Saturday, February 25, 2017

addicted to this


I'm about to get in the shower
and wash away my sins
with Equate Jasmine Temptation
body wash but first
I wanted you to know that
mi corazón sigue girando sus ruedas en tu lodos
pero me doy cuenta de que esto se suma a nada
because pretty words in any language
will not serve as the glue
that binds two souls
tan feo como el nuestro.

break every law cuz damn baby u fine

survive the glittery wilds

put glitter on the grave



sorry ass excuse of a xmas cooKie


Friday, February 24, 2017

still my favorite fairy tale

i kind of live inside this painting

we never danced we never fished

no idea how hard they rock

pizza burning in the oven


a little pick me up

once upon a neptune moon

several saturdays ago

absolutely loving it

a shark's gotta eat

Thursday, February 23, 2017

dreamed some hell

dreamed some heaven

baby we were only dreaming



(back to the basics of love)




some people call me Maurice

what's your favorite position?



i see the moon & the moon sees me



Read Tender Buttons.
Read A Moveable Feast.
Read anything by Lena Dunham.
Eat yogurt, watch "Girls."
Read your ex's obituary.
Read a cookbook.
Read a Chef Boyardee pizza box.
Sit on the toilet.
Read an original screenplay
by Tobe fucking Hooper.

Once. This wise writer told me
what another wise writer told him.
Don't Write For Free.
Sell Every Fucking Word.
I've never been to AWP but.
I believe.
I believe.

I don't know anything about anything.
I respond to trolls at YouTube.
I don't know what the hell I'm defending.
I know nada.
I know nada pretty motherfucking hard.

There are galaxies bursting and jizzing
with planets none of us know nothing about
yet we continue to dismiss people
from our lives on the basis
of text messages exchanged
when Mercury is in retrograde
and the full moon is in Pisces
and the sun is in Libra
and the car is in the shop
and the donuts on the counter
are getting stale.
Ants carry everything away.
What the ants can't carry
the cockroaches devour.
Then there are rats.
Then there are scorpions.
Then there are snakes hissing
terrible fucking news.
We're all expelled.
We're all out of quarters
at the laundromat where the television
spits out "General Hospital"
while we sit there bleeding
needing more than any reasonable
companion could possibly comprehend.

Writers try to write their way
out of hell.
Writers use every fucking
trick in the book.
Writers mock the world
with DON'T TRY on their headstone.
Writers outlast asshole bosses
and god awful lovers
and the worst hamburger
ever created in Texas.
Writers don't drown at Lake Kemp
when they are three.
Writers drink and vomit
and sing karaoke because they
think they're deeper than Billie Holiday
even though their ass and the rest of them
is whiter than the page
they bleed on.
Writers bleed every syllable
so very fucking LOUD
and all the neighbors
are welcome
to the show.

Writers are the exes you just can't quit.
You Google and shit...there they are again.
You flush and writers clog your toilet.
You die several deaths and writers wake you up
each time with,"It was just a bad dream. Let's have sex."

Sex with writers is the best
unless they're in recovery
then lo siento, baby.
No hot writer pussy
or hot writer dick
for YOU.

Writers are the bad wreck on I-35.
Why are you looking?
Keep your eye on the road.
All those billboards advertising
America's best promises.
Twenty more miles
until instant

God Drives My Bus

God is laughing because he's tired of crying.
God is not a Virgo. He doesn't send me a bitchy e-mail
telling me,"Misti, my darling idiot, you were WRONG for that."
God is not a Capricorn. He doesn't keep score.
God is not a Pisces. He doesn't steal your vodka
then puke all over your Navajo rug.
God damn sure isn't an Aquarian.
He just isn't.
God is not a Sagittarius. He doesn't strum a guitar
and fuck dumb women who use the word "rad."
"Gee, God. Your dick is, like, literally RAD."
God is not an Aries. He doesn't get you drunk
then fuck you up the ass without so much
as a dab of Vaseline.
God is not a Scorpio.
He doesn't fuck with your mind
and try to teach you how to sell books
when his "true crime" book has zero reviews
at fucking amazon.
God is not a Gemini.
Trust me on this.
God is not a Leo.
He could be. But he has no hair.
God is not a Cancer.
He isn't drowning his sorrows
in a Mexican bar.
He lacks a mouth, hands, all the
biological essentials.
God is not a Taurus.
He doesn't eat at Bill Miller's.
And no, ninos.
God ain't a Libra.
He doesn't tell you to shut the fuck up
because the neighbors are listening
and bitch... you CRAZY.

God drives my bus
and I don't always
enjoy the ride.
I often tell God
I wish he would buy me
a bitchin' Camaro.
God gives me spears of asparagus
and I cry because I'm in the mood
for sprinkled donuts
and spicy fried chicken.
God tells me to turn off the television
and read a fucking book.
"But God. I'm tired. Mis ojos are bleeding."
"Stop being such a pussy, gringa."
God commands me to celebrate Pi Day
when I'm still hungover from Mardi Gras.
God kicks my ass into the middle of next week
and I wake up in Omaha
and suddenly hot damn
I'm some kind of fashion consultant.
God is gay and energetic
and reminds me a helluva lot
of my Uncle Greg.
"No sleeping in the Metroplex, Misti Velvet."
It's 1991 again and I'm thinking I'm gonna shine
harder than Julia Roberts in that elevator.
It's 1995 and I'm winning in Vegas.
God the choleric extrovert
pushes me the melancholy introvert
through the looking glass
and wheeee. Surprise.
I'm Alice in la la land
and don't know the code.
"Business as usual," I tell the Mad Hatter
after a cup of tepid Great Value tea.
He replies in Japanese.
He replies in German.
He replies in Spanish.
I scream in rainbow.

God says,"Finally, baby doll. I think you get it."


"Yesterday" is one of my least favorite Beatles songs. I also do not appreciate "Paperback Writer" and "Love Me Do." I love "A Day in The Life." I love "Happiness is a Warm Gun." I love most of "Abbey Road," especially "Because" and "I Want You (She's So Heavy)." If you want to hear a great fucking song listen to "No Reply." The other day I made my son watch "A Hard Day's Night" with me. He walked out of the room after about fifteen minutes. I texted my mom about it and she texted back that she saw the film at the drive-in in Seymour, Texas when she was in junior high and she hated it. "I can't believe this. My own mother hates 'A Hard Day's Night,'" I texted back. "Goofy movie," she texted.

When I was sixteen I was obsessed with The Beatles. John Lennon was my favorite. Hell, I even had a John Lennon doll I carried around. But I had lust in my heart (yes I did) for Ringo Starr. He was HOT. When I was in the grocery store one day and saw the People magazine that featured a photo of his wedding to Barbara Bach (what is it with Cancer men and Virgo women?) I cried a little. I had fantasies of bumping into him at the London Hard Rock Cafe. Those fantasies died a hard death. I never stopped loving John...Beatles John, solo John, JohnandYoKo. My heart still aches whenever I hear "Beautiful Boy." And I own a copy of Grapefruit and I think Yoko is a great fucking artist and musician. You don't have to smoke a bowl to agree with me but maybe it would help. Couldn't hurt.

Yesterday I made a cube out of cardboard. Yesterday while waiting for the bus I got down on my hands and knees and cut up the big ass piece of cardboard with a box cutter so that I could stuff it inside my backpack. Yesterday I drove down 1604 just after sunset. Yesterday I pumped gasoline into my car at Chevron and bought a Powerball ticket. I don't know if I won or not. Yesterday I drove home and discovered that Gravity's Rainbow arrived for me in the mail but it was in halves. Yesterday I requested a refund at eBay. Also on the drive home I cried a little and thought of writing Darlie Routier and maybe getting to know her, meeting her in person and writing a new book about her life and the case. Is she innocent or guilty? I don't know. Her guilt or innocence is not the point. Have you ever read In Cold Blood? Have you ever seen "Capote"? Okay then. I am no longer interested in chasing dick all over San Antonio and surrounding areas. I am interested in making money. I am interested in buying a McMansion and a big ass truck. I am interested in taking my son to Manhattan and showing him a Jackson Pollock painting and telling him,"This is who I named you after." I am interested in taking my son to Lima, Fiji, Santa Fe, New Orleans, Barcelona, Venice. I am interested in leaving my son a trust fund so that he never has to compromise himself and be a fucking wage slave. I want him to have OPTIONS.

When I sleep at night I sleep deep without any trouble. It is well with my soul. I couldn't say that a year ago. I couldn't say that a few months ago. But motherfucker I can say it now.

Last night I read my son the last chapter of Bullshit Rodeo. He gave it four out of five stars. It's too sad and it isn't scientifically sound. I told him someday I will win an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay because I wrote the novel and I will write the screenplay and the Oscar will belong to my son. Selah.

p.s. my maternal grandfather's dying words to me: I love you so much

I have never regarded myself as a princess. I am a warrior queen. Warrior queens do not tolerate any amount of bullshit or loathing...not even from themselves.


confused spacey drama mama

any pair of legs will do

(((admitting is the first step)))


posting again because so fucking bueno