Valero in Leon Valley the word of the day is EFFULGENT. I stood there smiling in the effulgent Texas sun as I pumped unleaded gasoline into the tank. This was my first word of the day experience at Valero. I anticipate more words and more days. Gracias.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

AMERICAN DICK SUCK

I'm eating my heart out daily in donut pajamas.
Elijah tells Hannah she'll be a terrible mother.
An Instagram whore is talking about her memoir.
Trump the Talking Cheeto is probably
getting his American dick sucked right now
while dreaming of his stacks of greasy cash.
The machine is lubed and humming so hard.
Proud crackers from Florida to Iowa
know what they know.
Cracker President speaks their simple language.
Breed. Feed. Need to put white fences
around everything.
Fake those smiles.
Fake that love.
Alligator hearted motherfuckers.
I'm a goddamn rainbow
but in San Antonio I'm reminded on the regular
that I am white.
Ugly gringa.
Don't appropriate our tacos, bitch.
I have a few opinions about that sort of thing.
I sing Billie Holiday and Eazy E
and there is nervous laughter.
I'm tired of singing Patsy Cline.
What the fuck is white culture?
Golf? Gravy and biscuits? Sweet tea?
Revival tents? Bingo?
No fucking thank you.
I'll take the tacos and the blues
wherever the fuck I find them.
I'll bleed and scream and demand
and I won't issue trigger warnings
and hypocritical half-assed apologies
to appease the gate keepers
of that melting pot mythology.
Oh yes. God yes.
We're all melting and blending
like a box of Crayolas.
I'm cerulean.
I'm some kind of pink.
I'm some kind of green.
I'm black I'm white and up all night
searching the streets
on my hands and knees
for a coloring book
that lacks unforgiving lines.
I ignore lines.
I'm Rainbow Queen.
Don't you know who I am?
Give me the best table
with the best view!
So yeah.
Eating my white corazon out
in rainbow donut pajamas
watching "Girls" on my ex-husband's
big deal television
while The Trumpster is getting a blow job
from his mail order bride
and inside me there is at least one tornado
and I expect Oz
but wake up
in Kansas
from another intervention nightmare.
Terrible mother.
A motel room filled with phantoms
telling me all
that needs
to be
told.
I suck.
I suck.
I suck I suck
so fucking fucking
hard.
Didn't sell enough boxes
of Girl Scout cookies.
Didn't help the old lady cross the street.
Didn't feed the starving babies in China.
Didn't pledge my allegiance
to Texan American flag.
I've written a few books
about this sort of thing.
How does one get 20K followers
at Instagram?
One sucks dick
then writes about it
then takes smeared lipstick selfies.
Baby you're a star.
Don't listen to me.
I'm disgruntled.
I'm dreaming of Lima and Fiji
and a white wedding
and a smoking hot Planet Fitness body
and a Spanish dream home in Baja
and my most recent ex's (he's brown)
picadillo con papas.
God. I loved his stuff.
I can pout and shout
until Jesus comes home
and treats everyone
to a Cracker Barrel breakfast.
Trump will still smile
the smile of the undefeated
and his alligator hearted minions
will pump their fists
to Bruce Springsteen
and Tom Petty
because goddamn motherfucker
America is where
rebel rock
was born
and died
and rose on the third day
and reigns eternal
in a Katy Perry kitty cat commercial.
No one in Texas
has ever heard of Townes Van Zandt.
I rest my case
if I have
one.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Our Mouths Swollen From Kissing

I'm wearing my magical red shiny lacy gown. It isn't magical anymore. It is covered with lint and it itches and there is no one here to seduce. I'm alone tonight with my CDs and the words. When it was magical, when it was freshly purchased with pocket change from Thrift Town in Albuquerque in the spring of 2004, I put it on and the candles were lit in my studio apartment and Otis Redding was on the stereo and my new lover was on the leaky air mattress he'd given me with appreciation in his eyes. I seduced him and it was deep and good and we loved in the high desert with Jack Daniels in our stomachs and our mouths swollen from kissing.

(from Bullshit Rodeo)
(signed copies are available directly from me)
($50. PayPal is roxixmas@gmail.com.)

The Baddest Bitch in San Antonio

At the karaoke bar he threw back Johnnie Walker and I threw back Jack Daniels. I pranced around the stage drunk off my ass singing "You Know I'm No Good." The two tattoos on his arms were of what he called The Good Girl and The Bad Girl. The Good Girl is smiling and wearing a sombrero. She probably has respectable clothes on. The Bad Girl is smirking with her tits out. After fucking me in my apartment that night in April he told me,"The Bad Girl is probably going to win." I thought I was The Bad Girl for sure but he told me that night in the first dive bar, before the Adele song came on, that I was The Good Girl. Goddamn it. Whose dick did I have to suck to be the baddest bitch in San Antonio?

(from No Guns No Knives No Disco Biscuits)
(signed copies are available directly from me)
($20. PayPal is roxixmas@gmail.com.)

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

I give good radio.

Listen to me discuss nipples, zombies, indiscriminate sex and the limbic xmas tree with Marcia Epstein. I'm too legit to quit. Buy my books and art.

Love,
Misti Velvet Rainwater-Lites

Thursday, March 9, 2017

TRUE LOVE IS QUITE POSSIBLY RETARDED

Be buried with it all over your face.
Die in the fragrance of OH GOD YES.
It's better (mucho) than a giraffe
made out of a balloon.
It's better than anything you will find
in a Little Debbie box.
Is it better than a carnival ride?
Is it better than an expensive bottle
of champagne/perfume/toilet cleaner?
Is it better than the best damn donut/taco/lap dance
in San Antonio, Texas?
LOVE (TRUE LOVE) should never
be capitalized.
It isn't polite to brag.
I'm certain I'm living inside a Procter & Gamble cartoon.
I'm certain my hair isn't quite right for the part.
Yoko plus John equals a joke on the rest of us.
But I ride the bus knowing I'll never get there.
I ride.
I ride.
I look out the windows and ride watching the sun
drip its viscera all over the sky and whisper to God
or myself or any available audience:
I don't have the cake it would take
to make
you mine.
It's a kind of return to sender Valentine.
It doesn't shine and glitter terribly hard.
But it's the card you can count on
when nothing else but bills
splutter at your feet
reminding you
of the rather depressing fact
that you are like me
another number
taking up space
in a much too
crowded zoo.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

COUGAR & SALLY

Cougar Ketchup and Sally Mayonnaise are a fictional cracker couple.
They reside in San Antonio with their son, C.J., and their dog, Starbright.
Cougar is a greeter at Walmart. Sally is a lazy stay at home wife/mommy.
Each night I tell my son a new Cougar and Sally (and C.J.) story.
After each story I ask him,"How did you like that one?"
And he invariably tells me,"I give it googolplex stars!"
Someday when my head isn't up my ass I'll publish a series
of Cougar & Sally (and C.J.) books.
Then you can buy them.
Yes.
They will be illustrated.