Sunday, October 31, 2010

i am hiding from the chilluns

cos i am the mean writer who lives in the house with the shades drawn 24-7 and the boxes and boxes of wine and beer and bourbon and gin bottles on the curb every Wednesday five am punctual so the neighbors don't have too much time to inspect the contents of the recyclables before the big blue truck pulls up and the recycling guy says, damn this bitch sure likes to party.

(when i party i wear my party dress. & when i drink alone i wear nothing but a bra and jeans cos i pretend i'm in an eighties guess commercial & my tits are way way bigger than they really are...)

& that's how neighbors roll down here, they look at your recyclables, i swear, and tally them up cos they's making a list of who's gonna be lifted up in the rapture and who they might be able to ask to water their plants and let the dogs out after the second coming.

they are always planning ahead, these southerners, i swear. they are looking forward to the rapture as THE LONGEST LUNCH HOUR EVER. they love their lunches; they are always pushing their lunch hours minutes then hours then half-days longer and longer...

unlike me, in the planning and the lunching, who needs a new bra cos this shitty midnight blue one i'm wearing right now can't decide if it's black or blue and mama needs commitment from an underwire.

& as for lunch, some days i can take it or leave it. some days i come to fisticuffs with my sandwich bread cos it pretends to be that famous senor someses hand puppet and it says, s'alright? and then the mustard says, s'alright. and then the vegenaise, says, not funny, cos the vegenaise's all pc and uptight.

just like those feminists who hate the ladies who lunch.

i am a feminist cos i want to make as much money as the mens and i likes the mens and i want them to be able to cry if they wants to cos it's their party and i am a feminist who hates the ladies who lunch but i am not uptight. cos mama's got the senor wences wheat bread and she's got the bourbon's just a-singing in her veins.

the bourbon's singing about its special guest appearance here.

taco pie?

& i tried so hard to finish Homegirl! this weekend to enter her in FC2's contest but then there were those parties and mama wore her party dress and her party dress and other things from her closet became her gothprincesssteampunkwarriorgirl costume

cos the last time mama really tried to dress up she went as the high concept walkofshame with a bra hanging from her leather jacket pocket and bedhead and fucked-up make-up and sans panties and she had to explain all evening what she was...

yours in a party dress,

Thursday, October 28, 2010

sam pink interviews me preview/the principal is yr pal

Pink: Describe the first day of school for a child that we have together.

Me: Our child will wear a bow in its very thin hair (my side of the family), whether it's a boy or girl. our child will wear second hand garanimals underneath overalls. our child will be afraid to cross the playground alone so we will hide in the bushes and blow small darts tipped in amphetamines at our child as s/he hesitates at the edge. our child will become high from the darts and run across the playground with a cape we didn't know our child had. our child will say something like, i am too cool for this world, and will end up in the principal's office on the first day. we'll have to come talk to the principal and our child. our child'll be gnawing on the leg of the principal's desk wearing only that cape by the time we get there, & you and the principal'll start talking about something like pastrami or tennis, and mama'll definitely need a drinky or three after all this.

1st day tweaking!

yours in dirty martinis,


you can win books books books

Sunday, October 24, 2010

peoples bore me

& i haven't thought about you in a long time. before you were like my fave song when i was young young young and i'd have you stuck in my head all day long and i'd try to catch you on my radio so i could tape you & i'd only get pieces here and there but i could combine those pieces and i did; there was a tape full of these pieces and i would play it over and over and the song became something more than it ever was. and i'd go to bed with the song in my head and i'd wake up with the song in my head and i'd wake up and i'd grown an inch and i'd wake up with cravings for reese's peanut butter cups and m&m's and cool ranch doritos and all sorts of processed shit i never eat any mores not cos my body's a temple or any crap like that but cos i no longer have a sweet tooth and i wonder where it went and where have you gone, too, cos i ain't feeling yas anymore.

now i wake up and i haven't grown any.

now i wake up and there is no one whose name i've forgotten in my bed.

i used to want you in my bed, on my bed, under my bed, on the kitchen counter with spatula spankings, in the shower, in my hallway up against the wall cos we couldn't even get past my door barely.

now mama needs a bloody, maybe some xanex, def some valium, and somethings to cheer herself up.

here is the thing to cheer mama up:
my poem has been nominated by shady side review for Dzanc's Best of the Web. it is the first poem there and that is their new issue.

here is the song Punkboy hears at work when he realizes Homegirl's really really in trouble. he cuts out of his shift & jumps on his fixie to go find her.

(there are boobies at the end of the video. yay boobies!)

Homegirl's in a standoff with only a baby glock against a mercenary with two sig-sauers and a Craig's List witch with two s&ws. i fucking kid you not. i am going all tarantino on homegirl; that is what happens when i'm no longer feeling ya.


Saturday, October 16, 2010

i will bores you with the announcement

New Scrambler's out & it's their largest issue ever, they say, and this tall girl's delighted to be in it... Check out everyone else, too, cos it's got live breathing peoples like Stephen Tully Dierks, S. J. Bridgins, Christine Fadden, and many many more...

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Homegirl! realism is really real, for reals

I’ve given you dive bars and a hill and a cafĂ© somewheres but I haven’t given you any local color; I haven’t grounded you in the scene. If you were a realist, you wouldn’t believe me. If you were a realist, you’d hate me, even.

If I were a realist, I’d hate me, but for different reasons; I’d be so bored with myself and my realism, I’d go to one of the corner bars in Miltown and drink and drink and drink until I couldn’t even remember my name and then everything’d become really real and it’d be real and absurd wherever I ended up – a stranger’s bed, a psych ward, the hospital, the gutter, the median, the cop shop, on a bicycle, in space, wherever.

I would see things I wasn’t supposed to see.

Like what the insides of my intestines look like: bright yellow and stringy.

& what your bourgeois dreams look like: bright yellow with stainless steel stringy-ass accessories.

& what the lushes call aurora borealis is really just dawn flashing on dting eyelids.

& what bike sex looks like: ask O’Brien.

& what the normal workday looks like: newspaper print and kitty vomit.

& what life and death means to corporations: Hello, kitty!

& what married couples’ sex lives look like: bad anime karate chops; the climaxes go all pow and kerplunk and widow’s peak.

& what married couples call love: Bill Cosby sucking jello pudding pops.

& what Punkboy calls love: home.

& what Richboy calls love: cruelty.

& what Homegirl calls love:

& Homegirl will fantasize about walking these streets like a noir antihero fucking every attractive guy/girl she meets and leaving a bloody trail down these Miltown sidewalks.

But, I haven’t even described Miltown so you are in an everyplace everywhere howtown.


Sunday, October 10, 2010

wanting the ending & not

i have been prolonging the ending of Homegirl! i think. i am intense and needy and i will miss her so much. i am prolonging the climax, teasing teasing the words now. tease tease with a little spit. tease tease with a little tweak. tease tease with a tongue tip here & a light finger there.

before i was compelled. 

before i was compelled & i ripped those clothes off Homegirl! and i pushed her down on the bed and i rough-tongued and slid all over and around & in her. & i couldn't get enough.

now i do not want it to stop.

it is just like sex & not.

just like fucking & i will be your little sadist. i will torture & propel Homegirl and Punkboy and Richboy and others for you. i will tie them down and their words and thoughts and everything will come out. & their words and thoughts and everything will be little babies crawling crawling and the little babies will cry and giggle and slobber all over.

you will read the babies; you will read the babies in order to put an end to them.

& this has nothing to do with any of it except i never want it to stop either cos it reminds me of babies and sex and Jesus Christ Superstar and whiskey manhattans and bullwhips.

yours in pleather,

Saturday, October 2, 2010

let's you want to be punched in the face?

 if so, here are the things to do

if not, you can read on so you know what not to do, or you can go read some things more interestings.

i will number the things sequentially, cos i'm not hipster nuff to pretend like there's no method behind the non-method.

1) be an old biddy. be an old biddy who's behind me in line at a local subdivision of a corporate monolith. be the old biddy that looks at my pile of stuf on the counter and says, everybody's buying socks. and look proud of yourself for this wittyass remark. you've got this look like the minpin right after he shredded my old socks. be the old biddy behind me in line who says to the cashier, everybody's buying socks! this time with an exclamation point. live the old biddy; breathe the old biddy; maybe some day you will be the old biddy.

 i will not cos i'm fixing on starting up some mega habits like heroin and opium and restarting others when i'm old so i'll be too fucked up to be a biddy.

be the old biddy who says as i'm walking away with a free pair of running shoes in my bag, to the cashier, you didn't ring up the shoes.

fuck you old biddy fuck you.

here i am feeling like it's my birthday early; here i am feeling like the MAN's just given me a bday present. here i am all happy walking away with new running shoes. old biddy. i bet in your last life you were part of the temperance movement. you wants to take up all the funs. you wants to shred the funs.

you can't stand to see anyone have any funs cos you're old and you wear michael kors knock-off separates and you don't get laid anymore and you don't know what to do with all that pent up tension so you go to church and sit in judgment and pray that no one notices your overbite cos all thru your sad small life you just wanted to be thought pretty. just once.

this is already getting long & yeah, i'm all about stating the obvious...not even to #2, so i'll skip to 5 cos i'm not a hipster but I lie.

5) say you are a poet. say you are a poet. say it. say it.

6) mafia slap me in a bar. wait no, oh wait. that's my m.o. to get punched.

7) tell me a made up story about how you were a dick at the bar and sat in someone else's seat so they'd get pissed off so they'd hit you upside yo head with a highball cos i just told you my mafia slap story, motherfucker, & you always gots to one ups me.

8) everybody's buying socks!

9) youtubing & thought i was gonna see some hardcore anime porn or at least some s&m or at least some 9 1/2 weeks anime allusions to s&m, but all i got was maroon 5 and a montage...

10) here is some hot anime sex

11) now you want to punch me in the face. no? wait til i mafia slap you at the bar.

12) drive a souped up pickup or jeep with that row of lights on top that's made for hunting down fugitives or rape victims and drive that car like the confederate cowboy you are up onto my lawn. drive it up to my bedroom window and shout something like, whooey, or, i'm drunk, or, balls, or, i see cunts, while i'm trying to sleep off the bottle of wine i just drank cos i wanted to pass out early before the confederate cowboys came round and started burning witches and burning bitches and burning burning up my backyard.

13) say you need me. say you need me. say it. say it.