Tuesday, March 21, 2017


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.

The world
owes me

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


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