cruising yo

this.

"The whole ‘online literary scene’ is something that I’ve always found wearisome, I’m afraid, and I know that’s a very unpopular view that puts me firmly in the minority. Frankly speaking, for all that people inside the bubble of the ‘lit scene’ talk about how supportive it is, I just see writers endlessly back-slapping and telling each other how great they are, how important they are, how the community is the be all and end all. I fully appreciate that I may well be alone in this viewpoint, but writing is a solitary activity most of the time and I tend to think that’s how it should remain." - Vaughan Simons, editor of > kill author

maybe mama's just a misanthrope. maybe mama just wants to sit under the alabamaz sun with the sweats making their slow way down her halter dress, rivulets slowly meandering down breasts, down thighs, behind knees, as she sips some jug whiskeys. maybe.

poemz up & mama in luv

RED FEZ

oh yes.

mama hearts them truly, yo. & mama's in love with the world or at least a lamppost or some alfalfa or gins or something...

mama's manifesto

mama always giggles & hiccups & ends up with cava up her nose.

cava's like champagne but cheaper, kiddies, for those of you who don't know....

here is mama's new manifesto (p.s. subject to change alwaysalways):




this is mama's shortcomings potpie



this is your misgivings cigar, & mama's arms
all meaty again & the dough ain't flakey
no more, yo. there's a rifle somewhere behind
the apron. mama's teeth've gone all bucky
& she spits out retainers like bullets. she spits
out children like Hi-C; she spits & don't swallow; she
spits & she's eighty & rocking a heroin haze, says,
come here, grandchilluns. that's the future you see
when you flick your zippo, after you cut the tip
off. mama's all about tips & heads & phalli;
she knows what they're for & it's no fairy
tale oven push. she takes it all in. she reads
the newspapers sometimes. she still bakes &
there's ash all over & a wolf & a big cheesy grin.





yours,
mama

no more virginal audio mama

Anomalous Press was kind enough to print some of mama's poems & Anomalous Press does the audio poem thing so you can listen to mama read some of her poems after drinking the moonshines after sitting on the porch with her shotgun; her calloused feet soaking in a moonshine bath. you can't hear mama call for her eldest Dewey Dell to bring mama more moonshines & you can't hear the dogs snarling at the postman.

here is i hope you get ugly and die

here is i am hopscotch with hop

here is it is after all only a folding

& one of these titles is true true true...

yours all warm & tingly,
mama

mama's book trailer sucks

mama needs yr help!

this is mama's book trailer:



it is too quirky. it is not dark enough. it doesn't capture the essence of Homegirl! the only good things are cousin allen's cameo (yes!) & his cinematography...


here is a good book trailer (for an awesome book you all should read soonsoon):




here is another good book trailer:




mama doesn't know if she's allowed to do this... mama doesn't know if this is a cop-out, but mama was thinking that maybe she could crowdsource her book trailer (& look at mama using the fancy techno-geek lingo, yo, all from her porch under the alabama sun; mama wipes that sun glare off her laptop with moonshines, yo)...

READERS OF HOMEGIRL!

if you feel like it, send mama your interpretations
send scenes, send a whole fucking trailer if you want...
mama'll watch them all/mama might them mash up
you will have mama's undying luvs
you will win 1 milli-second of fame as mama'll list your name in the credits

send your Homegirl! video clips to collinsry4@yahoo.com
be sure to include your postal address (real one cos a certain combat-boot wearing poet's sent mama a fake address 2 xs now) so mama can send you good stuffs

if mama uses your clip, mama'll send you a signed copy of her book & a personalized gift (maybe one of mama's boot flasks, maybe the stencil for her tattoo, maybe her heart in a box, who knows what mama'll do...)

big loves,
mama

mama's dating tips #1

mama's thinking about going on the okcupids... would it be weird if mama's handle was bigbertha? & if you don't know that's a reference from Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea get off your computer & go read some real books, son!

(mama is all about the self-deprecations but not the self-defecations, yo.)

mama has been thinking about this dating thing recently. i've been re-examinings the interactions between the peeps who wants to get it on, especially vis a vis mama & the peeps she's done. i've been wondering why it's so hard to find someone you want to fuck three xs a day for a longlong time?

if you have the same question, perhaps mama's tips can help you... perhaps you should read mama's tips & then do the exact opposite of all of them

EXCEPT FOR THIS ONE:

1. if you are thinking about doing the kissykiss liplocked tonguey wormcave biteybite thing with someone be sure to ask him or her or them if they have ever touched, fondled, petted, kissed, tongued, or eaten an ARMADILLO. this is not a euphemism to find out if they are a virgin (who the fuck cares about that besides whiteboys who don't like vaginas cos they are actually repressing homoerotic desires). the armadillo is never an euphemism, yo. 20% of armadillos in the US carry leprosy. you, as a human being who thinks you are so fucking great cos you can walk upright & know the ironic difference between Pabst & Hamm's, can contract motherfucking leprosy from touching or eating an armadillo. you can then spread your leprosy through your saliva.

that's right kiddies, through the salivas. that wet shit that gets exchanged through the face to face thing unless you are sweet unicornrepressedhipster butterfly kissing.

#1 question to ask now after lastcall, for reals...


yours in luv,
mama


hold yer hands in hallelujah/ mama's gonna give it to ya...

mama's rules for fucking writers

cos even mama's got some rules...

& if you want to do the dirty with a writer here are some things you should know:

1. if you are a writer, never sleep with another writer who hasn't read your work

2. if you are a writer, do not sleep with someone whose work you don't admire. if you have to work hard to admire something about their writings, you should probably not do the sexings

3. if you are a woman writer, you may imagine your thing to be like Donald Hall/Jane Kenyon; it will probably be more like Hemingway + Gellhorn & guess which one of you's Papa (see #1)

4. do not bother waxing, the writer won't notice

5. if you don't bother waxing, the writer will notice

6. the writer may fixate on some peculiar part of your anatomy & wax poetic about it. a knob of your spine, the buckle of your knee, the saddle of your bag... the writer has practiced this soliloquy many times. don't buy it.

7. if both of you are writers, there will be miscommunication upon miscommunication cos words are slippery slippery things & both of you know how to twist words like soft baby eels until they go squish

8. the miscommunications will be fun at first for peeps who play with language. if you are a realist, not so much...

9. the writer will write about it in one way or another at some point in his/her life. this is what writers do. we are a dirty dirty bunch who steal & lie & pretend to feel. all the while we're just storing experience in our fucked-up heads to replay & revise at some remove.

10. we are also always critiquing & analyzing. it's how we roll... for example, right now, mama's critiquing her own list: #4 and 5's a-ight but the rest delves in stereotypes & generalizations & mama might be called to the rug for that (and what does it mean to be called to the rug & is there a kink that calls peeps to the rug & could mama call peeps to the rug & maybe mama should start a dominatrix-to-go van here in the south. it could be undercover but not quite; called something like 3 French Maids but there will be no hotties in French maid outfits getting off that van only mama wrapped in leather - your choice of black or blacker - & cracking a whip...)

11. there will be tangents upon tangents upon whorls upon whirls upon licks upon thrusts upon kisses upon tangents upon humps...

mama'll bring you the moonshines

since you haven't come to mama, mama'll come to you

& mama knows that's a cliche & mama knows it bothers some established writers (whatever that means) when one acknowledges you are using a cliche (& also SWITCHING POV!), but sometimes a cliche is all you gots & sometimes you are using the cliche to comment upon it & sometimes the cliche clings to your thigh like a used condom your lover left in your bed after he left without kissing you good-bye...

you woulda turned your head away, anyway

mama won't turn her head away & mama'll bring you the moonshines just like in the pic

but mama'll punch your face if you ever make her feel inhibited

if you make mama ever say sorry in bed you are done for

done for in more than a nasty sweaty whips & chains & hairshirts way

this is an excerpt from Homegirl!


this excerpt explains nothing about mama & her moonshines:

& Homegirl’s called Homegirl cos she’s always and forever looking for that home and always and forever resisting that urge to find home. She thinks love can be a home. She runs from the love that can be a home straight to the guys who want to knock that home on its ass, that want to raze every wall and kick in every door and break every tooth in that home. Guys like Richboy.

She’s a modern day fucking Dorothy from Oz and instead of ruby slippers, bitch has a gun. & instead of the lion, the woodsman, and the scarecrow, she’s gots her brains, her looks, and her cunt.

love is a frog & catting thing: Homegirl! excerpt, yo

mama's eds at Honest are the good eds & they are busybusy with the new goodstuffs. Paul Kavanaugh's Iceberg and Willie Smith's nothing doing & they gots this epic fantasy coming out called The Vorrh by B. Catling.

mama's not trying to be the pretentious by talking about her eds but mama gets a little tickled that this alabama girl's gots eds. it makes her giggle a little as she sweats on her sunbleached porch & gets too hot to even lift the moonshine jug up to her mouth. that's when she calls for one of the chilluns & if they're smart they're already gone playing in the swamp out back...

mama's eds want you to check out their good books. mama wants you to check out their good books. mama wants you. mama wants you to check out her book there, too. Homegirl! is mama's only child she don't make fan her or bring her highballs... Homegirl! is the only child mama don't shush when her stories are on & the only child she don't chase through the house with a switch for eating up all her marshmallow fluffs.

this is TWELVE:

For Richboy, love is a beating thing; love is a frog. Love is a tadpole you scoop out of pond scum and hold wiggling in your palm and you hold it there and watch it squirm and it squirms its small moist life against you and you feel something and you can let that thing grow and it will grow into a frog and it will have those long strong back legs and it will jumpkick its ass out of your hand at its first chance, you know, but you hope against hope the frog will stay there contented in your hand or you can start to feel something  in the small moist thing and you know what comes next, what the frog’ll do cos it’s happened before and you can’t take this feeling, beating, kicking, wettish thing so you close your hand quickly and squish the little squirmer before it can even get its fucking legs.

For Punkboy, love is a cat that creeps up slowly on soft padded paws and you don’t hear or see or smell or even feel this creeping stalking thing and then it’s there in your lap and it’s purring and rubbing and biting and clawing and catnippy and then it’s jumping free and chasing and being chased and catnippy again and there is the wailing and the barbed penis and the being stuck together and it’s  scary and crazy and you’re afraid of the pulling out and you are oh so high.

We know what it is for Homegirl; or what Homegirl thinks it is.

much & big loves,

mama

this is mama's angsty post

this is where mama gets angstier than the whiteboys. this is where mama shows the whiteboys that mama's got the angsts, too

there are bitches & they don't like mama

there are bitches & they are uni-sex & they don't like mama

this post is not about the bitches

this post is about how mama's found the answer to all unhappiness & her secret is so much better than The Secret & she has been all busybusy writing the book that will release all of mama's friends & foes from the existential crises, from samsara, from the earthys

this is bullshit, if you know mama... mama is still all existentialy mama wonders why she brought the chilluns into the world to deal with morality, too but mama's oldest knows how to make a mean manhattan & that just might be enough

at this point in her life

at this point in my life

mama's been listening to james blake which always reminds her of the one she would've settled with & given up the moonshine stills for but not the plans to be a drug-addled meemaw. mama's been listening to the james blake cos mama wants to turn hairshirt into mohair cardigan into cashmere into negligee into nothing...

mama is old but not old enough but too old & her sunglasses are crooked & she's done that paperclip thing with one of the arms & that trick is so 1980s punk rock or hughes movie or maybe it is a safety pin

teenmama used safety pins to slowly scrawl words into her arms. it was like cutting but not as dramatic or painful. it was a tedious pain & a tedious task. it was like life.

it was a lot like life.

oh, & in the long while since mama's been on the bloggy (not like being on the rag at all; all right, sometimes it is..): mama's collaborated on a book of poems called I HOPE YOU GET UGLY & DIE  


this poem is part of the collab


mama's now working on a book of poems written to a famous someonesomeone

she's also working on her hater novel. her main character's not a hater but everyone thinks she is.

it's a lot like life.

it has been so long yo

oh blog, it's me & not you. for reals. mama has been busybusy. i promise to post on you longtime tomorrows... & update all your links & take you to the Olive Gardens for dinner not lunch & after we can walk down to the ice cream shoppe & you can get two scoops, baby.

TWO motherfucking SCOOPS.

with some motherfucking SPRINKLES even.

then when we gets home, mama'll pour you a glass of fine cava & not that cheap Cook's shit & we'll drink out of jelly jars & sit on the concrete slab i calls a patio & laugh at the neighborchildren being chased by our mean dog...

then we'll listen to the lovesongs of frogs.

if you go a awp-ing, yo

there should be a song, yo. awping, yawping.

mama will be at awp in chitown. mama would love to drink the whiskeys with you. mama would love to feel the soft down on your knuckles graze her fingers as our hands clasp in what is known as a handshake. yes, mama shakes hands occasionally.  occasionally mama does those live-living things.

mama will be hanging at the Imaginary Friends Press table (416, yo) and also at the Kestrel table...

if you bring mama bourbons she will dance. if you bring mama books she will jump into your arms. if you bring mama snark she will bounce, yo. if you bring mama words, she will make pinatas & candy will fall into your mouths.

yours,
mama

motherfucking sonnet

yo. check it out.

i can never spell deity

& that has nothing to do with you cos

you are no Rama, no Jesus, no Zeus, or

even Gilgamesh. you snore & i snore; you

drool; i drool. we are imperfect things &

so we both look for perfection elsewhere:

you in your Ford Probe turning doughnuts in

pure whiteness & me opening jewelry box

after jewelry box left on my doorstep.

the woodsman never fails me just

like driving gloves coddle your nicotine

fingers. really, there’s no comparison

there. you are spinning in blizzards & i am

picking deer hearts off velvet lining &

always a mirror waits to say something.

mama doesn't know why the sonnet. she doesn't know how the sonnet. she doesn't breathe the sonnet. she doesn't eat the sonnet. she doesn't even drink the sonnet. 

word.

mama

like a child or somethings

mama's also working on her new novel, The hater's winter, & it is so different & so minimal & so alien from Homegirl! it's like mama burned through words with Homegirl! & now she's left with carbon & the carbon's been pressed so tighttighttight each word cuts & each word blooddiamonds.

mama's not bragging; mama's trying to account for her feelings.

mama's been left bleeding, yo.

mama loved the writing of Homegirl! mama was in love. mama thought about Homegirl every day. about what Homegirl was doing & how Homegirl was gonna get out of the shit & how Homegirl & Punkboy were gonna make it & then...

then mama finished writing her novel & it was like she'd just lost her closestest friend.

mama was happy to see Homegirl! go out in the world. mama was happysohappy to get her novel published; don't get mama wrong. mama may be angsty at times but she doesn't just write for herself & when she's feeling angsty she's got the moonshines & the porch & the shotgun & the alabamaz skies...

maybe this is how the parents that are so close to their childrens feel when they leave for college. you can't protect them anymore. you can't think about what they are doing at all times cos they may be doing things you don't approve of like sucking up to teachers and being on time for all their classes & studying on the weekends & attending the churches & protesting puppies or they may be doing things you approve of like smoking the gangas in a cemetery or making friends with that hot guy cos they wanna bone him or skipping class cos they wanna experience a rave or even a Party Barn...

or maybe they wanna do things you've never thought of like sucking the nipples of amphibian-men or getting vaginal tatts or dorm-orgying or becoming a baker or a coppersmith or a rattler-handler or...

mama doesn't know if you've ever felt the same way. mama doesn't know if you've ever finished a book or a project or had a kid & then started another or had another & just didn't feel the same way...

sorry, kid, if your mama don't love you the same.

but, that's how the humans roll. there are different kinds of love. maybe the love mama has for this novel is different but maybe it'll be just as strong.

mama's hoping, yo.

yours,
ryder

mama's working on a top secret

project, yo

& it involves poetry & it is collab & here is a piece (it is not a piece of tail but you could print it out & fuck on it if you wanted to):

is it bad

that i wish on you

an incurable disease that makes

your skin slough off where you have

tattoos. in the shower, on your bed sheets,

on your fixie on the streets of somewhere; your sloughing

skin a streamer behind you a rainbow of sprinkles

like cupcake frosting. you could never get

her name fixed on you then. good-bye punk good bye

love. she’d ask you for

proof & you’d go to the parlor & the needle

would bite your skin again & again & again & then

rainbow streamer sloughedoff streets fixie mother fucker,

yeah you. 

another piece from this super-secret project is finna be published at Unshod Quills, yo. it is called, "Sharks infest these waters & no one believes" & it reminds mama back in the day when she hung out at the home of the beautiful dive bar & they would play Morphine & peeps would sneak down to the basement & do lines of blow off aging strippers & now mama's feeling all warm & nostalgics...

Mama's gonna get real for a sec

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Goodwill for all & secondhand your new year, yo

so mama's gonna keep to her traditions, yo. mama's gonna follow some kind of convention & tell you all what she learned in this year of our not sucklord (asswipe your own tp, yo) aught-elevens...

1. YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THREE SISTERS

                                  YO.

2. Some eds are better than others:

For reals. The editors at Honest Publishing Press are, like mama's told manymany folks, the bestest. They are beyond niceynice. Where other presses think it's all the writers job to market market (& mama could tell you a story about a press who almost dropped one of their writers due to marketing concerns, but mama ain't gonna kickstart up no old controversies), these awesomest blokes have been doing the brainstorming & the buzzbuilding for their writers. Big shout out & luvs!

 

3. Big big titties, squee!

Mama's next novel has the bigbig titties; they are all like Tantalus's grapes yo, hanging heavy and low, you can look but you can't touch. Just like dominatema says. Mama also says, pee or I'll beat you...

4. You can't teach an old trucker how to sit on one of those rings or how not to eat the fried foods or how to listen to Nina Simone or how not to try to invite mama back into his cab when all he's got to offer is turkey jerky, Goldshlager, toe suckings, & no cock.

5. Count mama in as one of the peeps who wants real change. 

6. There is sex and there is art. There is art in sex. There is sex in art. Mama likes sex & art. A lot. Sexy artings. Arty sexings. Millions and millions xs a million mama likes.

7. Mama's gonna bring back the term "blue" for things peeps might find offensive. In this interview, Horror Sleaze and Trash asked mama if she thought "worry, fret, and irritation" were purposeless emotions. Mama said no, but mama should've added she thinks shock and outrage about sex between consenting adults or about dirty words is purposeless. 

8. All you all feeling the shocks & outrages over the blue literatures, get over yourselves & get laid, yo.

Word,

mama