Saturday, February 26, 2011

cum trees & horseshoes

lots of people like to play horseshoes & some people like to smell cum. some people keep cum stained underwears under their pillows & some people rub the cumstain on a breathing-mask & breathe that shit in deepdeepdeep like motherfucking dennis hopper in blue velvet...

i'm not here to be dennis hopper or isabella rossellini... i'm not here to talk about the evils of nitrous oxide or murder or cum or horseshoes. i'm not here to talk about the masks people wear willingly & the masks people wear willingly & hide...

i have a new understanding of mens, tho...

my new understanding started & stopped with my trucker.

my trucker hasn't been picked up for contraband or some shit.

my trucker got on his cb & broadcast shit about natalie portman or about ballerinas or about swans & their mating habits that didn't mean much to me...

as for the cumtree  & for the horseshoes:

there was a tree that smelled like sperm. & many of the women who came upon this tree said, wow, this smells like sperm. & many of the men who came upon this tree said, wow, this smells like sperm. but, some of the men  who came upon this tree did not like the smell of sperm; but, some of the women who came upon this tree did not like the smell of sperm.

& we won't talk about freud & traumas & repression for the mens who don't like the smell of their own sperm...

& we won't talk about what happened to that poor little cumtree in a society that doesn't value open, honest sexuality...

i'm in a place where i'd never thought i'd be. i'm in a place where i write non-apologetically. i write more here then i'd ever thought.i write & i think about writing. i write & i know others wonder about the purpose of writing. i write & those deep thoughts are written by others. i write & i know why i write & i will tell some one some day but there is no tautology going on & there is no teleology going on here, assholes. i write & i miss you & you will never know who you are & you could be anyone - the punker with the three-legged cat, the boy who never sent me that cd, the Russian who gave me whiskey on my bday, the Turk who wanted me to be his valentine, the ex-marine -  i'll never tell you cos that's what writers do. they cover all their shit up.

& i was gonna cut & paste my yearly love horoscope here, but i think i'll just get high on nitrous oxide instead...

yours getting higher,

Monday, February 21, 2011

Happy birthday & lots of ninjas

i am gonna send some birthday ninjas to my little sis. my little sis is not speaking to mama for reasons none of y'all need to know. now i know you're all imagining horrible things that mama's done like stealing her sis's corn on a drunken spree with bukowski. not important, so get out of those goddamned cornfields or wherever else your mind is at...

these ninjas are gonna pop out of her closet and her fridge and the trunk of her black Matrix and a random knot in a tree and a barista's ear and some menacing knoll in her dreams and the ninjas will drop kick that menacing knoll's ass and the ninjas will throw, not those pointyass star things, but confetti and they will whisper happy birthday but there will be so many animal balloon making ninjas decked out in streamers and big quiet shoes that it will sound so much like HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Thursday, February 10, 2011

mama is happy

someone found my blog by googling "mama is happy." whoever you are, you have made it so. mama is happy, yo. & thank you.

mama got a nice prezzie. it was like a dick in a box. maybe it was a box. maybe it was a dick. maybe it was a dick in a box and not just like it. maybe it had nothing to do with dicks and boxes and dicks in boxes and boxes that want dicks and dicks that want boxes. mama's not telling but mama's very happy, yo.

if you know mama, you know why mama's happy. uber-yo.

mama's calling out the peeps that need to be called out. maybe they're writing-writers. maybe they got clout. mama doesn't care cos mama's happy.

mama woke up one morning and her glasses were snapped in half under her pillow & she was all alone. no lie. it was a symbol. duh.

mama thinks duh to the peeps she hasn't called out cos she hasn't thought about calling them out til now & she may call them out but mama may be too happy to call them out.

mama thinks uber-duh to the peeps who circle jerk that she's already called out. duh, to your deep brain things that you get off on typey-typey on the interwebs duh to the fact that you think therefore you is duh to the fact that you're unhappy cos you're living your life to live life like it's supposed to be lived according to no one but yourself and everyone else who has decided to not live their lives the way their lives are supposed to be lived.

duh. mama's happy, yo.

happy mama

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Friday, February 4, 2011

um, i love this

@epicrites press i love this

& i don't wanna call a brother out, but i've been looking for a home for my Homegirl! & the Methlab led me to you & my book would seem to fit here but all your books are written by or seem to be written by the mens. what's up with that, yo? even if my book didn't fit, what's up with that, yo?

i wanted to leave a comment on your website but i didn't see any comment-leaving place or even a comment friendly place. i am still playing niceynice...

yes, i'm asking questions & you probably won't even hear the questions but this mama wants to know the answers...

& i am gonna try this pic again even tho last time i lost some twitter friends...

luv ya,

p.s.type in "totally absurd" into google images to see the percentage of imagination left in the U.S. population...

p.p.s i was trying to change shit up & not talk about the sexings or how wet a pussy could get when the Homegirl gets a looking at.