Tuesday, January 31, 2017

(940) 683-4021


(940) 683-2251


(503) 303-8220


(206) 832-6063


(575) 751-1262


(575) 751-4278


(505) 984-1688


ANOTHER VALENTINE TO JACK SPICER

It's coming together. Upon completion I'll sell it to Oprah for six or seven billion dollars. I'll donate my pliers to Ronald McDonald House. The leftover letter beads will go to Any Baby Can. If you would like some free wire let me know. Free wire will be available on a first come first serve basis.

BABE


DICK SPIT


PRETTY GAY HELL


SANGRE


(212) 923-3700


BESOS


(210) 212-4900


Sunday, January 29, 2017

MORE RELEVANT THAN EVER

AS RELEVANT AS EVER


SOUL MATES


TWILIGHT CUTTING ROOM FLOOR

Or fifty more shades of vanilla.
Or Cameron Diaz Wins Again.
Or Stop Bitching! You're WHITE!
Or...if the shoe fits you must be Barbie or Carrie Bradshaw.
The Hamptons.
Leo on Wall Street.
Trump in his Tower.
Rodeo Drive.
Malibu.
And you and you and all your favorite Gucci voodoo dolls.
Appropriate THIS.
That's appropriate the verb.
Not appropriate the adjective.
Spit it into any available slam poetry mic.
There's no copyright on EL VERDAD.
Tonight I wanted to kill two people.
Tonight I was happy I didn't own a gun.
In the museum called the morgue
we are all made of wax
and we are all President
and we are Miley Cyrus on her best day
Sylvester as Rocky on his worst day
Jesus dead and held in gently weeping Mary's arms
and the rude bitch using the phone
on Letterman's desk without his permission.
Vietnam is somewhere between Johnny Depp
and Jack on his beanstalk.
The climb is such a bitch.
Get inside the Uber car.
Hold your breath
unless you're one of those insensitive fucks
who thinks AXE body spray is super classy.
Nothing is written in blood
carved in stone
unless you fucking
want it
to be.

ANOTHER MOTHERFUCKING POEM

A POEM FOR DADA DAY AT THE PLACE, APRIL 1, 1955

Darling,
The difference between Dada and barbarism
Is the difference between an abortion and a wet dream.
An abortion
Is a conscious sacrifice of the past, the painting of a mustache
On Mona Lisa, the surrender
Of real children.
The other, darling, is a sacrifice
Of nobody's children, is barbarism, is an Eskimo
Running amok in a museum, is Bohemia
Renouncing cities it had never conquered.
An ugly Vandal pissing on a statue is not Philias
Pissing on a statue. Barbarism
Is something less than a gesture.
Destroy your own gods if you want Dada:
Give up your vices, burn your jukebox,
Draw mustaches on music, paint a real mother
On every non-objective canvas. Befoul only
Those things that belong to you.
"Beauty is so rare a thing," Pound said,
"So few drink at my fountain."
You only have the right to piss in the fountain
If you are beautiful.



JACK SPICER

SOLD


SOLD


BULLSHIT RODEO


SAN ANTONIO SUNSET


STILL FOR SALE


STILL FOR SALE


STILL FOR SALE


STILL FOR SALE


FRANCINE PASCAL CAN EAT SPAM

This is rude of me. Quite. But to paraphrase my boy Bill Maher, while we're protecting our virgin ears our asses are getting FUCKED. Yes. These are bleak fucking times. When Cherokee mothers were watching their elders and babies die on The Trail of Tears, those, too, were bleak fucking times. And when black men were dangling from trees in Georgia and Texas? Bleak fucking times. I could go on. Make America Great Again. Sure. When was America ever great? Oh. Yeah. When The Beach Boys sang about Good Vibrations. When June gave Ward and Wally and The Beav milk with every meal. Good times indeed! And what does any of this have to do with two fictional California twins, one a cheerleader, one a journalist? Not much. Carry on, babies.

SAN ANTONIO SUNRISE


(210) 368-9324


(210) 340-1289


(415) 576-9300


A POEM WITHOUT A SINGLE BIRD IN IT

What can I say to you, darling,
When you ask me for help?
I do not even know the future
Or even what poetry
We are going to write.
Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people
Than either of us have tried it.
I loved you once but
I do not know the future.
I only know that I love strength in my friends
And greatness
And hate the way their bodies crack when they die
And are eaten by images.
The fun's over. The picnic's over.
Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left
After you die or go mad,
But the calmness of poetry.



JACK SPICER

Friday, January 27, 2017

NOW FOR A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS

!!! PUSSIES !!!

If you're just going to sit there
writing your pretty wet poems
about shimmering mirages
and Don Henley's fetishes
for fuck's sake seduce
someone with them.
Pull out your dick and use the damn thing.
Make a complicated woman
with unusual tricks up her crushed velvet sleeve
weep with incomprehensible joy.
If you're going to sit there
be Beethoven about it.
Be Tony on the Lite Brite disco floor.
Be anything other than
Oscar The Grouch
on "Sesame Street."
Sure. He knew what the fuck was up.
But you can only take that
woke up on the wrong side
of the trash can bit so far
before someone dumps
cold noodles on ya
and screams
YOU GOT THE SAME LITTLE BRITCHES
TO GET GLAD IN!!!

GOD DIGS VOYEURS


mas VeNuS in AquaRiuS noiSe


Things are still available.

I can make you a barbed wire necklace.
I can make you a barbed wire bracelet.
I can make you barbed wire rings.
Buy barbed wire jewelry and be
cooler than Pam Anderson
ever thought about being.
You have to bleed to be pretty
in San Antonio, Texas.
Nard's wife knows what I'm talking about.
Last night I walked into a San Antonio bar
to buy some food.
I stood there invisible in my coat
while the pretty pretty barmaid
with balloon titties smiled at various men
drinking their various drinks.
Draft beer, mostly.
All those televisions.
No one saw me and I got bored with that shit
so I walked out
drove home
baked some kale and asparagus
contemplated my aging body and brain
and said,"Fuck it. We're all dying fast."
The walking dead ain't just a cute show.
I see the evidence all around me.
But see. I know people.
I own this disco.
I write books and play with pliers.
So. Yeah.
Shit on me
at your
own peril.
On a much lighter note...
Go Spurs!
Someone's got to WIN.
Might as well be y'all.

DIG.


NEW MOON IN AQUARIUS

BALM

Some of us need some kind of soothing balm.
Some poems some books some art are mine.
Cat lives were what I meant when I said
"If you run across any, toss a couple my way."
Extra lives extra energy extra love.
I'll take it all.
I don't want to pay for my vowels, Vanna.
I proclaim without shame:
VOWELS SHOULD BE FREE.
If there's any extra guilt lying around
you can keep it.
I don't stock my store with
that sort of thing.
Bermuda.
Fiji.
Lima.
Lisbon.
Mexico City.
I've bled plenty.
I've crawled the extra mile.
I'm ready to soar and sing a prettier song.
We choose our shackles.
We swallow our keys.
I've got those feet nailed to his linoleum blues again.
I have no clue who I'm talking to
when I put on my lipstick and snarl
Kiss it and Make it Better.

FOR MAC

A dead starfish on a beach
He has five branches
Representing the five senses
Representing the jokes we did not tell each other
Call the earth flat
Call other people human
But let this creature lie
Flat upon our senses
Like a love
Prefigured in the sea
That died.
And went to water
All the oceans
Of emotion. All the oceans of emotion
Are full of such fish
Why
Is this dead one of such importance?
Died
With blue of heart's blood, the brown
Of unknowing
The purple of unimportance
It lies upon our beach to be crowned.
Purple
Starfish are
And love. And love
Is like nothing I can imagine.






JACK SPICER

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

TRUMP: NO COMPRENDE

TWO MORE REASONS TO STAY ALIVE


HOW A QUEEN CONDUCTS HERSELF

From the manual.
How A Queen Conducts Herself After A Few Wars.

A queen does not count squares.
A queen cannot be bothered.
A queen wears the blood of her enemies.
A queen wears an invisible crown of stars.
A queen is allergic to big deal colognes and designer dresses.
A queen does not drunk dial exes.
A queen says FUCK YOU. QUITE.
Then exits without
looking back
and shedding
broken looking glass
tears.

FRIENDLY REMINDER


Tuesday, January 17, 2017

OWLS

Here's a recent poem. De  nada.

Muchas gracias to the editors for publishing it.

Full-length collection forthcoming. Stay tuned.

(718) 218-7148


(210) 227-6960


(505) 242-1445


(505) 982-1320


(503) 243-3356


(786) 587-5279


(323) 666-7667


(415) 255-7227


(212) 423-3500


Thursday, January 12, 2017

BLESS MINE ENEMIES

Bless mine enemies
with long long lives
so that memories like knives
will gut them
when they
least
expect
it.

CHURCH OF SWOONCAKE

Random assholes cannot join my church.
My church is The eBuLLieNT Church of SwooncaKe.
Your entry fee will be a few drops of blood, a vial of tears
shed when you were the uncoolest motherfucker in town
and enough sweat to start your own disco.
You better be wearing shiny purple underwear.
Mindless mediocrity es no bueno.
You love to hit the slopes.
You love to drink Budweiser.
You root for The Dallas Cowboys.
You're thinking of buying a big deal car.
I'm sorry. That's great for you.
But not so great for my congregation.
Idiocy will be demonized.
Any asshole can add and subtract a few numbers.
Any motherfucker can have a hot shit credit score.
Any piece of shit can inherit property.
You can belly up to that Applebee's bar.
Bravo. I applaud you. But don't knock on my door.
This architecture is meant for deep and wide.
That fountain that has been flowing since
long before you were born.
You better show up soaking wet.
A specific hell is reserved for the bone dry.
Those among us who chew the cud.
So bovine. "I got mine."
My kind of divinity eludes you
because you are dumb with NUMB.
You haven't even
FELT yet.
Maybe you have.
But you were joking.
Maybe you have.
Through layers of alcohol
and the usual channels.
Your head is a 1977 television
static with color bar test.
I'm not the one to change you.
I certainly won't try to save you.
I'm busy with my own noise.
Trigger warning: COLLECTION PLATES.
In my church we collect teeth.
Dead white men
have no
currency
here.

FIRE ROOSTER

ART SCHOOL AFFIRMATION

Pluto is nowhere near my sun
but trust me.
I'm repulsive.
Sitting in one of those art classes
at UTSA
(Basquiat would puke)
I cut myself with a blade
while listening to "Sunday Morning"
(cool professor, probably an Aquarian).
Blood sprinkled the white paper
making it more interesting.
"I don't like white people
but I like you," I told my white son
a few days ago
in the context
of telling him
I ordered a book
on how to move
to Mexico.
"You don't need a book."
(he said)
"Just get on a plane."
So I was sitting in class bleeding
because I'll never be as cool as Lou Reed
(the only white people I dig are the famous ones)
and then I hid in the handicapped bathroom stall
(old habits die hard like Bruce Willis)
and there on the handicapped bathroom stall door
I found all the affirmation
I will ever need
from this planet.
"You are so far away from
being a failure."
Somebody scrawled that.
Maybe she was brown.
Maybe she was white.
Maybe she was black.
Maybe she was purple.
I love colorless art and writing best
the kind that speaks to me
without any conceivable agenda attached.
"We all have agendas, doll," someone wise
from 1981 says, blowing smoke in my face
in CBGB's or someplace similar.
I'm forty-three almost forty-four
and very much a failure
according to most.
I look hard in the mirror
and see what I see.
I've got a few records.
The New York Dolls.
Captain Beefheart.
The goddamn Beach Boys.
I hula hoop while eggs boil
on my ex-husband's stove.
Cinnamon toothpaste is my favorite.
If a man wants me, ever, I question his discernment.
In between text messages I memorize the sky.
But I can't tell you the colors
of the socks
I'm wearing.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

DEAR HEAD

BUNNY MAN

I published the revised and much improved Bunny Man late last night/early this morning on the anniversary of Elvis Presley's birthday by happy happenstance. I first wrote and published Bunny Man in 2008 when I was fascinated by the bizarro genre. I submitted the manuscript to a bizarro publisher after reading several examples of bizarro fiction. My discovery was that the titles were often much more exciting than the actual text. I felt, and still feel, that Bunny Man is superior to every other bizarro novella I've ever read. The publisher disagreed with my assessment. My manuscript was rejected.

I lost the file of the original manuscript but I had a paperback copy of the latest revision, published at eBuLLieNCe PReSs in 2010. So I sat at the computer with the book and had much fun revising and adding black and white photographs. I'm a weirdo. I enjoy revising much more than I enjoy writing the rough draft. Writing the rough draft is akin to beginning a new romantic sexual relationship, which has always been torture for me. I identified as a love addict for years. I've only recently decided to stop seeking, stop trying, just focus on myself and my humble little poverty level life. I thought I loved falling in love but in retrospect it seems love has always been a mirage in my life. I'm not sure why I was crazy in love with any of the men I at one time believed I was crazy in love with. I've given my relationships much thought and analysis. My brain is pretty much a pretzel at this point. I can say that I was truly in love with only one man in my forty-three years on this planet. I think this is pretty common. Most of us try and keep trying to create some semblance of magic with new partners. My dad just married his fifth wife in his sixty-third year of life and says he finally found THE ONE. My maternal grandmother just buried my maternal grandfather, a man she married when she was eighteen years old. They are the only couple I personally know who didn't just love but adored each other for over six decades. Elizabeth Taylor believed she had two soul mates. Mike Todd and Richard Burton. She had seven different husbands. Common. People marry for a variety of reasons. I married twice and I know exactly why I married both times. So. Love. Yes. I'm done until a reasonably attractive, intelligent, interesting man convinces me otherwise. I haven't met the motherfucker yet. Of that I am certain. So the rough draft for me is like falling in love. The pieces are mostly all there but you don't know what the hell to do with them. How is it going to turn out? Is it going to ROCK or SUCK? The suspense is killing me. I don't want a tombstone. I want to be burned to ash and scattered. But if I were to have a tombstone those words should be carved in stone. THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING ME. Maybe it's my impatient first house moon. Maybe it's my crazy sixth house Venus in Aquarius. I don't know what the hell it is. But I prefer revising, perfecting love/words that have already been created. Makes perfect sense to my Mercury in  Pisces in the seventh house squaring my Saturn in Gemini in the tenth house.

And I assure you, avid readers: Bunny Man is the most entertaining, hilarious, love bloated bizarro novella you will ever read. So buy it, already.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

MUCHO BETTER

Here is a much more affordable Walking The Earth. De nada. I'm glad to be done with the damn thing. Now I can start writing my most kick ass novel ever, SANGRE. When I'm dead motherfuckers will say,"You have a signed copy of SANGRE?! With a LIPSTICK KISS?! I'll trade you a case of Budweiser and two Playboy magazines for that bad boy!" Oh those starriest aspirations. They keep a bitch going.

WALKING THE EARTH

It. Is. Finished. I wrote and published a novel entitled Walking The Earth in 2014. I just revised the manuscript but there are still flaws. Walmart. Wal-Mart. Who fucking cares. There's at least one blank page in there because something always gets fucked up in the conversion process at lulu.com. The page numbers are fucked up. Who. Fucking. Cares. I've published a version that I'm satisfied with. It's ridiculous. I even got an ISBN for the thing so it will be available at amazon. There are full-color photographs. Ridiculous. The cheapest price lulu would let me sell the paperback for is $72.00 because of the ridiculous full-color photographs. I'm selling it for $73 because I was born in 1973. I can buy a copy for myself for $30. Eventually I will. I have a copy of the edition I published in 2014. Want it? It's yours for $20. That does include shipping. A few words are scribbled out. I'll sign it for ya. My PayPal is roxixmas@gmail.com. Salud.

BLAH YADA BLAH

Art is not your self-indulgent blather.
Poetry is not your dick pic in an 8X10 glossy.
Numbers are maggots in a dead president's asshole.
Trust fund brats will inherit social media.
Your silicone tits your gym slave ass look fabulous
in any available light. Work it, baby.
Work it work it so motherfucking hard.
Art is not your Walmart receipt soggy with ketchup.
Poetry is not your spread legs in booty call bed.
Numbers are nada in hungry welfare bitch mouth.
Any available asshole will inherit social media.
Your filtered as fuck face your fucking latte
look the same as every other face and latte
but carry on, baby.
An eager world
awaits.

SABROSO


SIX OR SEVEN BILLION DOLLARS


QUARTER OF A MILLION DOLLARS


RUNAWAY BAY SUNSET


WHO IS NEXT?