mama likes it when writers pretend they really care about all the other writers they know & i means all of them & they give shouts out to their 200+ writer friends & talk about what great writers all of them are when mama knows that most of them are dennis hoppering words like blue velvet elvis hotcakes.
whatever the fuck that means.
mama's just feeling guilty cos all these great lit mags - decomp, > kill author, fix it broken - have just dropped more babies & mama didn't even go to the shower or buy diapers or footy pajamas or butt cream let alone visit the maternity ward.
just remember mamas afraid of babies.
just remember mama has to drink the many manhattans to even be near a baby let alone touch their uncanny little fingernails or smell their sweet powdery nasty diaper+oldspit-up funk...
but mama will go to those babies & she will read their fresh pink skin. she will read their vulnerable limbs. she will hold them & offer them words. words like aw girls pissing & bitch saying & home girl fuck good & ninjas & sam elliot mustache
& that is no way to talk to a baby
so she will offer them better words like smash & gossamering & lemon dress & yea & verily, yo
mama will also check out barge when it drops its first... & not just cos mama's gonna be part of its second, but that's what's you're thinking...
mama knows. mama's not wearing pants & therefore she's wiser right now.
mama's legs are free & kicking up jigs & anarchists right now.
mama's been drinking the many of the bourbon highballs now. & mama's studying the small defense of a baby's yawn & the small hypocrisy of the fontanelle & the small ice sliver fingernails in her manhattan now & the maraschino juiced cherry fetuses floating floating...
yours in love,
ryder
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