get these goddamned kids out of my yard

my sister is a kindergarten teacher; i don't know how she do it.

i am not a kindergarten teacher. the closest i get to chilluns is writing about babies and my babies are always always in peril. they are like the damsel tied to the railroad track but they wear diapers and spit on themselves for fun.

if you don't know, if you haven't figured it out, i am writing a novel called Homegirl! i have written another novel called little pink babies. the only difference between the two is that in the first novel the baby survives.

that is not the only difference. i am a liar.

my pants are not on fire but my jeans got major crotch holes. they are so old and so comfortable and when i walk my neighborhood late at night who's gonna see my stuff except some raccoons, maybe an armadillo, lots of palmettos, those goddamned frogs that are always calling for the sexings and those goddamned generic big bugs that are always chirring chirring.

i walk my neighborhood late at night because the skies here are oh so fucking blue. they are so blue i want to smear them on my eyelids; they are so blue i want to take them all in my mouth and then the weight of the sky would collapse me. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i want to scare the passed out natty light drunk frat boys. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i'm bored. i walk after midnight cos i'm patsy fucking cline. i walk late at night cos the bullets aren't so bad then.

if anyone asks i am a gumshoe. i am down on my luck & the city's all around me.

if anyone asks me i read a novel about a gumshoe in a city where the buildings keep moving around him and the people live and the people die and the murders happen and the buildings breathe.

in out in out, the buildings breathe. they hold their breath all day but at night they come alive.

i have gone looking for this city of breathing buildings, but i can only walk so far and i get distracted by shiny objects in the road. i get distracted by truckers who've seen my stuff and want to take me to a truck stop or just the back of their cab. i get distracted ducking the bullets that come when i go looking for the buildings.

i think you may be in the breathing buildings; i think you may breathe with the buildings. i think you may hang with them in the noir rain and roll squares and tip your hat and look at the holes in your shoes and say, i should quit walking this beat.

but you can't stop cos you got to outwalk the bullets that are looking for you.

you are outwalking my bullets cos my bullets are slow and southern and confused. they've gotten into the apples that fell off the tree, the apples that've been lying underneath the blue blue skies, the apples that haven't tried to swallow the sky but have gotten drunk off that blueblueness. my bullets buzz slowly in fat fuzzy circles.

i cannot remember the name of that novel you are in with the breathing bullets and if you could help i will do my best not to write on the passed out frat boys with sharpies.

unless you want me to.

unless you want me to write your name.

unless you want me to write blue skies and apples.

unless you want me to write love.

yours walking walking,
ry

Homegirl! lives in a world of mens...

i am wondering why there is only one woman real character in my novel and if that says some things about me. or maybe it says some things about misogyny. or maybe it says some things about misogyny and me.

for reals.

when i was young young young, i thought i was the only one who'd ever felt the things i'd felt and thought the things i'd felt and that no one'd ever love like me.

i was wrong wrong wrong...

but maybes that's why there's only one homegirl in Homegirl! maybe she thinks she's the only one who thinks and feels and loves like she do.

these are not deep thinking things.

these are gameday thinking things & i'll write as the marching band marches and the cheerleaders wave their stuffs and the mens on the fields slam into each other and grunt and the mens in the stadium get turned on by the slamming and the grunting and the tackling and the piling.

orgy on the field. yeah, baby.

> kill author keeps giving it to me good. in a good way. and I'll orgy them in their bunker some day. here are Cheyenne Nimes' thoughts on my story from their last issue.

am still digging Grinderman 2. who else do you know rhymes "epic of gilgamesh" with "pretty little black a-line dress"?

yours with luvs & spits,
ryder

of i do some things for good karmas

does it nullifies the good karmas if what i am doing i am doing for the good karmas?

is this like false humilities?

i am not a god or an icon & i have no answers for myself or anyone else. i'm gonna go eat the fuck out of some pizza and drink the fuck out of some beers & call it a goddamned Good Friday, motherfuckers.

before i go

support this

here is the info and a video you lazy fucks:





maybe you should stop whacking it so your wrists aren't so sensitive and you can click on mo motherfucking links. or if you're fancy with an ipad you can do more motherfucking scrolling.

& i am using whacking in a gender neutral way. & i am using lazy fucks in a tot neutral way, too...

yours in trolling and beers,
Ryder

this one goes out to Tubesockboy

time to dump all the fauxboyfriends...

& start over...

"kill your darlings" is a phrase i hate hate hate.

i hate the cliches and platitudes and analogies and ad hominems and homilies and all the shit that writers say that don't mean shit but they say it anway cos, like genet sez, "By stretching language we'll distort it sufficiently to wrap ourselves in it and hide..." but these writers aren't stretching shit cept their own abilities to accept cliche as wisdom.


and fuck, i am feeling like a hater.


& fuck, today is international peace day & i am feeling like it's opposite day...

& i do not understand why my blog's surrounded by christs and bougy families. don't they know my blog's a baby snatcher? a baby stealer? a baby eater? my blog likes to lure babies up into trees and hide them there. my blog started early with the lindbergh baby. my bloggy's a bad bloggy. & christ, i don't fucking care how cute your kids are or how many babies you've plopped out or what you do all day to get through it with those egos on legs runningrunning saying mamamamamamama cos i know you ain't telling the whole truth and there's a noon o'clock boxowine break and a one o'clock siesta where you lock junior in the pantry.

that's when my bloggy comes trolling.

my bloggy whispers things from creamed corn and campbell's; my bloggy doesn't cut up the hot dogs. my bloggy says live it up now cos we all gots to die some time...

the creamed corn counts out yr mortality, son.

i dreamt about a fauxboyfriend last night. yes i did. i'm not lying. we were gonna have an afterbar, just him and another guy and me and then i was at their house for the afterbar and he was doing laundry and he was in his underwear and i was having trouble with a contact lens and it kept ripping into smaller and smaller pieces and there was no fucking or even heavy petting even tho in real life this fauxboyfriend jpegged my cell with his pretty cock and when i woke up i knew this fauxboyfriend no longer thought of me. so we are breaking up.

i'm gonna go listen to portishead cos i gots to dump at least three other fauxboyfriends to make myself cry.

yours in peace,
ryder

i'm waiting by my mailbox

& it's not for that letter where you tell me how sorry you are again...

just bought the 2011 "Blind Faith" subscription over at Mudluscious Press. it looks good, real good. also bought Mel Bosworth's new novella cos i've been hearing nothing but good things...

got to get back to homegirling. that is all.

no, wait...listen to Grinderman 2. now. that is a command.

your custard-colored superdream,
Ryder

some things like the jesuses and the supermeats

this is a picture of me. this is a picture of me before meat and jesus. i have bangs and boots. my bangs were straight cos i flat-ironed the fuck out of em. my bangs were straight until i left the house. look at how brown the grassdirt is. it is hot and humid and every now and then tho rarely it rains and after it rains it gets hotter and humider. when it rains the holy come out in white frocks and umbrellas and dance unto themselves and when it footballs the holy come out and toilet paper trees.

i will toilet paper myself and stand in the middle of town and pretend to be a tree.

i will be a toilet paper tree and when it is autumn i will drop individual sheets of tp. the tp'll get all dirty and tattered and the townspeople'll be sad.

when it is winter i will shiver in the middle of the town as a tree.

when the holy go by with their faith and football, i will follow them in my toilet paper tree glory.

they'll say, go away you freak, and i'll pretend not to understand them cos trees don't speak human.

i'll throw supermeat at them from my pockets cos you can buy supermeat in the town i live in now.  the supermeat will be slimy and rotten and toiletpapery from being in my pocket and the holy footballers will cry and flee & then i'll own the middle of town & if anyone wants lemonade or pizza or gapclothes or 5bros fries they'll have to pay a toll to get into my quadrant.

this may start a war some day. i'll have to definitely stock up on the toilet papers and bourbons before the armageddons.

this is the nicey-nicest chapter so far

& those of you who want mayhem and fucking and anarchy and violence and smashed storefronts and thanksgiving stuffed snatches avert your jaded eyes cos in this chapter Homegirl gets all disneyfied.

the blissiness of the domestic.

a respite from pissiness.

pretty pretty princess Homegirl!

this chapter comes a few chapters after "A little bitch," what's up @ Sleep. Snort. Fuck. So if you want sexing, you want cuntings and cockings, fistings by the oceanside, drug addictions and celibacy, you want vengeance, you want some damn scaryfine writings go there.

Homegirl + Punkboy sitting in a...

When he saw Homegirl sitting alone on his couch, Punkboy was all like, What are you doing here?

Homegirl raised her glass. Drinking, she said.

Punkboy looked at her and was so glad she wasn’t wearing that goddamned stained lingerie anymore. He didn’t say anything, tho, just let his messenger bag fall to the floor from his hand. He was tired. Bonedogtired. He sat down next to Homegirl and she handed him her drink. He finished it, poured another, took a long gulp and handed it back to her.

He didn’t want to fight and he didn’t even know if he was still mad. If the anger had only been posturing, a way to propel himself away from that pathetic version of Homegirl that he never wanted to see again. The Homegirl with the bloodied merry window and the vacant look and the sorrow. The Homegirl that didn’t fight back; that acted like she deserved that fucked-up shit.

He wanted his feisty bitch back; he wanted his feisty bitch and he would wait.

She took a long swallow of bourbon from the glass and handed it back to him.

They were quiet on the couch.

Punkboy’d thought about finding out who leased the flat where he’d recovered Homegirl that night. What’d he do to those responsible and how far he’d go. He didn’t own any weapons and he didn’t want to, but he did know a bunch of beefy beer-bellied Miltown skaters and punks. They’d be down with beating the shit out of someone who done what’d been done to Homegirl.

His girl: Homegirl.

He didn’t want to think about it right now, tho; he wanted to sit here in the dark quiet, on this couch, not have to talk, not have to do anything, and share bourbon from a highball glass with his girl.

He could tell Homegirl felt the same way; they sat there for hours, their bodies touching slightly, their hands brushing each other’s as they passed the glass back and forth. Then they went to bed to sleep in each other’s arms.

& it was good & quiet & the darkness was a good, quiet darkness. The darkness was a tamed dog curled sleeping at their feet; the darkness did not bark or growl or thrash about or lunge at them, for once.

Cos Homegirl & Punkboy need some peace every now & then,

Ryder

P.S. Excited to be part of the launching of a brand new mag, Bourbon Penn; gots a story coming out in the first issue. The story's gots nothing to do with Homegirl & Punkboy & everything to do with kewpies and Tupac, cos he ain't dead, bitches!

a little extra Homegirl! goes a long way

like that bump you slurp up on the end of your last cigarette after an all-nighter and the dawn's saying hi.

Homegirl! interlude
(for Dan & Stacia cos I used the tubesocks, sexy sexy)

When Homegirl was much younger, she fell in love with Tubesockboy. In high school, Tubesockboy was caught in his backyard trying to even out a farmer’s tan by wearing tubesocks on his arms. Homegirl was in seventh grade and didn’t care; she thought he was cu-oote. Tubesockboy grew up, went to college, married a gorgeous woman who supported him emotionally and gave great blowjobs (and a bitch like that’s hard to find), and had two beautiful children; Homegirl not so much, not the degree, the spouse who eats her out, the children or any of it, but you probably figured that out already.

Homegirl’s thinking she should have taken it farther when she was younger; she shoulda worn tubesocks all over. She shouldn’t have cared so much what anyone thought.

She did have a fauxhawk for a while. It was ghastly.

And she had metal braces.

She never had acne, tho. She was lucky that way. Instead she uglied herself to get through her pre-teen years and then reversed and tried to fit in again. By that time, Tubesockboy was already gone Ivy-leaguing, meeting hottie-wife-to-be, both of them walking back arms full of books from an all-night study session at the library to their apartments pre-dawn and they fall in with each other and the sun’s just peeking through and there’s an empty construction lot and he says, Want to?, and she nods and there’s a crane and neither of them have ever been in a crane, let alone fucked in a crane, and so they have at it and the sun rises through the crane’s huge windshield and she’s straddling him and welcoming him and the sun and they come and the sun’s officially risen and it’s love love love.

Tubesockboy was Homegirl’s first crush; she shoulda gone out & gotten him. She shouldn’t have been so afraid of rejection. But, if she did, there’d be one less crane-sex experience in the world.

Maybe.

She still shouldn’t care so much what anyone thinks, but that’s my insight, not hers.

Sometimes tho very rarely Homegirl dreams of Tubesockboy and he’s got those tubesocks on and he looks so small and he’s doing some weird stiff-armed robot dance or maybe he’s running back and forth or maybe she’s the one that’s moving and maybe his arms are just outstretched like he’s trying to catch something and it’s summer and quiet cos the sun hasn’t come up, quite yet and a bat flies by so close to her head and she’s swaying through the air but she hasn’t caught on and so she looks around and up and down and then figures out she’s the one moving, she’s upside down, suspended somehow from a wrecking ball.

Yours in tubesocks,

Ryder

sometimes it is so hard and sometimes it oozes out like Mrs. B's

cos i'm squeezing that bitch so soft & gentle. got to 75 pages of Homegirl! this weekend and it's halfway there. want to know why sometimes the words are bricks lodged in my mind and the bricks're building walls and catapulting obscenity strewn bricks and graffiti bricks and sno-cones and 80s madonna bangles and hipster irony at me and then sometimes they slide easily from my mind and it's a playground and there's a big metal merry-go-round and wood chips and monkey bars and it's dangerous and fun and i'm a kid missing teeth and i'm collecting teeth in the wood chips and i'm gonna put them in my pocket and they will sprout words and they will speak to me and i will not be lonely and the words will come through my fingers and grow more and more.

i am gonna get a tattoo that says homegirl! and maybe it'll be a tramp stamp. i'm gonna get a tattoo & that'll finally make me a tramp. i'll hobo my heart cross your U.S. i'll hobo my words and teeth until they are fireflies in your memory and you will put them in a jar and shake them and when they die and are only desiccated insecty things you'll realize how ugly your memories were all along. then you'll get a tattoo & it won't be words & it won't be pictures & your tattoo'll firefly you across the U.S. & you'll follow me, you'll skateboard on my ass but you'll never catch me cos i'm freighting, i'm train-hopping, i'm amtraking, i'm free & freeganning and i dropped all that extra weight in your jar; i left it with you to drag you down.

right now i am just musicing. i am listening to what Casualty listens to when he's not comatosestoned and what Homegirl listens to when she thinks of her boys and what Richboy listens to after he's crushed that tadpole and what Punkboy listens to when he's all postsex mellow nostalgiacy cos some Punkboys listen to more than punk and they read words that were once pocketed teeth, too.

Yours in training,
Ryder

mama drank herself silly: a play in one goddamn act

last night mama went to the bar.

last night mama went to a bar to escape.

last night mama went to the bar to escape the impending football madness. the descent of thousands and thousands of crazed fans who braveheart through the alabamas in campers and trailers and facepaint with the light of the lord shining through the darkness and crosses just in case.

last night mama fell down.

last night mama fell down and got back up.

last night no southern gentleman offerd to help mama up. mama woulda spit in their eye and sd something about ask me why and morrissey which woulda started a fight at the altbar she was at cos the altkids/grannies down here seem to hate morrissey for no reason cepting the meatmen want him dead and so does that eighties guy who wore overalls and had that video on onehundred20minutes and it was set in a junkyard, i think, but mamas's been drinking herself silly so mama's no help on that one.

mama ran into a wall near the bathroom.

mama thought the wall was molesting her; mama liked it.

mama said, are you a zebra?

mama said, why do you keep outrunning me?

mama didn't get no answer & mama musta liked that, too. maybe cos she was tired of migrant workers pretending not to know english so she'd go out in the fields with them & lay down & they could fuck her & then pontificate about immigration laws &/or the way the clouds look like dinosaurs, cotton candy, giant testes, etc...

mama said, scotus sounds like some kind of a disease.

the wall thought, some kind of a man.

mama said, a disease a guy'd be afraid of.

mama thought she heard laughter; mama said, are you jonathan franzen?

mama said, if you know the answer to this question, i'll go home with you. boy, you are every color?

the wall said, that's not a question.

the wall said, ma'am, stop humping me. the clouds look like jelly bellies and disappointment and you are breathing all my air.

the wall whispered, got a smoke?

mama said, the clouds look like nothing except random men's faces i've fucked. the blue of the sky is not bluer here it just pretends like everyone else.

mama said, the kudzu's gonna get you if you don't watch out.

the floor said, i'm waiting.

the floor said, i'm still waiting.

yours @ the end,
ryder

new decomP & 2 stories i likes

check out the September issue

i likes this story

i also likes this Sleep. Snort. Fuck. story way way much & it's in my head right now

that is all

oh, except this

yours, big boy,
Ryder

cos i always takes it too far

just ask any guy i've dated or driven around in my wee car; there's no back seat, there's no way to really get down, but i wants to take it further, further than it will ever go, cos that's how i roll.

& the new Cricket Online Review just came out & that's my story that briefly mentions Sam Pink & that's what started my occasionally random too far blogging about him, well that, and the fact i love I Am Going to Clone Myself then Kill the Clone and Eat It, and the fact that he was looking for a girlfriend cos he probly scared the last one away & i was looking for a boyfriend cos i'm stuck in the alabamas & the baseball capped bubbas with their pickup trucks and their do whats aren't doing it for me, i mean, i've cruised migrant workers down here just cos i don't have to hear that idiotic deep alabamas twang when i'm with the migrants who know no english & that's even better & i'm fighting trees for air like that song goes, i'm fighting trees for shelter cos i've been looking for love like i said & it always always starts raining bullets & sometimes they're old school Confederate, sometimes they're hunters' bullets, sometimes they're just random.

And the trees are all like, What have you been doing with your life?

And the bullets say, Why you running through the dark?

The trees say, It would be so easy if you'd just acquiesce.

& the random says, Be my wife.

They are smart trees and i shouldn't laugh when they get torn down for new roads for more football fans and bible-thumpers.

They are smart bullets & they follow me as i drive my wee car around pick-ups, as i weave in & out of football traffic, they follow me.

They will find me, the bullets and the handicapped trees, the chopped limbs,  the twigs, even the decaying leaves will find me.

& they will either take me down or have a little sitdown  (yeah, that's the new Juked) to listen to Homegirl! for a little while.

Maybe the ex-Marine will have something to say about it all. Maybe the random will win over all.

Yours in thinking about the ex-Marine,
Ryder