Thursday, February 23, 2017

IMMORTAL


BREAK THE ICE


WE ACCEPT FOOD STAMPS


some people call me Maurice


DIAL TONE


READ THE WARNING LABEL


i see the moon & the moon sees me


WRITERS ARE SO FUCKING WISE

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.
God.
Beer.
Gasoline.
Tacos.
Twenty more miles
until instant
paradise.
 

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."
 

any pair of legs will do


Monday, February 20, 2017

you want to know

So I'll tell you. For breakfast I had a slice of birthday cake (vanilla with buttercream frosting) and a mug of green tea. Lunch will be customized trail mix as I'll be hiking around campus. Football shaped pretzels, raisins, dry roasted peanuts and peanut M&Ms. Congenial reminder: books and art for sale! Donations ECSTATICALLY ACCEPTED!

Fund This Blog/Keep Gringa in Tacos via PayPal:

roxixmas@gmail.com

(((MUCHAS GRACIAS)))





Saturday, February 18, 2017

difficulty with pencils


kiss my 44 yr. old ass

Yesterday at 6:29 p.m. I turned forty-four years old. I revised a collage and a painting, made and ate a Chef Boyardee cheese pizza and enjoyed coconut cake and green tea while watching a few episodes from season one of "Girls," my new favorite show. Here is an excerpt from the book I am currently devouring, Willard And His Bowling Trophies by Richard Brautigan:

Willard was made by an artist who lived in some isolated mountains in a part of California that was hard to find. The artist was in his late thirties and had had a very fucked-up life with many bad love affairs and much torment but he had somehow kept it together and was now supporting himself from his sculpture and he had a woman who took care of his basic physical and spiritual wants without fooling with his head too much.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

This isn't relevant to your life nor is it relevant to mine. But. If you're stressing out because some average ass motherfucker doesn't treat you like the queen you are, remember...this fierce ass goddess of a woman has a husband who cheated on her at least once. Comprende?

CHOCOLATE FLAVORED LOVE

No motherfucker affirms me and if he does I don't believe him. So the day after Valentine's Day I splurge on a $3 heart-shaped box of Russell Stover chocolates. I eat the entire box in two days. Some of the chocolates were milk chocolate, some were dark chocolate, some contained caramel, some contained nuts, most of them were yummy. I don't enjoy the coconut chocolates. Right now I'm baking kale and green onions and drinking room temperature lemon water. I have a big stomach. Nothing new there. Do you think the average American woman looks yummy in a bikini? Do you think the above average (by Budweiser swigging Dallas Cowboys rooting Hooters loving average American man standards) American woman who rocks a bikini is happy with her life? These are deep thoughts for a Thursday morning in Year of The Fire Rooster in San Antonio, Texas.

Look. The world is your beach ball, regardless. So what the fuck are you waiting for? Make the motherfucker BOUNCE. I'm just happy that I can buy a box of heart-shaped chocolates for myself and eat the entire box without shame. I'm happy that my happiness quotient isn't dependent on the way I look naked or in a bikini. Also. My happiness quotient is not dependent on the approval I receive or do not receive from an average ass American male. I wrote at least one book about this sort of thing. I encourage you to buy several copies. Keep one for yourself.

Friday, February 10, 2017

DREAMED BRIDGES

Yes they were beautiful in all that mist twinkling so deep and wide but actually they weren't bridges at all. They didn't connect anything. They didn't lead anywhere. They were lovely little lonely little pieces of God shining as hard as they could above miles of silver water. Illusory islands. Zero enterprise. No coconuts to collect and sell. No sun burnished tourists with their bad music and tacky luggage. Everything was made of light. I might have been dead. I was probably dead. I'm always a ghost in my dreams, never a flesh and blood participant. Dreams imitate life. There were couples, mostly gay. I envied the gay couples and the one heterosexual couple. "Must be NICE. So much affirmation in your life. So much honey drizzled hope. So much OOMPH. Ooo la la. Swooncake euphonious. A tiny infinity of well-aimed besos. Starry muchness. Fucks that aren't empty at all, not so much meat on meat. Light exploring light. Angelic angles and cryptic curves rather than another stale bologna sandwich with too much Family Dollar mustard and sweet relish. No aural vomit. Nothing hisses. Everything sings."

I didn't see diamond rings. Diamond rings are never the point. I didn't see mortgages or flashy new big deal cars or flags whipping in apple pie wind. I didn't see white picket fences. I didn't see Applebee's or Red Lobster or yours versus mine. It was kindergarten meets the jungle. Yes, there were ants and spiders and wasps. Stuff still stings, even in dreams. Snakes still do their thing. But the love defies articulation and translation and transmission and it doesn't matter where his Mars is or where her Venus glows. There's considerable knowing and the glow ensues. It certainly wasn't about killer abs or whitest teeth imaginable or best fuck ever. There was no Mariah Carey or Jessica Biel or Miley Cyrus or Playboy or Hustler or Big Luscious Tits to this particular dream. No candy heart mockery. No Air Supply. No Chicago. "How Deep is Your Love?" is a rhetorical question.

Everyone was dancing and there was plenty of laughter but it wasn't moronic. Everything felt really fucking good. This is the only kind of dream I'm interested in dying inside. All other dreams are repulsive and available on numerous shelves. Go shopping, soldiers. Coupons and carts and lists at the ready.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

MAS AGUA


FLUID PLASTIC


AZUCAR


CHATTING WITH JACK SPICER


STRAWBERRY JELLY


CELLAR DOOR


ARIES FLAVORED MARSHMALLOW


FAKE NEWS


BASIC CABLE BAND


SPAGHETTI


BAKING SODA