i am so bad

at the announcements & things cos i got it in my head that i'll bore you & sometimes when i'm in public i don't speak cos i'm afraid i'll be boring or conventional & yeah, i know that's how humans roll but i'm always fighting my goddamned fate or some shit.

i would like to create a diagram of thanks but i suck at art & i suck at math.

it would be a tree-like thing with branches and e.e. cummings roots of love...

see this

i like to spring this on people when it's not February & then say, Happy Valentine's Day

wait, back to my diagram -

first, the Confederate Cowboys: thank you for parking on my lawn, right behind my bedroom window. if i hadn't been so annoyed, we coulda turned the whole thing into a penthouse forum letter.

i like lassos and whips and boots. just so ya know.

i do not like being woken up by big high beams tho through my bedroom window unless you're a trucker or a cowboy or whatever signaling you got somethingsomething for me... a hard cock, a bag of coke, a wet pussy, &c, &c.

i like the old-fashioned &c just like i like the old-fashioned spankings.

next, Wigleaf. thank you for publishing my story about my Confederate Cowboy angst.

& then Swan and David Backer for picking that story for FictionDaily.org

are you surprised i didn't link to my own story? boo-yah, bitches.

& then FictionDaily interviews me & all of a sudden my names up in internetty lights with big shots & i got dizzy & i was seeing something & maybe it was the aura of all the great writing on the internets or maybe it was the grease shining off the temples of all the internet egos.

oh, snap. i just said that cos i was lookings for a metaphor. I'm superstoked to be interviewed alongside writers like blake butler, xtx, sean lovelace, amber sparks, &c.

for reals.

& i have one more announcement that has nothing to do with my tree of love.

or a big branch of hard ramming. a hunk a hunk of hard ramming love...

stacia & i are starting a blog about writing & writers & it is an inclusive blog & we will leave no one out so give us a hollas, yo.

yours in boots & old-fashioned &cs,
ryder

you have taken your folding city

i am intensey and you have left. you have packed up your folding city in a cardboard box and closed it with used suspenders.

you found those suspenders in the back of the goodwill where we'd make out.

we liked the smell of must and lost desires and mothballs and despair.

we liked the smell of broke down cars and long cigarette ash hanging on, hanging on.

we'd fall into piles of winter coats. we'd lose ourselves in down and faux-down and fur and faux-fur and ski pants and little moon boots.

it was the little moon boots that made you cry.

it was the little moon boots that made you cry out.

you are a perv with a folding city in a box.

i tried to change you; i tried to reclaim you. i tried to take your folding city and nail it down, make it permanent, make it stay and flourish and trade with other cities and grow some botanical gardens and attract some noodle houses and change the traffic signs from all caps.

you spent your time sifting through others' cast-offs.

you came out of a rack with suspenders held triumphant, aloft.

you wrested your city back from me. that was hot cos we wrestled some and things got parka-peacoat-snowshoe kinky for a sec.

then it was all over and you packed up.

& i will be a little less intensey & needy if you help out this cool new indie press and buy a chapbook... it doesn't even have to be mine cos it's not always all about me...

yours in a tundra,
ryder

i am going to grinderman tonight

& i will see nick cave.

& i will not worry about other authors' contempt &/or ignorance of me.

& i will not care if i'm not part of a mighty clique of writers.

& i will wear big boots & a small skirt & look hot & all my exes will want me back.

& that is all.

yours,
ryder

p.s. FictionDaily interviews me! Motherfucking me. Thank you Swan and FictionDaily. Mama love you long time.

yo. i am ackering as i write this

yes yes. climax.

my chap's been born! it's for sales here.

my baby has no father

my baby has no father unless sam pink counts

sam pink won't marry me, so my baby is a bastard

this is what the bastard looks like

i am a single mother now.

if this were the 80s, i'd be held responsible for the ruin of american civilization. some rightwing butplug would make an example of me.

if this were the 80s, i'd def have big shoulder pads and hair and coke dribbling out my right nostril

i would be a bad 80s mama and i'd plop my babies down in front of the tv

my babies would rebel by watching headbanger's ball and dancing like axl right out my door.

bye-bye headbanger babies, bye-bye.

your single mama,
ryder

1: just 1 day til it drops, yes yes y'all

the final countdown til my chapbook drops.

here's how it's been going down. a question from Sam Pink (interview at the end of my chapbook) and an answer of some of my lines. if you wanna see the real answers to the questions, you gots to buy the chapthingy at Imaginary Friend Press.

Mr. Pink: Can you describe the time in your life surrounding the creation of your chapbook.  

Mama:  Global climate change erodes the last drawings of my heart, the walls of Lascaux.       You think you see a raw outline, you think you can capture          Mercedes-Benz ecstasy, little pink babies: I love you all, even you tornado alley, even you Typhoon Mary, even you concubine, even me ennui.

2: bleach, pine sol, pb&j, + mickey rourke?

‎2 days: Best makeshift condiment for a peanut butter and jelly when you have no jelly: bleach or pine sol

Mildewed bathroom ceiling means success. Hairy toes means bad breath. Bad breath also means success. And riches, don’t forget the riches. & the toes. But, ceiling fans will never make you Mickey Rourke. And bars, well, bars you know...

3: well de la soul says it better than me

for realsie

Mr. Pink: Have you ever loved anyone, and what was it like.

Mama: be careful of cheap purses/initiations      call me

Re: I fill your whole mouth now                   bring the plum

moonshines

4: not gonna bogart 4 cos someone already called dibs

Can you describe your emotions while writing. 

I’ve signed treaties; I’ve made speeches. He parodies, he says put pen to parchment, he says put your mark here, he says…

you’re my little masochist, he says, there, there.

5: counting down til that chapbooky thing drops...

5 days until my ho-chapbook, Orpheus on toast, starts selling itself online.


only $7 will get you my poetry + an interview by Mr. Pink and you can then submit your chapbook to IFP cos they are the nice peoples & they wants to see new voices getting published...


i am gonna count down the days with a question from the interview. i am gonna answer that question with a line or two from the book. if you want to see the real answers - if you have any curiosity about me at all or if you even like me or maybe you hate me and need more fuel for that hate, i don't care - buy the book cos it's cheap and good like a hooker w/ a heart of gold.


#5: 

When you die, do you live in a small cardboard box in the middle of the moon, or do you get a hammock between two really close, small stars. or is it something else. if something else, please describe. 

There’s no lighthouse, now no house:
you dwell in the chutes; you’ll be going down again.

gots some AIH to walk you out...

yours in floozing, ryder

Homegirl! is done motherfuckas! part 2

Homegirl! is done motherfuckas!

& i'm celebrating with whiskeys and songs about home...

here is the first one.

drink up, my little babies... & dance dance dance.

release me!

Orpheus on toast, mama's chapbook, is coming out November 14th. available here. buy it, bitches! cos it's got my poems and it's gots an interview of mama by Sam Pink & cos my editors know how to throw down. yep yep.

sam elliot's mustache and so many other things

i really want to do a post that does sam elliot's mustache justice. that talks about the rideability of sam's mustache. the sex inducingness of his facial hair. the quivering wet knee jelly of his whiskers...

like you better if you just ride me

but mama's tired right now and mama's been drinking since sometime you don't need to know about.

& mama's got to get through the announcements.

mama's gots to stand up and practice reading the nominees out loud.

mama can't pass out at the podium cos she'll fall over and there'll be no one to catch her cos the trophy girls all weigh about 80 pounds and they'll be lucky if they can move their anorexic skeletons outta the way quick enough and mama'll hit her head and maybe her skirt'll fall off somehow like gregor samsa's mum in the metamorphosis.

mama never wants to be a bug.

mama squashes the bugs she sees in her house. she's gots a deal with the insects: they intrude on her turf, she squashes them. she intrudes on their turf, too motherfucking bad, biotches; she squashes them still.

& this is the time if announcements bore you to close your eyes and think about mustache rides...mmmm Sam motherfuckingElliotyesyesyesyesohmygodyesmustachemamalikesohyesmamayesmustachefuckmemustachefuckme...

1. Just saw the proof of my chapbook Orpheus on toast. Available soon. Maybe sooner than you stop thinking about that mustache.

2. Abjective  just took one of my balaclava anarchist stories. Expect it up in December.

3. FictionDaily  will be featuring my story, "If I don't leave the house, I won't know I'm in the South" tomorrow 11/04.

4. I am now on twitter as Homegirlrc. Some punk kid accosted me on twitter cos I was calling myself Homegirl. I don't really know what he was saying cos I ignored him cos I don't even really know what twitter is. I'm just trying to get the attention of Sam Elliot's mustache. Sam Elliot's mustache must have an account. Like I said, I don't know what twitter's really for but if twitter could set me up with Sam Elliot's mustache I think that would be reason enough for it to exist.

Seriously.

Thinking bout you, mustache, when i'm cold,
Ryder