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.