Enrique's Motor Lodge Room #22
Thursday, April 28, 2011
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.
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
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 all...money, 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.
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.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
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 world...no. 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.
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 world...no. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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