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.

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.

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.

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.

Omar

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!"
"No."

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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 coffee...beer...vodka...purple 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!
SMASH!
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

YANG YANG

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, baby...how 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.

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?
Registration?
Adultery?
Friendship?
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
yogurt
salad
cheeseburgers
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
lusty
functioning
discreet
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.

J'Adore

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
blood
fried food
dirt
sweat
sex
soap
beer
weed
jasmine
rain
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
divine

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.

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.

Fucker.

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