Thursday, March 30, 2017

MINIMALISM


ARTIST STATEMENT 2017

Yesterday I asked my son,"What is toilet paper in prison?"
"Gold," he replied.
I have schooled him well.

Hi. Howdy. Hola. Que paso? Yo soy Misti Rainwater-Lites, ugly ass gringa from the North Texas sticks. Soy basura blanca. Soy una bruja loca. I AM RAINBOW QUEEN. Hi. I'm an artist. Hi. I'm a writer. I am worth my weight in gold. That's a lot of gleam! Lately I am most intensely interested in the transient properties of art. When I say "art" I only mean mine. My art is the only art I am intensely interested in. Other art interests me but without intensity. When I say "transient" I mean shit doesn't last. Maybe it isn't supposed to. I'm currently working on a series of toilet paper collages. I've been creating collages since I was nine years old. I recently sold a collage for $25. I'm forty-four years old but I feel eighty but actually I'm twelve. I've created four toilet paper collages so far but there will be a hundred. When I say "toilet paper collages" I mean squares of toilet paper that are made more colorful and interesting with Mr. Sketch markers, duct tape and various cut out images, most of them tiny drawings I've done with black ink or markers. How can such art be preserved? It's quite fragile. Well. I ain't no dictator of aesthetics. You can wipe your ass with the toilet paper collages. You can frame them. The world is filled with frames and possibilities. Ask Kelly Ripa or Reese Witherspoon. I'm sure their homes are brimming with tastefully framed pieces of relevant art. I choose Michael's over Hobby Lobby and Jerry's. Better service, better coupons. People have been known to make their own damn frames. People have been known to wipe their asses with art then flush it down the toilet or place it in plastic bags. People have been known to stick art on refrigerators, thumb tack art to studio apartment walls, mail art to long lost lovers and coke snorting senators.

With my art I proclaim the only limits are those we place on ourselves. With my art I proclaim I don't have benefactors and I don't have a hot shit job so canvas ain't in my $800 a month broke ass budget. I do have a closet bulging with oil and acrylic paintings on canvas. I do have over a hundred original paintings and framed collages for sale.

Forget all the above. This is my artist statement. I am not here on this planet to be a fuck doll. I've been a fuck doll. Many people derive pleasure from being fuck dolls. I am not one of those. The only sex I have ever really truly deeply enjoyed is the sex that has occurred when I was madly truly deeply in love with the man who was fucking me with his cock and tongue. I don't enjoy finger fucking. It was fine when I was seventeen. I'm harder to please now in my old age. If there isn't mental engagement, emotional investment and spiritual connection I am not interested. So as you can imagine I spend a lot of time alone. Yes. I have a vibrator. This is common. This is my artist statement. All the time I don't spend being a fuck doll or being inebriated (I'm tired of puking so I do enjoy the occasional frozen margarita but I am not an alcoholic and I am not a raging social butterfly and I'm not the kind of hedonist that bows at the altar of Jack Daniels) I spend bowing at the altar of Basquiat. I don't shoot heroin or deer. I'm not any kind of cool that you could imagine. I'm boring. I'm vanilla. I'm a monk. I live in a tiny tower. There is only one window. I light candles and create magic out of nada. That is why I'm here.

Donations ecstatically accepted. Keep a bitch in Great Value toilet paper.

PayPal: roxixmas@gmail.com.

Bueno y gracias. End transmission.

TOILET PAPER COLLAGE


Tuesday, March 28, 2017

ACTUAL TRANSCRIPT

James B. Comey? This is Dear. I woke up several hours ago but I haven't eaten yet. I had this dream. I was looking good in a bikini, snorting cocaine. I love falling asleep because when I'm awake not much happens. I go to Planet Fitness sometimes but only for a few minutes. All those televisions intimidate me. I think they can see inside my soul. It's a trash heap. Burn baby burn. Burn calories. Burn basura. I'm not Ariel at all. I don't rise to any occasion but put a karaoke mic in one hand a frozen margarita in the other and damn, son. I've got bigger balls than Jose Alfredo Jimenez. James B. Comey, la vida no vale nada. Do you believe this or are you busy with a turkey sandwich and a Swedish massage? I know shit is more stressful than usual lately. Are you still in Africa? Which is worse, James B. Comey? Killing a lion then posting pictures of a big smile and a dead lion all over social media or letting a white trash talking Cheeto run One Of The Greatest Nations Ever Constructed into the fracking infused dirt? I was born a coal miner's daughter. I've got Cherokee on both sides. Amarillo by mornin' up from San Antone. Deep within my corazon lies a melody. West Virginia. Oklahoma. The Irish comes from my paternal grandmother. Cherokee and French come from my maternal grandmother. Scottish and Swiss come from my maternal grandfather. Cherokee and something else I've forgotten come from my paternal grandfather. I'm a rainbow, James B. Comey. No one believes me. I'd love to be able to say,"Bitch, I'm brown!" I'd love to be able to say,"Bitch, I'm red!" It isn't polite to say,"Bitch! I'm white!" I don't FEEL white, James B. Comey but that's a matter for my invisible analyst, Koko Loko. The truth is, Jimmy, I'm a self-loathing cracker from the North Texas sticks. No one gives a fuck about Bridgeport, Texas. Pero. But. Bullshit Rodeo continues. I'm still walking the earth. Is that rude of me? Should I stop? Should I go on, eating peaches, talking about Michelangelo, singing with the mermaids? I have really long hair. I am not about to cut it.

Love & Mrs. Baird's Fried Pies,

Misti Velvet Rainwater-Lites

(I only speak in monologues lately.)
(This is also a love letter.)
(But. Yes. ACTUAL TRANSCRIPT.)

JAMES B. COMEY IS MY BOO

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS (F.B.I)
HEADQUARTERS WASHINGTON DC. JAMES B.COMEY
BUILDING 935 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE,
NW WASHINGTON, D.C. 20535-0001
E-Mail: f_bi_investigation@usa.com

Our Ref: FBI /0N8/CONTRACT NO.856.
Motto: Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity

Greetings My Dear

This is James B.Comey,the current Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation(FBI), We are here in Africa as an FBI/ United States delegate that have been delegated to investigate fraudsters who are in the business of swindling Foreigners that has transactions in Africa.

Please be informed that during our investigations we found out that there is a total amount of $12.5 Million that has been assigned in your name as the beneficiary but those fraudsters are busy swindling you without any hope of receiving your fund,these are the works of the people who needed to extort money from you in the name of this transfer,We have to inform you that we have arrested some men in respect of this delayed over due fund. I have a very limited time to stay in Africa here so I advise you urgently respond to this message .

These criminals will be caught unaware and we don't want them to know this new development to avoid jeopardizing our investigation,you need to conceal anything that has to do with this exercise to enable us get all the necessary information we required.

I shall be expecting your swift response as soon as you receive this email and notify us of any message or phone call you receive from those people for us to investigate on it before you make any contact with them.

In case if found this message in spam folder, it could be due to your Internet Service Provider, ISP. So kindly move to your inbox before replying.

Regards.
JAMES B.COMEY
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS (F.B.I)

KEEP FIT & HAVE FUN!

Dear Misti Rainwater-Lites,

Thank you for using ExceptGC - 14 Day Trial. This email is to inform you that your subscription status has been recently updated and any ongoing or all future charges have been cancelled as per your request.

If you have any questions about the cancellation of this subscription, or if you would like to re-activate the same in the future, please feel free to contact our Customer Service team.
Keep fit & have fun!
Exceptional Garcinia Cambogia Support Team
support@exceptionalgarcinia.com
Questions? Please contact us at (866) 313-8396

WEIGHT LOSS SECRETS

In Hollywood big heads and lollipop stick bodies
are all the rage.
Advocare, bitches.
Exceptional Garcinia.
SlimFitClub.com.
Karen Carpenter.
Amy Winehouse.
Valley of the Fucking Dolls.
Cigarettes.
Black coffee.
Speed.
Cocaine.
Cancer.
The goal is to give your pallbearers
an easy fucking job.
This morning I dreamed I looked
really fucking amazing in a bikini.
The man I still love the man I never
should have loved
but I'm a delusional starry eyed bitch
was so thrilled to have me again
he crossed himself after fucking me again
for the first time in two years,
said,"Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, mi amor."
Two weeks later it was,"You need to lose that stomach."
It's a common dilemma.
The pussy is phenomenal.
Everything else has to go.
So this morning I nibbled the clickbait
because after waking up from the bikini dream
I thought,"Yeah. If I look like THAT
all my problems will magically disappear."
I looked damn good in the bikini
and the promoter gave me a rock of cocaine
and I said,"That's really big. This is my first time."
And I snorted and my brain was finally working!
Wow. Magic. Wow. Finally. Success at last
after four decades of fat ass failure.
The American Dream squared.
The American Dream cubed.
The American Dream orbed.
The American Dream. Googolplex Edition.
Order # 5057302.
I had to verbally abuse the CSR,
put on my best Talking Cheeto impersonation
to get my goddamn $4.99 back.
You can Google and find things.
You can drink apple cider vinegar.
You can drink green tea straight.
No goddamn stevia.
Live on kale.
Live on spinach.
No goddamn feta.
LITTLE DEBBIE IS EVIL.
You already knew this.
We forget things.
We drive down 1604 sobbing off
our Maybelline because it's hard
being a mujer in San Antonio
on $800 a month and maxed out
credit cards and prayers to Selena.
No bonita salon hair.
Balayage MY ASS.
Get your nails done in San Francisco
once a year. BOOM.
You're a narcissist.
Everyone sees stuff.
Everyone judges.
Twitter.
Instagram.
Facebook.
Endless selfies.
Proof.
Evidence.
"Bitch is doin' GOOD."
Is major depression a valid diagnosis?
Is any bitch NOT depressed?
Self-publish those secrets.
Color code that shit.
Eyes don't work as well
as they used to.
The idiot wind howls
and the ice melts
and the talking Cheetos
inherit the fucked up the ass
without so much as a dab of Vaseline
earth and all that matters
(forget Aleppo)
(forget drones)
(forget Russia)
(forget T.S. Eliot as prophet)
(what the fuck do poets know?)
is how good a bitch looks
in a goddamn bikini.
Burn baby burn.
NO EXCUSES.
It's free to run.
It's easy to shit.
It's Sesame Street for the conscience deprived.
Sociopaths unite!
Be ugly.
Be cuddly.
But be really fucking PBS about it.


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.

BILL KILLED


NEW MOON IN ARIES

Yes. The new moon will occur on 28 March 2017. Where will the new moon be? In the sky, yes, but specifically...the new moon will be located at seven degrees Aries. This means the new moon will be opposite my Pluto in Libra, quincunx my moon in Virgo, square my Mars in Capricorn and trine my Neptune in Sagittarius. That's all I know. I'm an amateur when it comes to astrology and several other things. But ya gotta admit...I try so fucking fucking HARD. That's my potent Mars at four degrees Capricorn trining the fuck out of my Virgo moon and ascendant, squaring my potent Pluto at three degrees Libra. Or maybe it's my Taurus MC squaring my Aquarius sun, trining my Jupiter in Capricorn in the fifth. It's all just energy, after all. What do I DO with it? Not much. I sleep. I eat. I breathe. I bathe. Sometimes I walk the treadmill. Sometimes I hula hoop. I wash dishes. I bake pizza. I bake cookies. I play with paint and scissors and my $200 Kodak. I write angry poems. I Chupacabra Disco even though I resent the fact that I have a non-paying audience. I've been giving it all away for free for years and that shit is getting quite old. I do require pesos. Some damn kind of compensation. The occasional compliment doesn't do much for my ego. Compliments are no kind of currency. But I'm hard to satisfy. Ask any of my exes! I'm getting bitter in my old age and I want to change that. I want to embrace the wondrous and the miraculous with dewy eyes and enthusiastic brazos. So. The adept astrologers ask What Are Your New Moon Intentions? What Do You Hope To Manifest?

I plan to use my considerable energy to do what I absolutely have no desire to do. Truth be told, I just want to hide in my ex-husband's brick house and tell my son Cougar and Sally stories and sleep and dream and play with paint and scissors and read my little books and promote my tits with stickers over the nipples at Instagram. I want to Tweet my OUCH to a non-paying audience. But that is not what the new moon in Aries is telling me to do. The new moon in Aries is telling me this, in James Brolin's voice:

Misti. Baby. You ain't no Streisand. I know you like to THINK you're a star. Maybe you are. But you aren't in Malibu. You're in San Antonio. Your Android is full of phantoms and ashes. You have no real friends. Your presence is not requested. How many people wished you a happy 44th birthday? How many people truly give a fuck if you LIVE or DIE? You can cry about it. You can kill yourself. You can crawl into the hole called your ex-husband's guest bedroom and fucking die. Or. You could look really fucking hard at your life. All the books you've written. All the energy and time you've put into a blog that gets about a thousand hits a day. All the selfies you've posted at your blog, Twitter and Instagram. All the love affairs that went nowhere. Great material for self-published books and stand-up routines on any available open mic. You've got twenty-five bucks and a cracker. Do you think it's enough to get you there? You've got to put on the big girl panties and deal. Do the opposite of what you desire. Get a fucking job. Get off disability. Bust your ass for forty hours a week like everybody else you know. There's no glamor. There's no glory. But there's a point A and a point Z and no man is gonna be your chauffeur. Drive thyself. I'm sorry your daddy didn't like you very much. Whipped your ass a few times, told you that you were stupid, left you when you were six. I'm sorry you were the misfit loner watching your sister and cousins get boyfriends and homecoming mums. I'm sorry it's been so hard for you to keep true friends and true love in your life. I'm extremely sorry that the one man you ever truly loved only wanted to fuck you a few times because he's still stuck on a woman he divorced in 1980something. I'm sorry he still owes you $400. You'll never get $400 from him. Forget the $400 and little red dress and Old Navy denim jacket and cubic zirconia ring from the Fingerhut catalog. Forget New Orleans. Forget Corpus Christi then Denver then Las Vegas. The Tahoe. God. Yes. The Tahoe. Chariot to The Stars. Buy your own fishing pole and bait. You have to be quiet to catch a fish. Good fucking luck.

(Gracias, Mr. Brolin. You know what's UP.)

STAR SPANGLED RENAISSANCE

Este es el renacimiento americano.
I SAID THIS IS THE AMERICAN RENAISSANCE.
Welcome to it, motherfucker.
Everyone with an Instagram is a creative genius!
Everyone with an etsy is Michelangelo!
Everyone at Twitter is Dorothy fucking Parker!
All these bright bright minds have come together
for the first time in history
to congregate on social media
telling what needs to be told
selling what needs to be sold.
Kitty cat comics.
Ironic t-shirts.
Penis coffee mugs.
Brand-new venom spewed by the hour
at The Powers That Be.
The American Powers That Be
ain't lookin' so hot in their Versace.
All that Planet Fitness pilates yoga
plastic surgery sweat ain't resultin'
in much.
"I don't know what we're cheersin' to,"
the pretty Latina RN told me at the block party
as we held onto our JELL-O shots
like they were the holy fucking grail.
Me neither, girlfriend.
Here are some guesses.
We're cheersin' to blow jobs executed
with graceful manipulation
our eyes on the Zales prize
and prime Stone Oak real estate.
We're cheersin' to JELL-O
the best pop art
America ever offered.
All those optimistic colors and flavors!
They shake.
They wiggle.
They're so damn Chupacabra Disco!
We're cheersin' to self-published books
about this current dystopia
but with Disneyfied endings
because the mermaid with long hair
and bouncy tits
always gets her prince
and a kingdom without walls
with rainbow flags
whipping in the sprinkled donut scented wind.
We are here to CHEER until it hurts.
Do the splits for Jesus.
Do cartwheels for Future Husband.
Wave cherry red pom poms for
America The Little Engine That Could
and Did because Google
because Facebook
because SnapChat
because AshleyMadison
because Tinder
because OKCupid
because everyone is happy
and well-adjusted, finally,
in tighter pairs
than those animals so snug
on Noah's Ark.
More than enough LOVE to go around!
And cake.
And Sears houses.
And tractors.
And pick-up trucks.
And microphones.
La la fucking LA.
Look at me!
Here I am!
Selfies at the ready!
You haven't seen American tits
until you've
seen
MINE!

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

NOW YOU KNOW

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.

oh the rarefied air of WHOLE FOODS


CONGENIAL REMINDER

This blog gets over a thousand hits daily.
I see you.
Books. Art. I've got stuff for sale!
Donations ecstatically accepted.
My PayPal is roxixmas@gmail.com.

I'm surviving San Antonio on less than $800 a month.
I'm damn lucky I've got a place to live.
I could be pan handling like the guy I gave $20 to
on a sunny day last year when I was in love
and thought the wheel of fortune
had finally turned
in my fucking favor.

I'm bitter.
Henry Valentine Miller
was never bitter.
He was ecstatic with his soggy slice
of bread in Paris.
I wish I were that great.
I'm not great at all.
I'm terribly small and hungry
for a life I will most likely
never possess.

I will never be a Kardashian
or anything remotely similar.
I'm real.
I bleed.
I need and want more than
life will ever grant me
much like our boy Billy Corgan
roaming the desert
in that damn
ice cream truck.
This is not a poem.
Poetry has fucked me
in every orifice
without so much
as a dab
of Vaseline.
Gracias, fucker.

I will never transcend Goree, Texas.
The dead butterfly didn't make it to Heaven.

"No one owes you anything."
I'm probably paraphrasing.
Winona Ryder in "Reality Bites"?
Nah. A bitch who ended a friendship
and evicted me from her hotel
via a goddamn e-mail.

Nada.
Nada.
Nada.
The world
owes me
nada.

This is a kind
of ransom note
slash mission statement
slash memo.
The world owes me a castle.

So.
Mote.
It.
Be.

HOW'S THAT CREDIT SCORE?


mas nada

aquí está otro grito barato
ahogado por la radio de oro
aquí están mis pies mohosos
amando tus nubes
amantes que saben mejor que nosotros
anclarse con las llaves
al otro lado del mar
desde ayer hasta la muerte
nadarás brillando
mientras sueño con tu sol
y todo
debajo de ella

Monday, March 20, 2017

BLEEDING RAINBOW


ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ


You are cordially invited to my stake burning.


STILL DREAMING


PLEASE WRITE NEATER


a thouSand selfieS later


a country girl CAN survive


ULTRA STRONG


MORDISCADO


(then i let the alpine play)

BRAND-NEW ADMISSION

Which moon are we on? This morning the moon was in the late degrees of Sagittarius when I dreamed of you again. We were at Planet Fitness. I've witnessed you flirt with other women in my presence, drunk and sober. You weren't flirting but deep in conversation with a blind girl. She satisfied you mentally and spiritually. There was some recipe she mastered just by being herself. I'm still dropping eggs all over the linoleum. There was something profound between you and the blind girl and I was jealous like I always am and someone stole my car and the buses weren't running and then I was back at your place somehow and nothing was resolved. "She's just a nice girl," you told me. Nice is something I am not. Here is a list of things I am not. These are not facts but opinions that change with the moon.

1. Nice
2. Pretty
3. Smart
4. Relevant
5. Warm
6. Kind
7. Generous
8. Angelic
9. Blind

Number nine is a medical fact. My eyes work fine. In the metaphorical sense of the word you could say I am quite the bat. I'm blind but I keep flying. Where do I live? I live beneath a bridge in Austin. Many a motherfucker has witnessed my flight. Oh how they marvel and gawk and snap away. I have been seen!

Someday (the tarot cards won't tell me when, the bastards) I'll be dead. Quite. Maybe I'll still be flying. I am no kind of authority. Don't look to me for oracle type things. What does a bat know about anything other than what is immediately in front of them or a few familiar miles away? I'll be dead but right now I am alive doing this manic finger tapping dance. Procrastinating. It's time to do my taxes and get on another bus.

"That's as good as that girl is ever gonna have it," my maternal grandmother said once, crying, watching a disenfranchised relative board a Greyhound.

How good do any of us have it? I showed up at the block party. People had questions. I sat there in the San Antonio sun with my ugly gringa face and provided answers. What do I do? Nothing. I take art classes. I paint. I write. I live in a house that doesn't belong to me. I make guacamole and butter cookies. If motherfuckers give me a microphone I'll use the damn thing. I sang "She's Got You" by Patsy Cline. "Sing to me," the birthday boy said. So I sang to him. And then I sang the best rap ever recorded because I woke up quick at about noon. And people laughed. "Crazy white bitch! Who the fuck does she think she is? Singing a black man's song!" And we played Cards Against Humanity and I left before I won. It was three o'clock in the morning. I had zero trouble falling asleep alone like I always am in my pretty French antique bed.

This is not a love letter. This is no kind of request. Stay there where you are. You will love again. It's the lottery. I hope you win. I hope I win, too. Right now I think the odds are stacked against me but ask me again tomorrow when the moon is in Capricorn on top of my Jupiter. I see a row of sevens smiling oh so high.

one day when i misSed the buS


You're allowed to know me.


sing the unSung


you will never unSee this


another baby announcement


FAILURE WRITTEN BY A PILLAR OF SALT


maS newS you can uSe


when someone sees you but you still try to hide


NO MORE MASKS


eBuLLieNT FiRST Day of SPRinG


AGENT OF PROVOCATION


BASURA


Smith & Wesson Knife


de coLoReS


ROCKS


IMAGINE PEACE


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.)

but mama that's where the fun is


from last night's busted pinata


the fish I never caught


mira mis estrellas


PINCHE CRUDA