Saturday, November 5, 2011

Gnashing of Teeth

Queen of Every Fucking Thing

Stick your scepter up your ass.

Mud Mermaid

American Mythology

Now offering new crunchy zero fat grams candy coating. Now offering eleven new shades of safe sex. Bright white smiles all around. Penis cupcakes on the side. Vagina salad free to first thousand customers. Splooge rouge uncouth voting booth. Embarrassing spills disguised with glitter paint. Haunted by considerable ghosts of house warming parties past. White gods love black gods go down on green gods lick yellow gods eat brown gods. Everyone is smiley face roll-back prices happy. Multiplex checks in the mail. Hot chicks from hell lining up around the block for who knows what. New surprises every Thursday. Ambushed nervous clientele. No one is telling the truth.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

moRe GooGLE FoR youR BuCK

Blow jobs twenty bucks a pop. Reality dance star also sings acts models makes cozy cushion in family media room. Demi. Ashton. Beyonce. Chaz Bono. Shoe bargain. Purse cheap from Hong Kong. Barry Manilow lyrics broken down simple for common American retardbot. "Now I must destroy thee as I would a snake." Bible sex. Biblically approved lubrication. Spit. Shampoo. Discount lotion, spring fresh scent.

Friday, September 30, 2011

GooGLe GRaMs

Brad is a big blabber mouth. Jen is fine. Brad who? Jen has a hot new man. Jen is drinking water instead of wine. Baby Jen coming right up! Justin is so easily bored. Jessica is hot but lacks charisma. Where is the glue? Is it okay for Suri to wear bright red lipstick? 91% people on the street say NO. Beyonce is getting on my last goddamn nerve, being so hot and rich and talented and happy and down home fine. Beyonce will be more appealing when she loses a leg or is badly burned or starts sucking on the stage. This mean spirit prevails. Some people are happy to see their fellow humans shine shine SHINE but my eyeballs are breaking. The medication is not working. A pet giraffe might help.

A Girl Can Get So Gosh Darn Confused

Expired Nickel Valentine...snatch it up

I've got a lot of poetry collections out there. I am most proud of Expired Nickel Valentine. Read the reviews, buy it, devour it, be dazzled. Grazi.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

What a Nightmare She Has Turned Out To Be!

Stroke my ego.
Stroke it, I say!
Stroke it like a kitty cat!
Make it purr.
Stroke it like a cross-eyed chimpanzee.
Calm it down.
My ego is mewling scratching
shitting all over the award-winning furniture.
It must be stopped and soon.
Food and comfort are in short supply.
I'm feeling rather tangent berry.
Talk about poison!
As for the asshole...yes! Never
enough sunshine blown there.
Scorch the hairs off, would ya, boo?
I'm calling in all favors.
Universe done me wrong one time too many,
plenty of heartache to go around,
every dog has her day,
every cloud is lined in mink,
I am thinking of a number.
Lucky you.
It's yours.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Square One

It's January it's Texas the sky is a melting rainbowsicle and in the yard everything is dead but the heart is beating and the mind is grappling. At my feet there is a calendar. The squares stare me down, accusing. Has he forgiven me yet? I dance love to death in my tap shoes I make my mark across the marble floor and tight voices squeeze my fingers until I hear the tiny bones snap. Kicked out of the casino I look for Chinese bakery in blizzard but all the signs conspire against me and the lights are dim on this side of the dream.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Until Now

He sure as shit didn't kiss me take me fuck me hold me keep me marry me when he had the chance. All these sleep walkie talkie incommunicado neptune floundering motherfuckers in my life! Saturn square Mercury times a billion! I dream of screaming in blood wrapped in plastic tap dancing the goddamn coals to diamonds in sister's hand-me-down heels with Jesus cock on my breath and still the silence thicker than ketchup oozing Texas big boy burger. Hello! I'm home! I'm here! I'm alive I'm vivid I'm dripping light! A note on the wall from husband, angry scrawl: CLEAN THIS PLACE UP! IT'S A MESS! THANKS! I'm still dreaming of the first Leo the one who told me he thought I was yelling rape when I was fifteen in the summer and he was coming up the hill to get his share. He could have thrown me in the most rapid part of the river and fucked me senseless against foam and beer cans and jagged rock and I would have stared him down sticking screams in my choir girl throat meeting each thrust with damp quivering welcome. But now he's rich and I'm not and his wife makes more sense than I will ever pretend to and if I make it to the symphony before I start sagging this will all have been worth it. I can see myself now clear as eager teenage dick all decked out in black velvet and genuine pearls streaking my makeup with true tears my mouth forming words I never used until now.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Las Vegas

I'm moving to Las Vegas to be a whore. First I will cleanse myself with bleach and lasers. Broken things will be fixed with staples and knives. All of my heartache and disillusionment, an angry black vomit glob, will be condensed to a hard jagged stone I can use to maim, blind, kill and stun things. Men will look into my cobalt eyes and know I mean business. You want a date? Buy me a steak and a baked potato. I want the whole goddamn chocolate cake, the one in the window that is a miracle, that does not melt under all those fucking angelic lights. I am not bitter. I am as sweet as ripe strawberries drowning in champagne. We can have fun. We can smoke in the sun and lounge by the lagoon with all the other lost witches and pirates. I'm moving to Las Vegas to be a witch. I will cook up spells that make the wrong men beg and the right man follow my scent to the waking cafe. The neon is going down and we are coming up. Listen. My heart after all these miles is still a giddy darling drunken drum.



Horse had a predilection for plain chocolate candy and orange soda. He enjoyed fishing on his Uncle Bartholomew’s property and frying the catfish in a skillet with copious amounts of butter. One day Horse would marry but not until he found a woman with buck teeth and a deep understanding of his heart’s intricate machinations.


One day you will be rich famous shiny bright star pasted on someone’s idea of how heaven should be. The work will pour in, Thanksgiving gravy. Pecan pie in your mouth because you are so sweet. People on street will say, “Well. Hell. Must be nice.” It is nice. It is your star life.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Fat Dicks

Here comes idiot ballet time. Look yonder, son. Chugging down the track, dumb ass train. Choo choo! Life sucks donkey dong and then you die! There is magic to grab but some hands are faster than others. Fat hands are no good for tricks. Fat dicks are more fun to suck than skinny dicks. Yum.

Mommy Taps

Mommy was tap dancing, sweating, grimace smiling all over the dirty linoleum. Lionel stood in the doorway in his diaper, sucking his thumb. His eyes were big and blue and bloated with questions. Doesn’t Mommy see me here? When will Mommy feed me? Where is Daddy? Why can’t Daddy show up and make Mommy stop?

We Can't Drive 55

Abe was drinking vodka laced strawberry milk. For Benny it was lukewarm tap water. Jill was swigging acai berry juice. The waning moon was a hunk of angel food cake in the sky. Ants and beetles were crawling around their vast world.
 “We should figure things out,” Jill said.
Abe burped.
”You’re ambitious,” Benny muttered.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Mucho Mas Salt

I am doing things despite you. This life is silly. I will not be an accomplice. While the phone does not ring and the roses do not bloom I dance a manic ballet around the burning letters, the dying stars. We need more than batteries here. I am cooking poor woman stew. It burns tongues.

Real Butter

Seeds spill down my breasts. I remain juicy with secrets and passing glance stories. My eyes are richer than the earth. Worms play hide and seek between the lines. Ghosts tell hungry jokes. Would you please pass the melting butter? It is time to tear the bread to pieces. I would like the biggest hunk.

Persistent Little Knocker

My heart is hell seasoned, Saturn strong, plump pink clitoris pretty. The gods hang my heart up above the others, giving the lunch room delirious gleam. In dreams my heart soars above cranky bones singing Rocky Horror songs and Baptist hymns. You would think my heart won more than a few contests. No. It lost.

Read My Rider

Clown Face

Fuck me on a train. Fuck me on a boat. Fuck me in France. Fuck me in a field of poppies. The prescription calls for more than this. I know the way to Mexico. Most girls are not this heavy. I learned the dance when I was territorial about balloons. I cry, clown face on.


55 Lovers

This is not my gown. This long red gown with spaghetti straps and raised paisley belongs to my mother. It became too small for Cynthia in the wash. I will shoot myself in this dress tonight wearing lipstick of a darker red. The pictures will scream redemption, ascent. Masculine eyes will notice and maybe brighten.

55 Frogs

Look out the window. Trees are still standing. The ice cream truck has already passed. Soon the moon will pop into the sky above the green black branches. Crickets are heard not seen. Cigarettes are on sale. Tired women are fucking restless men. Sugar filled children are screaming for more. Asphalt street is cooling off.


Monday, August 15, 2011

Reminder To Clean

What was she doing in the kitchen?
She wondered. She stood barefoot on the tacky linoleum, holding onto the sticky counter, looking around at the boxes of cereal and bowls of lemons and bananas. There was a rooster cup towel wrapped around the refrigerator door handle. A reminder to clean? Clean what?

"There goes the ice cream truck," she murmured. She couldn't place the tune. In odd intervals a cheery robotic voice cried out,"Hello!" What the hell? When she was a kid the ice cream trucks just blared "The Entertainer."

"Mommy! I'm through!"
Boy. Yes. On the toilet. She left the kitchen still not knowing.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Bob Visits

Much Excluding Interest Over Color

All taken photos are from the material individual parts, but color can to the material item somewhat differently its color. NO digital camera can reflect 100% the natural world color and carry the screen attitude also a point difference. Think twice before offer or buy you, if you are much excluding interest over color!

Sugar Sugar

All American Shit River

I was at the end of my rope. I waited tables eight hours per day, which then sex calls take three hours each night. I could hardly form rent and redeem all my changes. There was never the money, which became to past leave the salon and the Bowlingbahn for journeys. Then I began to sell enemas for All American Shit River. Now I drive a Jaguar and live in a beach front side free-hold flat! My hair looks better than Rapunzel's!

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

He Succeeded...You Can, Too

Tuna of the Can?

Are you made use to changed its proper master? Are ready you to eat the caviar of the crystal instead of the tuna of the can? Thus? He prepares for the change? Of course you are. This is because you are here, goose parvo! You do not have that to suck the tap she licks the donkey eats râs. Everything that you need to make is con peoples in believing that is the only way. You will occur. You will occur without bleed.

Russian Mountains & A Lake

Your family deserves better. You deserve silk, not polyester. Your sister deserves diamonds, zirconia noncubic. Your brother deserves football, not swell out of rubber of store of the dollar. Synchronization. Good industry. Good moment to obtain implied. To fail people. Not systems. Correct computer. Phantom in the camp; learned the system. Worked. Live on the ranch nowadays with hamsters personal assistances good friends wives of cats of dogs children of horses. There are Russian mountains and a lake. There is even a superb slide. This can be your life too much if you cease to be so lazy.

How I Came Here: Internet Business

Dismissed? Never again for me! Before it found east business that had gone to the university, secured a degree and it went to work in corporative America. He was very ambitious and it had enormous goals and dreams. I gave my all. I burst my balls. I hurt yet for above obtaining dismissed four times to seven years. I made vote find a way to begin my own business. Pornography or goats was not interested in. That one is how I came here.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Wait Until Year of Horse

Operation zombies. A girl in hardship is leaguing together with disaster. The slight currents swallow the throats of swans. Honey thief wakes up narrow road. Wink cringe fallen crest. His plumage out of season.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Sweet Country Gal

a Joe Pachinko poem

Rape Donuts

Gone are the glorious gobble fucks of yesteryear,
gone the super sleazy slut leaps of joy.
No more weezing for nibs.
Even the pleasures of lounging
in the slime shadow darkness
of the antique porno palace
have turned sordid, gone Walt Disney
There's only so much time you can spend
watching a bad blowjob,
or some subnormal mustachioed palooka
eating pussy
without finesse,
And why the close-up
of the woman's half-wiped asshole
with the inflamed hemorrhoid grape clusters?
Why the old slobbering drunk
eating the green smashed banana
out of the other girl's ass?
We might as well all be fucking glazed donuts,
& that thundering herd in the streets outside, mooing
& squawking,
what are they thinking?
Who knows what they're thinking?
& who gives a flying fuck at a rolling donut
what they're thinking?
But I'll tell ya boy,
some o' them donuts are starting to look mighty good,
yeah, some of them donuts look good.
I'd be lucky now
if I got one of those dry, old-fashioned donuts to fuck
as I wait here
in the dingy elevators of survival
for a new Venus of cooperation
to put me on a diet
of organic
whole grain

Joe Pachinko
from The Urinals of Hell

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


Their Words Could Blow Up In You

You can feel as you today have a small piece of the deep magic in his disposition, it's yet not his to use for the personal increase. But the answers are more probable now to come to you with dreams, instead of rational logic, so don't solutions of the search of it through the channels generally. Although their words could blow up in you, using images and the use of symbolic gestures can strongly affect the result of its work

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Few Artists Dare This Much Truth

I Declare...if this is not art...ART DOES NOT EXIST.

Lost in the Mail

Joe I am knitting this with bones
the blood spools
at my feet.
You do not know what you gave me
a lifetime
in one week.
It doesn't take much
to win a woman like me
left too long in shadows
of chupacabra night.
It takes more than most men
can comprehend
with their liar roses
and smooth telephone voices
dressed up for seduction riddle.
You are the man I never could have
dreamed or designed
with my broken
Baptist ghost girl hands.
I send you a letter each day
without a stamp or address.

I'm still here.
I'm still there.
In that tub
offering my throat
to the

Carved in Stone

Our names would be carved in stone, I said.
What am I doing.
What am I throwing away.
You cannot discard a tombstone.

I remember the sun of that day.
I watched you sleep on my mattress
as I wrote the letter telling you what
you did not want to hear.
Darling I love you but if I stay
one of us will die.

No man loved me no man will love me
as you have loved me
these seven years.
You do not label me as whore
even in the brutal whore face
of this, my mad mutable heart
crying for something more tangible.
Last night I cried thinking of another man
lost to me for the rest of my life
and you reached for my hand.
Christ. Christ. Christ.

What do I do
with this bounty.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Today's Scope: Multiple Translations (Aquarius)

Everyone forms a part in its film, now there drastic lion is Sun in its house 7 of others. Unfortunately you can of someone tiredly grow; behavior concerned of  long themselves for sincerity and truth, but it could feel as if you at this moment shortchanged in its relations. It will much less exhaust, if you accept circumstances, which others probably state to all, which can do it. It is to a high degree favourable, when you have today, in place of, to wish for more.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Six and a Half Packs a Day

Scotty and Greg were in high school and they were at the stove but the whole house was dark and I was a kid and it must have been the Seventies. Shag carpet. Greg said he smoked six and a half packs of cigarettes a day. That did not seem plausible even to my kindergarten mind.
"John Belushi only smoked two. Dan Aykroyd said it was the cigarettes that killed him, not the speedball," I said.
"Fuckin' Dan Aykroyd," Greg muttered.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

I'm Tough

Free William S. Burroughs

I had one peso left. I walked into a cantina and ordered a beer. There was no draft beer and bottle beer cost a peso. Thee was a group of young Mexicans at the end of the bar, and I got to talking to them. One of them showed me a Secret Service badge. Probably a phony, I decided. There's a phony cop in every Mexican bar. I found myself drinking a tequila. The last thing I remembered was the sharp taste of the lemon I sucked with the glass of tequila.

(from Junky)

Free Ezra Pound

The Garret

Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
             that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet
              like a gilded Pavlova,
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness,
               the hour of waking together.

Ezra Pound


Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Mysti Rainwater

I GooGLe myself from time to time. As a thing of factly (Babel Fish is my new favorite toy...things are found in translation as often as they are lost)...I GooGLed myself just now and found a woman named Mysti Rainwater. She lives a vibrant life in Arizona. Her life sounds vibrant to me because she has a job I think I would enjoy, a job with purpose and decent pay, a job that is more than a job, a job that is a calling, a service to others. I could not be a nurse. I thought about that once for about two seconds. I am squeamish. I am lazy. I could be a therapist. I could be a psychologist. I've been seeing psychiatrists, counselors, psychologists and therapists (and preachers) since I was nine years old (my hair was falling out and I was mean to my sister for no good reason). What a dream job. You get to sit on your ass and feel sorry for people. I could do that shit all day long without even trying. "Here's a book that might help you on your journey," I would say to a young girl struggling with self-esteem issues because her daddy abandoned her for a hot barmaid in New Orleans and boys didn't feel like kissing her and she didn't get invited to many slumber parties or sock hops. I would hand the young girl a pristine copy of Nova's Gone Potty, Bullshit Rodeo, Arsenal of Spitwads, eBuLLieNT voMiT or Sloppy Mouth.

The thing is I don't have time or money for school. As it is I am in $25K in debt for changing my major six or seven times (I have sixty accredited hours which does not mean s-h-i-t) and attending a private university for two semesters. So I sit on my ass and blog, write poems and novels, read books and drink lemon ice water, dreaming of Fiji and Paris and Rome and Lima and San Francisco. This is not my calling. This is my time killer.

Better Than Decent Review of Bullshit Rodeo

You're reading and enjoying a book by an author whose work is still fairly new to you. The author references other writers with whom you are much more familiar. It's a comforting and gratifying feeling - shared tastes and influences; you feel a greater closeness to the writer whose book is in your hands.

I experienced this when immersing myself in the small Texan towns vividly conjured up by Bullshit Rodeo, a novel published last year by Misti Rainwater-Lites. Somewhere along the way, there is mention of reading and re-reading Charles Bukowski's Women, a novel whose protagonist is Henry Chinaski, the alter-ego used in four of Bukowski's novels as well as countless short stories and narrative poems.

Bukowski's style seems widely considered to be composed of elements of extreme honesty and realism. So many of his devoted fans find it difficult to tell where Chinaski ends and the real Bukowski begins. While the two do overlap, there are some crucial differences, not least around the matter of isolation. The loner Chinaski keeps the world firmly at arm's length. His creator was a prolific correspondent, answering much of the vast quantity of mail sent to him.

I find myself asking the same question about the Misti Rainwater character captured in the pages of Bullshit Rodeo, a work whose action switches back and forth between Texas and California, where the protagonist heads in pursuit of unrequited love for another writer.

The Misti in these pages recounts a largely unhappy childhood and adolescence of not fitting into a world of church, school, football games and suffocating family life. The narrator recalls numerous false starts - a rashly entered marriage, an abandoned college degree, an abortive stint in the army, unloved and unsuitable jobs, giving up her first child for adoption. The breadline never seems to be far below Misti, her long-suffering second husband and her only child, a boy for whom she struggles to act as the warm, encouraging mother she knows she should be.

The backdrop to these miseries are sketched quite effectively. But this is done not so much with naturalistic descriptions of landscapes or interiors (these details are generally quite sparse) but by listing the cultural artifacts of the settings. Not least of these artifacts is food. For me, I associate non-metropolitan, non-cosmopolitan America with a diet of sweet, fatty, bland foods with bright colours and childish names. Misti's Texas is made of buttery microwave popcorn, sprinkled donuts, fried chicken, Chick-o-Stick and McDonald's. This is contrasted with a more sophisticated life of health food, cultural pursuits and affluent ease in the California for which she hankers:

"Somewhere else that is not here women eat yoga bars and text message their lovers and discuss designer shoes with their girlfriends over cranberry salads".

I wonder, then, how much of the author really is in these pages. Is this a Chinaski-style caricature, created for the sake of sustaining mood, interest and intensity? Or is the Misti of Bullshit Rodeo a faithfully accurate rendering of the writer, making this purely an autobiography rather than a novel? If the latter, it might be too tough to empathise at times. By no means will everyone find it possible to sympathise with the narrator's on-off withdrawal from the responsibilities of parenthood.

Either way, the story takes hilarious turns, not least in its treatments of bleakly unappealing cyber-sex. There is laughter in the dark. Raw, raucous laughter.

I enjoyed this immensely - and the book has done much to accelerate the pace at which I am coming to believe that there is some great writing being done outside the industrial system of the mainstream publishing houses and booksellers. That Misti Rainwater-Lites has had to go down the self-publishing route so far is an indictment of the conservatism of the marketing-led book trade and not any indication of a lack of quality about what she does.

~This is My England

Free Ted Hughes Poem


You wanted to study
Your stars - the guards
Of your prison yard, their zodiac. The planets
Muttered their Babylonish power-sprach -
Like a witchdoctor's bones. You were right to fear
How loud the bones might roar,
How clear an ear might hear
What the bones whispered
Even embedded as they were in the hot body.

Only you had no need to calculate
Degrees for your ascendant disruptor
In Aries. It meant nothing certain - no more
According to the Babylonian book
Than a scarred face. How much deeper
Under the skin could any magician peep?

You only had to look
Into the nearest face of a metaphor
Picked out of your wardrobe or off your plate
Or out of the sun or the moon or the yew tree
To see your father, your mother, or me
Bringing you your whole Fate.

(from Birthday Letters)

Tuesday, July 12, 2011


 He says it's done but it isn't. I eat the fat and the burnt pieces. In the kitchen I shudder when he walks up from behind. "This kitchen is too small," I snap. My mother's second husband always inspired revulsion in me, revulsion and fear. Dave was six-foot-five. The last time he whipped me with his belt I was fourteen. Daddy was six-foot-seven. The last time he spanked me with his belt I was six.

The husband hears me say,"Goddamn it, don't drop these puzzles pieces on the floor! The floor is filthy!" He tells our son to bring the puzzle into his bedroom where he is reading a book by some astronaut. I hide in my room with my digital pictures. This is important work, editing photographs for my flickr account. The world does not turn without these contributions. And the poems. Yes. As always. Poems to write. Such light I shine shine shine. Hide it under a bushel I will not.

Later I hear him cursing in the kitchen and crying out,"Why? Why? Why?" I have done something wrong in the kitchen. I have been doing things wrong in the kitchen since the summer of 2004 when he let me share his single bed, the springs sticking up, in the room he rented from the social butterfly who thought she was sexy but wasn't. I tried to boil big ears of corn once. He condescended he patronized but in a gentle way. I am so inept. I saw my psychiatrist yesterday. The last word I said to him was "inadequate." He asked,"Motherhood has overwhelmed you, hasn't it?" And I replied,"Yes. It has. These have been the hardest three years of my life. I am inadequate."

Earlier I checked the mail. Walked through the door with the ripped package in my hand. The "Sylvia" dvd I ordered. "Mommy is going to learn how to clean the oven," I said to my son. I was really talking to my husband. Unhappy spouses do that. They put on a show in front of the kids.


Thursday, July 7, 2011

Land Peoples Can Survive

The Predigermann says the fact that it is the end of the time and the river Mississipi is it a dry goin
the interest is highly and the stock exchanges descend down and you received only attacked if you city
I live back in the wood, see you a woman and the children and the dogs and I
I received a shotgun rifle and a four-wheel drive and a land boy can survive land peoples can survive
I can a field all day long plow I can Wels from the dawn to dawn me got caught we to form our own whisky and our own smoke also not is too many things, these old boys not do
can we to build good old tomatoes and wine even made on and in Land boy can outlive land peoples can to survive because you us verhungern be able not out and you diagonally leave us to run Cuz we' re raised it old boys on shotgun and we say that beauty and we said Madam and if you are not into that
give we not a curse we came of the west Virginiakohlenbergwerken and the rocky mountains and those and western sky and we know a dollar enthäuten; we can a GET rotting line run let and a land boy can outlive land peoples can survive I had a good friend in New York town center it designated me never by my name, straight Hinterwäldler my grandfather taught to me, how one lives away of the country and seins, a businessman informed it to be it maintained, over me illustrations of the Broadway nights to send and I it somewhat made wine send however it of a man with a Switchblademesser killed for 43 dollar lost my friend its life the identification love, to of something beech nut in to spit the Gecken examine and shoot you it with my old 45 causing you a land boy can outlive land peoples can survive
You cannot know a cause us out verhungern and you us Cuz we not run to let leave; RH raised it old boys on shotgun and we say that beauty and we said Madam and if you are not into that give we not a curse we are of north California and of SüdAlabam and small cities know a dollar completely around this country and we enthäuten; we can let run a GET rotting line and a land boy can outlive land peoples can survive

She'll They Eat Alive

Before it left William on their 12 daily North American journey with their new husband, Kate got a thing straight much: it can pack for, thank you. After a cord of the glare appearance this week, we're convinces. From Montreal to Alberta, she's let jaws at each attack, which in illustration-embracing knee length coverings fall, into which fascinators, in the Stiletten and even in a pair of murderers thin jeans one dressed. Into straight of one week the duchess formed an indelible marking on Canadian kind. But it is ready to take on Los Angeles? On Friday the pairs go to the celebrity center, country of micro minis; in front; it Bag and diamond verkrustete domestic animal additives. How does it go swimming with the Rachel to Zoe addressed shark fish? If their perfect Canadian dress order is any announcement, she' ll they eat alive

West Virginia Coal Mine

There is a filthy invisible angel whore of a woman drowning in dirt. She has stopped functioning. The soup of the day is suffocation. Texas cricket coyote cow night is coming on coming down caving in and the towels are sour in piles. Daddy is the sun rumored but not believed. These worms so thick and purposeful. These are Mother. No breath in any direction. Send down a bird.

Monday, June 20, 2011

from Shroud of the Gnome


I turned on the waterworks and said
"Well you don't need to make a federal case out of it."
But she did and I suppose she needed to.
Let's get out of this hellhole, I said.
That's a nice dog and pony show you have there, she
Be my guest, I said.
You're really chewing up the scenery tonight, she said.
And you, you're a predatory woman, one of easy morals,
     cheap and tawdry.
Hey listen schmendrick, at least I'm not an inept
Aw, Cupcake, don't let's get cruel now, I can't help for
       stains on the wallpaper, okay?
You're like a rabbit responding very rapidly to food.
I confess, in a crutch and toothpick parade
      I would never single you out.

Down the road, about a quarter of a mile, a tractor trailer
     jackknifed and took a station wagon and a minibus
     with it straight to hell where they had some
     remarkably good carrot cake.
A jackal-headed god of the underworld
      joined them at their table
      and was surprisingly convivial.


Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Sure About That

No annual fees. Tease me trick me take me there.
Blazing bargains. Tell me I am king.
Larger girth guaranteed. Test me on this.
Regarding. This, the thumping tango of my thirsty heart.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Chalk Dust Hands

It began with a red tricycle, the running away from home, the searching for something bigger and juicier and ultimately more humane. I would run after the rainbow and return to daddy's leather cowboy belt. Early on I learned to coat my hands with chalk dust to avoid sweat and friction. I was born beneath Saturn's frown. I was kept after school. I watched the world spin outside smudged windows. I was not allowed to swing or slide or hide and seek.

The preacher droned on about the ending of the world. My ears were still small and able to tune him out as my fresh blue eyes focused on the stained glass window behind the pulpit. Jesus was a kind shepherd. He loved his lost lambs. I wanted to be that white, that worthy of love and protection. I banged the chalk dust from the Sunday school erasers. I coated my hands.

The first man who wanted me for longer than a couple of nights was a pool shark. He was also a con artist. He wanted to be a rich and famous chef but those things take time. He feasted on my pussy and made me believe I had some value. I was pretty tasty for someone who dropped out of college and could not hold down an entry level job. My taste in music was a bonus and he liked the fact that after our first date I read his tarot cards then fucked him senseless. We moved into a candy colored house after a week of fucking. For months we fucked and fought and loved and hated, accused and abused. In March he knocked me up and I was glad. He left me in July for Jennifer and the rage and sorrow almost killed me but didn't. The baby grew into a girl. I gave her away to happy sane functioning Christian parents who owned a house and lots of other stuff. My girl would have a daddy, a happy daddy who drank Diet Pepsi instead of Jack Daniels.

My heart became a blackboard. I wrote across it in pink chalk a hundred times or more. I Will Not Give It Away Ever Again. I fell in love with Jesus and the Apostle Paul. I wrote Jewish names in my King James Bible. I would marry a man someday who valued me above all else. We would have four babies. We would give them Jewish names like David and Hannah. My hands stayed clasped in prayer. My hands stayed coated in chalk dust.

In a play I was a nun. I was on my knees. I did not remember my lines. The slutty rocker chick with the bad ass boots had to feed me my lines in a husky cigarette whisper. She would never coat her hands with chalk dust. She was all emphatic slap. I prayed I looked down I apologized. My mother approached the stage. She would find my daughter, the daughter who was not mine. It was time to find her and tell her the truth. I did not agree. She was my daughter but she wasn't. She did not belong to my mother. I did not belong to my mother. My mother thought everyone who cried and apologized belonged to her. My mother was quite the Hera, quite the Demeter. I was born and stayed Persephone, sloppy with spilled seeds. "That is not love! You do not know love!" I screamed. They were open, the wounds, festering and stinging with the salt from my mother's crocodile tears. I was always the blue whale hiding men from God. Come camp out in me and forget where you are from. When blue whales cry you know that shit is real. It's real it's deep it's pretty fucking felt. Blue whales are heavy with refugees.

Not everyone loves my poetry. Not everyone loves how I take straw and spin it while the kingdom sleeps and the cattle low. Maybe it's gold, sometimes. Usually it is dross. All my losses I take them and turn them into so much dross. The photographs sometimes are preternaturally pretty, the pictures of my face, the pictures of faces that belong to various inert dolls. Cover art matters but not everyone thinks so. I think sometimes I strike it, I strike gold.

Not one person matters more than any other. That is what I am trying to learn with my chalky hands. I am trying not to discriminate. I am trying to loosen what is left of my grip.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

More SeLF

Lites Camera Action

Transient Ensemble

not so long ago yes as you recall i was a goat
bleating my lonely deep and wide in ink pasture
night fighting with rats and skunks for my share
of garbage

nothing changes at the carnival
hot dogs smell like death with
a sense of humor
one person in nine million
plunges to death from
benign ferris wheel
(all those pretty sizzling bulbs)

next to piano
you are most cathedral
your eyes
almost make me
to be

Berlin Graffiti by M. P. Powers


Friday, May 13, 2011

I Am Not That

jovial loud rednecks partyin' in the front yard
next door
blastin' shitty country music
the new stuff
all gutless bravado
too much music
not enough voice
it's Friday night in Kerens, Texas
I am alone at the altar
taking notes

..."I was tryin' to be nice," she says
..."what the hell will it take to make you happy?" he asks

(the eternal question)

if drunken pussy eating and cheap beer
won't do
the trick
boy, your ass is up shit creek
without the
proverbial paddle

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

good aching god

Bruce & Jessica, The Flirtatious Cheerleader Twin

Bruce's mouth felt so good on Jessica's neck and shoulders and pretty puckered up pink nipples. She shivered and grabbed Bruce's wet black hair. She wrapped her long tanned waxed legs around Bruce's hips. Jessica ground her cunt against Bruce's erection. Bruce groaned.
"Are you a fucking cock tease, Jessica Wakefield?" Bruce asked in his husky rich boy voice.
"You know I'm a virgin, Bruce Patman, richest guy in town, driver of Van Halen blasting shiny black Porsche. You know I've kissed most of the football players at Sweet Valley High and a couple of the chess club nerds. But you are making my virgin pussy purr soooo wicked sweet. You can, like, totally devirginize me right now if you want," Jessica murmured in her tantalizing head cheerleader perfect size six voice.
"Well, I love to hear that, baby, but I must warn you. It is going to hurt like a motherfucker. We should go someplace more secluded. I don't want the gang to hear you yelling."
"Take me to Enrique's Motor Lodge!"
"Oh, Jessica. You will remember this night for the rest of your life."

And she sure enough did.

Fantasy Ranch Circa Early 1996

He wasn't going to pay the measly twenty bucks for a lap dance. That much was goddamn crystal clear. But she had no hustle, no self-esteem, so she stayed at the table and let him make her feel like refried shit.
"That girl is gorgeous," he said in a thick Russian accent. He was staring at the big blond on the main stage. She looked really fucking healthy and self-possessed.
"Yes. I'd fuck her," the girl with short black hair said.
"But I have the penis. I'm the man."
"Yes. You have the penis. You are the man. You would fuck her. I would watch in agonizing envy."
"You know, in my country they kill women like you."
She laughed and sipped her glass of pinot grigio. He stared at her with freezer burn eyes. She silently berated herself for dropping out of college. This was not her game.

Monday, April 18, 2011

This Book Will Make You Fuck Yourself

What with the prose, poetry and eerily gorgeous photographs, you will have no choice but to fuck yourself into a blasphemous froth after reading Enrique's Motor Lodge Room #22.

Ferrier Farm

As tradition dictates after the hunt in Pop's pasture
for the fabled Prize Egg we returned home sticky
with lamb blood and fat with honeyed ham.
The toilet would not flush so we lit a purple candle
and buried Mother's favorite girdle in the backyard.
I pretended to be Briar Rose. I slept and slept
until Sister tickled my toes with her bald eagle feather.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Not Winning

my lovers

my favorite electra song

Love Eaten By VCR

I flung a chair across the room, called him a bastard, knew as I threw myself down on the mattress in his room that I was just playing out the drama that began for us at a dance in Harper, Texas in November of 1995. What else would he do but sit on the sofa with dead eyes and stuff his mouth with saltine crackers? He wasn't there. He left me when our daughter was an embryo in my womb. Jennifer The Trust Fund Brat From Houston had it, big tits, a bigger smile and she could speak French. I would have abandoned me, too.

The video was so sad that even someone without a connection to the woman with hands and voice shaky from the epidural singing Christmas carols to the newborn baby girl should shed at least a couple of tears. I would expect that from a human being with a pulse and a conscience. Some people are more emotional than others. When I waited tables at the Bluebonnet Cafe in Kerrville, Texas I had to walk inside the cooler once and clench my fists to keep from crying because I was still upset from a fight I'd had with my brother before work. I'm one of those hypersensitive sorts. If I hurt someone it is only in retaliation. I suspect the father of my daughter is a sociopath. I'm not the only woman he has flattened without a backward glance. But he did bring me gummi bears once and he did sob when I told him I was going to place our baby for adoption and he did sign the papers that day and cross out the part about him not admitting he was the father and after the water park we fucked in his car and he told me I was the best. A girl has to have something to hold onto when the fires of hell lick at her toes.

I was in his apartment in Austin because he tracked me down in San Marcos. I was lonely. I was scrubbing toilets for a living and going back to school in hopes of becoming a kindergarten teacher. I wanted to finish our business. Our business would never be finished. Closure is such bullshit. Time does not wound all heels.

"I don't really feel like she's my baby. I never met her," he said, standing over my twisted body.
"Thank god for that. Your leaving was the best possible scenario for all of us," I snapped.

It was wrong of me but I ached for him all those months. I didn't want my mother to take me to ob-gyn appointments. I needed him there pulling back my hair as I puked, taking me out for tacos or sesame chicken or chocolate milkshakes, rubbing my back, singing Beatles songs to our baby as she sucked her thumb in my uterus.

I've always wanted impossible things. I've always asked for too much. Tonight I was driving to the grocery store listening to the radio. The deejays...are they still called deejays?...were talking about inspirational people who fly helicopters in combat zones with their legs blown off, paint with their toes and run marathons with prosthetic legs. I hear things like that and hate myself for hoping and crying so hard. I've got my arms and legs. I am glad for that.

Monday, April 4, 2011

& the angels wouldn't help you

Mister Kinsey

Surprise Birthday Party

 Everyone in the universe was there, a few key players in my danger zone life. My comedy of errors with cake provided by You Bet Your Ass We're Good bakery. No one made any sense, everyone looked and sounded wrong, I wanted to be alone with my 8-tracks and spiral notebooks. The black pens were beckoning with their seductive possibilities. Snake swallowing its swollen tail. No end to this gut twisting process.

My mom was the deejay. She was spinning tracks by Jars of Clay and Mother Goose.
"Skinny Puppy!" I screamed from the corner.
"That sounds Satanic," Mom said with a self-righteous sniff.

I've always loved Mother, but her mind...I would not want to camp out there for any length of time, even with a substantial supply of s'mores and Vienna sausages. All the beer in the Would not be my kind of bowling alley.

They were there, the parents I picked out for my fetus as it grew in my uterus that fortune laden fall. The wind fucked with the golden and crimson leaves and we caravanned to West Texas the night of the eclipse. I was in the car I had been given. Mother was in her SUV. Dave was in the U-Haul truck. My daughter was there in my uterus, sucking her thumb thinking everything was cool.

The parents were there but my daughter was invisible. The last time I saw her she had a golden ponytail and she was trying to trick her little sister out of her animal crackers. I knew she would be okay when I saw the mischievous Rainwater gleam in her sapphire eyes. She had xmas eyes, North Pole eyes. Her eyes let me know everything would be cool.

My grandparents were the conscience of the surprise birthday party that I was in on. It was a party for me but it was more horror show than soiree. I'm always in on things, I'm never surprised, my Mercury in Pisces and moon in Virgo make sure of that. Quite. My grandparents were the moral center of the party but they were quiet so they were of no use.

Dave was there and I did not want him to be. He shows up to these things like bad clockwork and I do not have a screwdriver, the necessary implement with which to remove the batteries. He was there and he was telling me things. Dave is always telling me things about myself. Like I need to be reminded that I am a whore at heart, an unscrupulous taker of things, a grabber of balls, a schemer of the lowest order. I can't even pass remedial math. I could not be a nail technician because I would rather stick needles in my eyeballs than touch strange creamy hands and shoot the shit about Reese Witherspoon's wedding to the Mate of Her Soul. I cannot wait tables. I cannot stick my hands in hot dirty water, feel all that floating meat, watch my hands turn bright pink as my co-workers sing George Strait songs.

He, the stepfather Mother chose for me in my tenth year of life, told me he wanted to stick his hand inside my cunt and pull all the evil out. I was a bad girl with bad posters on the walls and bad cassettes in the stereo and bad boys on my mind. My hand was forever inside my size zero jeans. I reeked of Wanting Everything Bad in the Entire World With a Little Bit Extra Just For Giggles. Dave handed me a list torn from my favorite spiral notebook. He listed these tiny truths about his favorite girl:

1. You're lazy.
2. You're selfish.
3. Your smell teases my nose.
4. You've got slut hair.
5. You've got whore eyes.
6. Your cunt is much too vivid in my imagination.

I wanted Dave to be disinvited from the surprise birthday party that I was in on. I did not want him to see me getting older. I did not want to share my cake and ebullience with this man who put a diamond ring on my mother's finger when I was a ten-year old flower girl with buck teeth and bony knees. My sister was always smarter and plumper and less aware of the smell of things. My brother was a boy, shiny with personality and innocent love for tadpoles and football statistics. I was Misti The Muddled, itchy in my corner, manic in my little goofy Texas girl way.

The fact is this. Dave will never leave the party. The fact of Dave eclipses the fact of me. He is present. I am invisible. I do not pick the songs.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Honey Chocolate Grab Ass

My face is a melted clock.
I'm speaking in Cantonese parables.
Kites taunt me in stomped blueberry sky.
Oh fuck. I am stuck in blackberry traffic jam.
Honey baby kitty cat I could kiss your face off.
Darling hot coal crawling lust lamb I like your style.
I should sleep now, keep my anxiety in the cream jar.
The ache is delicious dark chocolate at this second.
Quick. The key will change into bone if you don't turn it.

Some Miles South

Drummer From Austin

He was a Pisces. He wasn't really my type. He was shy. He was kind. He seemed suspiciously normal. I partied with him in the suite he was sharing with his band mates at the Inn of the Hills in Kerrville, Texas. I caused a ruckus. The hotel manager banged on the door, told me to quiet the fuck down. After the manager left the lead singer told me to leave. I was too much trouble and I still had my clothes on.

I made out with the drummer in the swimming pool beneath the Hill Country stars. We were deep in the heart of Texas. We had the pool to ourselves. We had the world to ourselves. I was wearing my leopard print bra and matching thong. My legs were wrapped around the drummer's hips. My arms were wrapped around the drummer's neck. My tongue was in the drummer's mouth. It was a nice time for us, a time of mutual lust and not much conversation. Neither one of us had anything to say worth hearing.

Later I slept beside him in his bed in the room I had been too rowdy for. There wasn't any sex between us, just sleep. I left before he opened his eyes. My friend, an Aries waitress who had a threesome with the lead singer and the bass guitarist, gave me a note from the drummer later that day.

I had a great time! Call me the next time you're in Austin.

Signed with his name, address and phone number, none of which I remember, and the anarchy symbol, which I think is hilarious considering the fact that he was the drummer in a band that clearly did not know how to party.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Stuck Inside Various American Films

Someone threw a brick through the window to
warn me to stop being so goddamn rebellious.
This guy hid in the bathroom at the party
to ask me out. I totally said yes!
I left my three kids and John Travolta
to be with Sean Penn. I love the guy.
I was a whore with a big mouth
and dental floss until Richard Gere rescued me.
I worked in a paper factory dreaming of Moscow
until Richard Gere rescued me.
I was slutting around Gilley's until John Travolta rescued me.
I was stuck in a marriage with a lying cheating
son of a bitch until cancer rescued me.
I was stuck on the same Beach Boys song
each day more of the same with pineapples and what not
until Adam Sandler rescued me.
I carried a watermelon.
I was an Aussie virgin hopelessly devoted to John Travolta.
I tried to fuck Penelope Cruz outta Tom Cruise's consciousness.
Did not work.
I chose Ethan Hawke over Ben Stiller. Fucking duh.
I begged Gary Oldman to kill me with a knife.
Val Kilmer killed my duck.
I chose Meatloaf over Alice Cooper.
I asked my boyfriend to take Sissy Spacek to the prom.
Marlon Brando raped me and made me
lose the tenuous grasp
I had
on reality.

Very Much Alive

I looked out the window. I was stirring batter in a bowl. The grass was green and too much. Birds were singing and flying around. A neighbor ran down the alley in his white briefs chasing some kind of big furry (as could be expected) dog. Hmmm. I licked the spoon even though I was not supposed to. When I was a little girl I was always licking batter from spoons and beaters. I am still very much alive.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Orange Sugar

True To Several

True tone true timbre true
true true too true Pisces
mutinous eyes
specific on your wavelength.
Too mermaid too murmur
too too magical meddle
disruptive chime
greenest goading gaze.
To you too yours
to you
I am
and this
was us
beneath sound
above feel
over the nights
of star squander
guess loss.
Certainty now.
Yes, darling.
How believe
receptive to
the still.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Jessica Wakefield

Lecture To Self:

Your teenage days are over. You were not Jessica Wakefield then. You are not Jessica Wakefield now. You are not Scarlett O'Hara. You are not Ava Gardner. You are not Elizabeth Taylor. Put away the fucking lipstick and liquid eyeliner and do your fucking WORK. Grazi.

Cinnamon Toast

Jakobia stumbled into the kitchen wearing her Big Daddy Brawler t-shirt and blood-stained cotton panties. Doogie was singing along with Conway Twitty. Conway Twitty had been dead for a few years but on the cheery yellow plastic radio that was perched on the counter in between the Hello Kitty cookie jar and box of Frosted Flakes Conway Twitty was immortal. He was a minor god expressing his aching lust, his bittersweet longing for an unattainable woman. It was only make-believe, after all.

"Good morning, angel dumpling. I made cinnamon toast for you," Doogie chirped.
"I hate cinnamon toast! I hate Conway Twitty!" Jakobia threw the radio at the wall. It broke into a few pieces. The batteries tumbled out.
"Somebody got up on the wrong side of bed this morning."
"Both sides of the bed are wrong when you are married to someone who makes cinnamon toast and sings along with Conway Twitty. I did not sign up for this shit."
"Don't be mean to me. I'm a good guy."
"You're an idiot. I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. But my god. We have been married for three years and you have no idea who I am. I'm going for a drive. I need some cigarettes."
"You don't smoke, hon."
"I do now."

Jakobia was civil about it. She did not slam the door.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Womb Weary

Goddamn I am weary of this womb.
I'm fat here.
I'm a pumpkin.
Ripe for the carving knife.
Lulled by lying songs
that soothe my savage
and dull my gleam.
This is not the dream I wish
to wake up in.
I am ready to be pushed out
screaming my rage
at the cold welcome
of a world bigger
and more brutal
than I will ever be.
Take this softness
and inflict the scars
I came for.
Add me
to the offering.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Toasting God

I am sitting alone beneath a chandelier on the Titanic drinking a frozen margarita with salt on the rim. Of course there were no margaritas on the Titanic. There was no me, either.

We Met On Television

We met on television in 1976. He was a sitcom and I was the news. When we broke up it did not hurt at all. It was only an Oscar Mayer commercial. In thirty seconds it was o-v-e-r.


I wasn't sure what Omar wanted from me. He agreed to meet me at Tacos on the River for an early dinner. The little weasel was in fine form, babbling on about alien conspiracy theories and the hidden meaning in Rod Stewart lyrics.
"You know that train song isn't really about a poor chick. It's about overthrowing the government. There is a secret cult in Oklahoma called Rodsters For Anarchy. That so-called 'train song' is their anthem," Omar said with a maniacal laugh.
"Yeah, I know," I lied. "Look. There is a reason behind this taco dinner. Omar, look at me. Focus. I need to know what you want from me."
"You aren't the first girl I've danced with beneath the pale moonlight. You won't be the last. No offense."
"So I'm a pawn in your game of Whoever Gets The Most Vagina Wins. Correct?"
"I love it! I love how you put things! Yes! That's what you are, baby! A vagina pawn!" Omar laughed so hard I was afraid he was going to choke on his chicken tacos.
"Omar, stop laughing. Please. It wasn't that funny. Look, I'm exiting your life now. Bye."
"Wait! I want to have sex with you one last time!"

I knew what I needed to know so I cut off all my sexy red hair and sold it to a wig shop. Then I got Vagina Pawn tattooed above my left nipple and started a band with that name. I just sang. I did not play guitar.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Sandwich For Husband

Petal wanted to make a sandwich for her husband. It was the least she could do. He sat at the small black table staring at the salt and pepper shakers as if he were in some sort of trance. Petal felt a tiny mouse gnawing at her heart. This scene reminded her of something painful, some kind of song she did not want to hear.
"Damn it! The bread has mold on it," Petal muttered. She threw the loaf of moldy bread in the trash and glanced at her husband. He looked at Petal with big moon child eyes. His fate rested in Petal's honeysuckle lotion scented hands.
"Will you be okay here by yourself while I run to the store?" Petal asked. She clenched and unclenched her fists. She curled her toes inside her cheap dirty running shoes.
"I guess," the man Petal had married in her best friend's backyard eight years ago said in his wounded tiger voice.
God fucking damn it! He keeps showing me his paws! He keeps bleeding all over me! Sick! I am sick of his goddamn blood!
"I will return."

Petal looked at the store and decided she was too depressed to go inside so she kept driving. There were good songs one right after the other on the radio. Petal sang until she felt somewhat better. Soon there were stars in the sky and nothing looked familiar. Petal noticed a motel with a green and pink neon sign. Petal pulled in and parked her car. She would sleep alone and she would dream. It wouldn't cost that much.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Twelve Years Old

With my crushes and puerile enthusiasm for candy and Claire's Boutique you might think,"Fuck! She's twelve years old!" Also, I wear knee socks and running shoes these days and I keep looking at my checking account balance online in disbelief. There is too much money in there. It makes me nervous.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Love So Puppy

love so puppy so soft
so cute for you
love so love so
love so GOOD
good idea, love
love always nice time for us
love so free love so whee
love so you plus me equals YES YUM YES
yes times three!
love of yes
love of okay let's go now
world wait for this yum yum flavor
world on pins and needles
waiting for this fun god dance
tango not so tricky
when four feet in love
watch out for glass wall!
love no bruise
love no blood
love no other girl spying in corner
waiting to snatch you from
my cherry lollipop yum embrace
for ride on wicked wet witch
bad girl broomstick
love so easy so nice so puppy soft
love lick nose
love in field of flowers
no make sneeze
love summer breeze so fine on spine
naked, yes, we two
naked picnic on nice sand beach
no litter
no seaweed
no tourists gawk
no shark on horizon
moving in for bone lust kill
love like sleepy pill oozing
real sugar dreams
in which we fly through
trampoline heart clouds
love so high
love so rainbow
love so unicorn
you! me!
on its back

Saturday, March 12, 2011

World Blood Day

stepped on Africa
blood all over the linoleum
no amount of vinegar can clean
shards of Asia
stuck inside my heel
Europe sharp between my toes
North America warrants a trip
to the emergency room
red pieces of Australia glued to form
monster spirit on kitchen wall
Antarctica swept away like lint
South America a cloud of potion
kept inside charm jar beneath
wishing bell

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Motherfucking Mosquito Mockery

goddamn mosquito will not die
all that wasted hairspray
dogs bark
rain falls
fuck there is no peace
noise mud sneeze mock
mind stuck in dreamless hell
too awake too alive
wanting too much too fast too hard too deep
some kind of life
that does not sting

Orchid Cringe

slut bitch mouth slapped
such an example of a girl
blood spit fuck smirk
come on it's getting late
make the worst happen fast
dare tits cunt throb
broke but you will pay
aching angel aspirations
dead cold splat
on hatred litter curb
no ascend
no beyond
animal woman
circus exhibition
reduced to
cartoon puddle

Monday, March 7, 2011

Candid Dial Slur

kitsch factor nostalgia browse
lucid confession champagne swallow
lingerie surprise flounce
television mumble nap
celebratory doll swap
jumbled drive across without
gasoline shiver morning desert
sunbroke egg
splatter dawn

Marble Canvas

Truth dump collision spark.
Average blank aesthetic.
Indecisive punctuation...
Tribal tourist stock shot.
Creamy froth hysterical.
Imperious level heart toss.
Hallowed utter mythology.
Pacific clock moonslide.
Kisses incremental forage.
Jinx wire balance anxious.

Obtuse Directive

Smell my stale & tell me something awkward.
Self-conscious closet fumble.
I wear no rings.
My witchy fingers fly home free.

Dominant Snowburst

crucial caution deliberation slow up
mud rumble path beneath aquarius cover
pisces scope jelly eyes preserve blood oath
sister soup languid in the blister salt
accomplish comfort ambrosia establish
decisive star list lake slide summer ink
sapphire cloud tranquil shelter medium soothe
celibate angel bedroom cave deep across moonsip
snow reduction fable press altogether emphatic

Sound Poetry

I'm attempting sound poetry. I want to be Gertrude Stein when I grow up.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Such A Girl

I am, I confess. I am such a girl.
Nail polish. Necklaces. Cologne.
Kohl. Liquid eyeliner. Red lipstick.
Pink lipgloss. Twenty bras, none
of them white or beige.
Anne Sexton books. All of them.
Hundreds of pictures I took of myself.
Sometimes I need a new purse.
Last night I bought a new purse.
On sale but still more money
than I was willing to spend.
What I really want is a new pair
of black combat boots
and a gun of some kind, the kind
that kills if it needs to.
I want all of Charles Bukowski's books and cds.
I want a strap-on for those special occasions.
I am a girl but the luxury of owning a penis
has crossed my mind.
I hate the fucking mall.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Come A Cloud

Storm came so could not buy purse. Fried chicken on mind but I am capable of resisting all manner of evil. The green tea wants me to drink it because it would be good for me, better for me than milk. I am insane with posturing putting on parading pretending playing last fiddle in unsigned deaf band. My brother tells me to follow my dreams. I tell my brother I've walked that sidewalk and it broke my best heels. Harriet left early to avoid tornado, ran into brick wall that wasn't there before. No is still the hardest syllable to chew. I should do something sensible with my hair. The bee cloud of crazy picnic Sunday disturbed. Shrunk pajamas. Amish bakery stares melt zap reduce me to sinning example paper doll. Blow away blow away dandelion seeds so far from home.

Camera Ready Louisville Slugger

my close-up!
fucking ready!
there's your art
all over the floor

Psychic Lover

yes you know
what I am thinking
before I smirk it
I fucking love
how well
that works

D List

daddy dug daggers down delicious dick dangle dizzy
dust don't disco dope delinquent dense damp dote
divulge deride dumb destiny dog depend delude
do donate decide ditto dappled damned darkest
dashiell daphne dior dirk diggler

Sounding Off

nothing to do with the sluggish fat
of too much meat in mouth
but sliver
yes blood
thick stupid loll
carnival spectator
fuck ride throb
death metal disco ball
broken house
fun thrill trick joke pout
hot pink this
yummy guitar thrumming
sliding home
tag fuck yes fuck god he is
zipper down
hands down
he is
fucking IT


all that DNA down the drain

oh, you did it
I am glad
here's the rag

Aw! Hell.

Fred The Brave

his face smeared with zebra blood
his first daughter's baby teeth around his neck
his pockets bulging with Texas pride
his cute little girlfriend bouncing beside him
on guided sunset tour

Engraving Code

stomach empty except for semen
mind crammed with last night's notes
don't assume
don't ask too much
hide ache with heavy black fuck eyes
come on cheap
like Def Leppard song
do not bask
do not linger
charge extra for finger sucking
and eye contact

In Front of Chinese Theater

bag ladies decorated with vomit
tourists gawking with cameras
lonely rich man in BMW
watching teenage runaways
walk down the sidewalk
rolling down window
asking with visible erect penis
"Hey, much?"

Don't Fucking Try

That's cute of you. So fucking precious.
Bringing somebody else's wishes up
with that borrowed bucket.
Are you initiated?
Have you walked ten miles
in tiger blood shoes?
You still have all your teeth
and toes.
I do not
smell your wounds.
I'm fucking sure
things were rough for you
in the food court last night.
Did the carousel
turn too slow?
Did the girl with braces
fuck up your order?
How's the old dreamscape?
Still thick with marshmallow melt
and wedding debt woe?
The pumpkins are leering.
The rats are running circles
around you.
Hallmark is always hiring.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Self-Loathing Burning Beauty From Eyes

My eyes will spurt drops of blood now.
I am wretched.
This dress...rented & ripped
pool of acrylic polyester rayon blend
at my scorpion venom swollen feet.
I'm one of those masochists
who steps on dangerous things
instead of walking around
with sensible grace.
I'm onion smart, turnip raw.
I'm mud puddle stagnant.
I'm the leaves littering the mud puddle.
No. I'm the bright blue laundry detergent
jug lid floating in the mud puddle.
I make as much sense, serve as much purpose...
there is no reasonable
useful beauty here
to take care of tasks
and make the baby shower punch.
Checking account balance?
Grocery list?
Bible study?
I do
not comprehend.
Oh these keys this tapping
this muting of my yawping
maw of a heart.
This cake walk with me
scrambling for
a chair.
This brutal broom chase.
"Out of my yard! Gringa!
White girl! Don't come back!"

Tonight the losses like fast food
sauce packets in my hands.
Mockery. I cannot use these.
I'm looking back.
I'm salt on the rim.
It's karaoke night at La Casa de Fiesta.
I take the stage weary with world sag
and show them my tits.
Nobody believes me so I sing
"All The Young Dudes"
which gives them time to react
and shout
and throw things.
I'm so brave.
I've lived.
I'm evil with it.
I walk down the highway
a witch between houses
wondering what the hell happened
to my piano moon.

El Jacalito Night

This taco meat is really nasty on my tongue
in my stomach
all greasy and fat.
I would like to live on lemon juice infused
ice water but I am surrounded
by aliens who insist
I need Mexican food
chicken nuggets
hot dogs.
Today my mom bought me
a purple and blue hula hoop.
I told her I am sexually peaking
and she looked disgusted.
Daughters should never remind
their mothers of these things.
What the fuck can they do about it, after all?
Today I bought myself a perky magazine
and a Snickers because I could not have
what I hungered for the most.
I really need a strange
dick in my life
but the logistics
are a real bitch.
I would like to light a candle
soak in a tub of bubbles
close my eyes
and tell myself
that I am a mermaid
until I believe it
until the fact of my cunt
is as inconsequential
as the fact of the dream jeans size
that has eluded me
since 1999.


whenever I am feeling like a robot or a shadow
and need to remind myself that I am a woman
with flesh and blood and stories and salt around the rim
I spray that cologne you like between my breasts
behind my knees

a woman can smell like anything
fried food
strawberry incense
cherry candy
expensive lipstick
cheap wine

but I like to smell like
the kind of woman
you played the piano for
that June night in Santa Cruz
when you hugged me
and told me
I smelled

Pass The Sugar

I don't want any breakfast. I'll drink two or three cups of coffee later. I put a dollop of vanilla ice cream in my coffee. That gives my day a real boost. I will hang out with my son. He will call me Pink Power Ranger. He will call me Mary Jane. He will call me Gwen. He will call me Mommy. We might dance and celebrate life right along with Richard Simmons. Perhaps we will venture outside to investigate the mud puddle. Maybe I'll sit in a chair in the carport while my son draws Venom with sidewalk chalk. My husband will call me on his lunch break and on his drive home from work. His calls usually go straight to voice mail. The friendly student loan people will call two or three times. I am most popular with them. One of the most surreal moments of my life was when I answered a call from the student loan people and a young man said,"By the way, I love your poetry." Last night I read two stories from Hot Water Music. One of the stories bothered me. The man could not get his girlfriend out of his blood even though she was a real bitch. He was waiting for her in a motel room and she was playing games with his emotions. Then a woman from the room next door showed up in her purple mascara and sucked the guy's surprised cock. She bit a piece of the head off and then left. I do not like having that image stuck in my head.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Roller Rink Death

I was dying at the roller rink. Freak accident. I was ten. That is a good age to die. I was clumsy on my skates so I stayed in the middle while friends and strangers flew around me in a disco sparkle circle to "Urgent" by Foreigner. My situation was pretty fucking urgent but nobody seemed to notice or care. What happened was the disco ball fell on my head. It only hurt like a motherfucker for a couple of really intense seconds. Then I felt nothing. My last thought: Oh good...I'm going to die with my Jordache jeans and Miss Piggy shirt on.

Mud Puddle

Fish Sticks

I can smell the fish sticks baking in the oven. My husband is making dinner for our son. He does this every night. I ate a lot of fish sticks when I was a kid. Then Mom married Dave and I ate a lot of steaks and roast beef.

Today we went outside. I'm talking about my son and myself. We usually stay in the house but I'd been pestering him for days with,"Jackson, I don't like to see the balloons die slow deaths. Please let's go outside and set them free so they can fly to the sky." So we took the three helium balloons outside. Jackson spun around with them a few times in the front yard then set them free. They got stuck in tree branches, which is what happened the last time he set balloons free. "Fuck! I hate when that happens!" I cried out.

We had the most fun and spent the most amount of time with the mud puddle at the edge of the driveway. The puddle has been there for months. It never dries up. I shot videos of Jackson throwing rocks in the puddle. Then he decided to throw his empty bubbles bottles and wands in there. I shot several videos of the bottles and wands in the mud puddle. I thought of that guy in "American Beauty" who shot videos of things like plastic bags blowing around. I like quiet stuff like that, stuff that most people don't notice in this video game free porn carousel in the food court in the shopping mall world.


There are too goddamn many italics in Nine Stories but I will never write a story half as good as The Laughing Man.

Monday, February 28, 2011

Sweet Fucking God

excerpt from Nova's Gone Potty

Nova knocked on Perry’s door. She was wearing the same black dress she’d worn the night she met John with the same black tights and Mary Janes and her new choker. Perry opened the door. He was wearing a “Bonanza” t-shirt and black jeans. He smelled like citrus fruit.
“Help,” Nova said.
 “Help how? I’m on my way out.”
  “I’m going to the Pineapple to pounce on John. I mean…to hear Idiot Robot play. How do I look? Will you come with me?”
Perry sighed. He looked off into the distance and scratched his throat.
“You smell nice,” Nova said.
 “Thanks. It’s my favorite cologne. It’s called Disco July. I don’t know, Nova. I was going to meet some friends at Retro A Go Go. It’s dollar daiquiri night. I prefer Retro A Go Go to the Pineapple. I’d rather hear the Pet Shop Boys and Duran Duran than Idiot Robot, to be blunt.”
 “This would be an immense favor. You know how badly I need a life.”
 “Yes, but is that the best way to go about getting one? Panting after a man who isn’t interested in making any kind of a commitment?”
 “Don’t judge me. Just enable me. That’s what friends do.”
 “I know, I know. I’ll say this. You look like some mighty tasty bait. I’m sure John would bite. But I don’t smell you. Didn’t I tell you to invest in some perfume?”
 “We can stop at the dollar store on the way to the club. Body spray will have to suffice.”
 “Girl, I know what I am going to give you for Christmas. Body spray from the dollar store! That is too silly.”
 “Will you go with me or not? Damn it dude, I need to get out of my apartment. My toilet just serenaded me with a Sex Pistols song.”
 “Oh wow. Which one?”
 “ ‘No Feelings.’ He was trying to prove a point.”
 “Yeah? I’m frightened for you. You’ve talked me into it. Let me grab my keys and wallet and gum and we’ll go.”
 When they got inside Nova’s car Nova played “Satellite of Love” for Perry. Perry blew Nova a kiss and sang along with Lou Reed. As Nova drove to the dollar store she admired the gaudy fuschia magenta plum cerulean sunset. She gazed at the mesas and murmured, “That’s magic. That’s a sign from Tortuga Grande. Thanks, Turtle.”
 “Honey, it looks like a sunset to me. But if you think some big ass turtle spirit in the sky painted the sky to convey to you that by going to the Pineapple and pursuing John you are on the right track, hey…more power to ya.”
“Do you want to come in?” Nova asked Perry as she parked her car.
 “No, I’d be too tempted to buy crap I don’t need,” Perry said.
 “I’ll be right back.”
Nova grabbed a bottle of Vanilla Mischief body spray and a pack of Big Red chewing gum. On a whim Nova snatched a black Sharpie.
“Going out tonight?” the mousy cashier asked Nova.
 “Yeah, I’m going to the Pineapple Grove to hear Idiot Robot.”
 “That’s a weird name. What kind of music do they play?”
 “It’s hard to describe. I guess you could say they’re Norwegian progressive funk with a, uh, splash of new age disco groove thrown in for flair.”
 “Does not sound like something I could get behind but I’d rather be there than here, that’s for sure. Well, have fun.”
“Thanks, uh, you, too. I’m sorry you’re stuck here.”
In the car Nova sprayed her throat, cleavage, arms and legs with Vanilla Mischief and popped a piece of gum in her mouth. She placed the black Sharpie in her rainbow sequin purse and glanced at Perry. He was rolling down his window and gasping.
“I’m going to die from asphyxiation! Nova, that shit smells like something my grandma would wear!” Perry covered his mouth with his hands and coughed.
 “Perry, I don’t need this criticism right now. It’s too late. Try to be supportive. Don’t make me cry. I’ll ruin my makeup.”
“Yeah, it’s too late to go home and shower. Well, that stuff is cheap so hopefully it’ll wear off before you approach John. That could very well be a deal breaker.”
“Don’t say that! Goddamn it. I need a song that will make me feel fierce and unconquerable. No negative energy! I need to soar!”
 “But you’ve already been conquered. Your clitoris has been conquered by John’s tongue. Your brain has been conquered by John’s charisma. Your heart has been conquered by John’s sly dog style.”
 Nova glared at Perry and fast forwarded the mix tape until it got to “Black Tongue” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Nova turned up the volume and screamed along with the song as she sped off to the Pineapple Grove. Perry sank down in his seat and covered his ears.

“Perry, are we still friends?” Nova asked Perry as they walked down the sidewalk toward the Pineapple Grove.
 “I’m too shell-shocked to answer that right now. Buy me a drink and ask me again,” Perry said.
In addition to “Black Tongue” Nova had screamed along to “Rock Star” by Hole, “Aneurysm” by Nirvana and “Chinese Rock” by the Ramones on the way to the club. Perry had held his hands to his ears the entire time.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t considering your needs. I was emoting. I’m extremely nervous, especially knowing that I stink. Please try to understand,” Nova said. She was chewing three pieces of Big Red. As she approached the line of people outside the Pineapple Grove she muttered, “Oh, fuck me. This is some fucked up bullshit right here.”
“Nova, relax. Lines are a part of life,” Perry said. He seemed world-weary.
 “I was not expecting this. I’m sorry. You would have been better off going to Retro A Go Go. I could sure go for a dollar daiquiri right about now.”
 “I could go for several. Don’t worry about it. This will be fun.”
Perry didn’t seem convinced. They stood in line watching people hand their driver’s licenses and money to the bouncer. Nova looked up at the huge neon pineapple that was suspended over the open doorway. She could hear Idiot Robot playing. Nova laughed as she recalled her bullshit reply to the cashier in the dollar store. Nova didn’t know much about music or the classifications. She just knew what she liked. So far she was liking Idiot Robot.

Inside the club Nova wanted to head straight to the stage but Perry grabbed her arm and said, “I need a drink. Now.”
 “Okay, okay. Damn it.”
Nova and Perry walked up to the bar. The bartender was wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt and a black straw cowboy hat. He had a bright orange goatee. The bartender winked at Nova and said, “What can I get ya?”
 “I’d like a Jack and Coke and…Perry?”
 “I’ll have a Pina Colada.”
Nova paid for the drinks, placed two dollar bills in the bartender’s tip jar and looked at Perry. He attempted a smile. Nova raised her Jack and Coke. Perry raised his Pina Colada. They clinked their glasses together.
“To life lived to the fullest,” Nova yelled.
 “Yes. But don’t ask me to go bungee jumping with you,” Perry yelled, taking a sip of his drink.
Perry followed Nova to the stage. Nova saw John right away. He was banging away at the drums, dripping sweat. He was in the zone, in his element. He was dressed in black and wore a silver chain around his neck. A strange symbol dangled from the chain. Nova wondered what the symbol represented. The lead singer of Idiot Robot was a huge Navajo man with shaggy hair bleached the color of straw. He was wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt with a robot sloppily painted on the front in bright blue, silver, red and green. Beneath the robot in black block letters were the words “WHERE’S MY BLOW JOB?” Pink jeans and black combat boots completed the lead singer’s outfit. The bass guitarist was a short chubby bald guy dressed in a ketchup stained wife beater and brown cargo shorts. He wore tube socks and sandals. He had a tattoo of a mermaid with huge tits, long turquoise hair and a silver tail on his left arm. The lead guitarist was tall and skinny with long greasy blond hair. He was wearing a pair of blue denim overalls with no shirt underneath and dirty work boots. He had the smiling red Kool-Aid pitcher tattooed on his right arm. Idiot Robot was performing a loud, fast song. Nova could only understand a few of the words… “crawl crawl crawl inside your hole,” “lose lose lose my marbles in your pretty pink void,” “can’t can’t can’t disremember the way it felt.”
Perry tugged on Nova’s sleeve. He pointed at an empty booth near the pool tables. Nova nodded. They walked over to the booth and sat down.
“John’s looking pretty tasty, isn’t he?” Perry yelled over the music.
 “Yes. I’m sick with desire. Sick!” Nova screamed.
 “There’ll be an after party. I’m sure you’ll want to go.”
 “Yes! Please come with me!”
 “Okay. Buy me another drink.”
 “You got it. I’ll be right back.”
On her way back from the bar Nova glanced at the stage. John had stopped drumming and taken off his shirt. He wrung out the sweat. Rather than feeling repulsed Nova was turned on. The song ended. The lead singer grabbed a bottle of water and took a swig. Then he walked over to John and poured the water over John’s head. John shook the water off like a dog. The lead singer walked back to the microphone and said, “Okay, Idiot Robot groupies, keep your tongues in your mouths. Don’t go into convulsions over the wet shirtless man at the drums.” A group of girls near the stage cheered and clapped. One of the girls lifted her shirt and flashed John her enormous tits. John grinned and tossed his shirt at the girl. The girl caught the shirt and clutched it to her tits. She feigned ecstasy. By the time Nova returned to the booth she had drained her new Jack and Coke.
“Here’s your Pina Colada, amigo. I’m going back to the bar for a few shots of Cuervo. I need the courage,” Nova yelled.
 “Gracias. Guess I’ll be the designated driver tonight,” Perry yelled.

By the time Idiot Robot finished their set, Nova was feeling invincible. She walked up to the table where the band members were hanging out with their adoring fans. The girl with the big tits was wearing John’s wet black shirt and sitting on his lap. John was rubbing the girl’s thigh and drinking a bottle of Heineken.
“You’ve got a great pair of tits,” Nova said to the girl.
“Nova! My favorite stalker!” John cried out with a big smile.
“I’m not your stalker. You think I’m here to ogle you? Oh, hell, no. I come here for the ambience. Your band did reasonably well, though. I would really like to crash the after party if I may.”
“It’s gonna be at my house. Need a lift?”
The girl gave Nova a go to hell look. Nova smiled at the girl. Perry appeared and put his arm around Nova.
“We’re an item now. You should be the first to know,” Perry told John.
“I thought you were gay,” John said.
 “I’m bisexual. Currently I’m all about this girl and her remarkable pussy.”
“The after party is gonna be at John’s house, babe. He offered to give us a lift.”
“No way! That is so cool. So I can go order another Pina Colada?”
 “Of course.”
Perry headed for the bar. The girl with the big tits stood up.
“I need a refill on my Long Island Iced Tea,” she said.
“Don’t get too trashed, babe. It’s gonna be a long night,” John said.
The girl walked away and John looked Nova over.
“You look good enough to eat. So you and Perry are together now? That was quick.”
 “I needed a shoulder to cry on when you broke my heart.”
 “Ah. Maybe I can kiss your heart sometime and make it better.”
 “Maybe I’ll let you.”

While John loaded his drum kit into his beat-up red Chevy van Nova and Perry stood in the alley with the girl with big tits.
“What’s your name?” Nova asked the girl.
“Jori,” the girl replied, watching John.
 “My name’s Nova and this is Perry.”
 “Yeah, I heard John call you Nova. Hi, Perry. So you two are together?”
  “We’re neighbors and friends. John’s the one I’m interested in,” Nova said.
 “Well, good luck with that. I’m obviously with John tonight.”
 “Like I said, you’ve got great tits. Anyone can see that.”
 Perry meowed like a cat. Nova smirked. Jori shook her head in disgust.
“Okay, guys. Let’s get on the road,” John said.
 “Shotgun,” Jori said.
“I wanted to ride up front. I’m drunk off my ass. And I get carsick,” Nova said.
“You should definitely ride up front then. My van doesn’t need any new exciting odors,” John said. He opened the door for Nova and she climbed inside.
“You don’t seem that drunk to me. You seem pretty coherent,” Jori said as she sat down on the bench seat in the back.
Perry sat down beside Jori on the bench seat and spied a crusty red thong on the floor. He picked it up and cried out, “Look, a snack!”
“That’s disgusting,” Jori muttered.
 “I wouldn’t recommend eating that, man. It’s been there for a while. It isn’t fresh,” John said.
“Oh, it’s expired? Darn it.”
Perry threw the thong back on the floor. Nova reached inside her purse and pulled out a small bottle of antibacterial gel. She handed the bottle to Perry.
“Good idea,” Perry said. He squirted some gel onto his palms and rubbed his hands together.
“Yeah, pretty quick thinking for someone who is drunk off her ass,” Jori quipped.
“Don’t be bitter, Jori. When we get to the party you can have John all to yourself,” Nova said with a smug smile.
“Maybe she wants to share,” John said. He eyed Nova with appreciation and gave her a playful wink. Nova licked her lips. John muttered, “Hot as fuck” beneath his breath.
“Maybe she thinks you should drop her off at the Starbuck’s up the street. I am not going to participate in a threesome,” Jori snapped.
“Ooh, a threesome sounds like my kind of party. Think of the possibilities! Are you sure you aren’t up for it?” Nova asked.
“I’m sure.”
“You’re turning down a threesome with those two? Are you frigid?” Perry asked.
“You’ll never know. Seriously, John. I’m in no mood for bullshit. Just drop me off at Starbuck’s, please.”
“You’re a real joy killer. You should be bursting with joy. If I had tits like yours I’d be leaking joy all over the goddamn place,” Nova said.
“Jesus! Would you stop discussing my tits, already? There is more to life than tits!”
“Really? More to life than tits? Wow. I stand enlightened. What can I say? I’ve got a tit fetish,” Nova said, shrugging her shoulders.
“You do?” John asked.
“Yeah. I like naturally large tits with nipples the size of silver dollars. I don’t like fake tits or tits with small nipples or small tits with big nipples. Jori has the best pair I’ve seen in a while.”
“Pull over. I’ll walk to Starbuck’s,” Jori said.
“I think Jori wants out of this van, John. I’m pretty sure she isn’t joking. You better pull over before violence occurs,” Perry said.
John pulled into the parking lot of a Lightning Mart. He drove up to a gas pump and parked the van.
“I need to get gas, anyway,” John said. He got out of the van.
“I need a soda,” Perry said. Perry and Jori got out of the van and Nova stayed in her seat, gloating in silence.

“I’ll have to give you your shirt back later,” Nova heard Jori tell John as he filled the tank with gasoline.
“Don’t worry about it. I have lots of black t-shirts. I’m sorry you’re pissed. I was looking forward to hanging out with you,” John said.
“Maybe some other time. You have my phone number. I just can’t deal with that crazy Nova bitch.”
“She’s not a crazy bitch. She’s great. You just don’t get her sense of humor.”
“I guess not. It’s too low-brow for me.”
“It isn’t low-brow at all. She kind of reminds me of Woody Allen, actually.”
“Well, have fun fucking Woody Allen. I’ll see ya around.”
Nova watched Jori walk into the Lightning Mart and pull out a hot pink cell phone. Nova didn’t feel sorry for Jori. She knew she’d have no trouble getting a ride home. Nova was also certain that a variety of cocks and cunts were available to Jori. All Jori had to do was ask and she would receive.

John got back in the van and appraised Nova.
“You aren’t really with Perry, are you?”
“No. I was just trying to make you jealous.”
 “That’s what I thought. Well, babe. You’ve got me all to yourself tonight if you want me. Do you want me? Huh? Huh?”
 “Gosh. Gee. I don’t know. I guess I’ll consider it. Shit. I must look pretty specially challenged with this big ass smile plastered across my face.”
 “You look edible, my darling.”
Nova sighed and turned on the radio. “Mexican Radio” by Wall of Voodoo was playing.
“Fuck! I love this song! I wish we could drive to Mexico tonight,” Nova said.
“Mexico is definitely within the realm of possibilities. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ll show you when we get to my house.”
“It’s too soon to be a promise ring so it must be your penis. Okay. I’ll suck on it.”
“You kill me. Slay me. You make me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever met. Well, you’ve already seen my penis. No surprise there. But you can suck on it if you want. I won’t turn down a free blow job.”
“You usually have to pay for them? I can’t believe that.”
“Very few blow jobs are free. Oh, here comes Perry. I’d rather not discuss the politics of free blow jobs around Perry. He might get too excited.”
“John, Perry is in love with Coral. His blow job days are over.”
“He’d give me a blow job if I let him. Unfortunately, I have a preference for pussy.”
“What’s unfortunate about that?”
“There is nothing unfortunate about that. Good pussy fortune abounds!”