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.
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.
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