i am giddy like a lip glossy teenaged postered wall pop music fan fan

it was 68 degrees here today. holy fuck it was awesome & nothing could get me down. not even the slow drivers i couldn't pass cos there's only one lane of traffic both ways. not even the wal-marts. not even the lack of good restaurants. not even the fact that you all are out there & i'm here. & i am loving Mark Ronson & the Business International & you all needs to check this song out cos it's gots boy motherfucking george & this nice youtuber's translated it into spanish for everyone...

check this new lit mag out, too. i am in their first issue! mama's adding that cherry to her collection. thank you, boys...

& mama's a little afraid we're getting into a rut. mama's afraid you know what to expect form her now & you're getting tired or you're just gonna settle. mama knows she opens with an anecdote that leads into some kind of news & she sprinkles it all with little jimmies of the sexings. mama knows & she just can't stop.

mama knows a lot of things & she just can't stop. like when mama goes way too goddamned fast & it's a two lane highway & she's trying to pass in the wrong lane & there's a pickup truck coming right at her & she barely makes it then laughs & laughs...

yes yes y'all.

yours,
ryder

aw-peeing

yep yep. it's that time of the month.

no, not the menses, you sick fucks.

okay, that's not fair. the menses is not sick. it's all beautifuls and natural. see, mama's practicing with the nicey-nice.

mama's going to awp & she's gonna see some writers face to face & she heard the writers when they're face to face like to suck face so mama's gonna play it coy cos she never does & writers are all a bunch a liars anyways.

but mama loves em all.

when she's not thinking about the throat-punching of them.

yours in d.c.,
ryder

balls & the wall: an allegory

this morning mama went to the woods to look for her woodsman with the bambi heart, the heart of gold, the fake heart, the heart in a box. she was looking looking and slogging through kudzu and leaves and vines and strange men pissing and strange women squatting & then she was in a nightclub bathroom circa 2009 and she could hear L'il John and he was skeeting to the windows and to the walls til the sweat dropped down his balls and then she was looking at herself  in the mirror and mama was wearing shortshorts and dropping it low. She dropped and jiggled her way out onto the dance floor and then it was thrillville's some cut playing and she was thinking about juggling balls while someone tore down her walls... maybe mama'd never left the nightclub, maybe mama'd never been to the woods, maybe there'd never been a woodsman or a trucker...

pssst - the wall's the cervix, whispered someone close to mama. she felt a hand on her tit and it wasn't her own unlike this morning before she went to the woods when she was in the shower & doing her own memorial service for the trucker - slow and sad her fingers spread cross white breast and pinkypink nips.

& mama sd, duh. don't be so unsexy.

i've always...i like...you... my cock... a lot, whoever whispered.

& mama knew it was the trucker & that this was a flashback or at least this part was a flashback cos the trucker'd gotten lost in that last Northeastern blizzard. the last Nor'easter. & no one'd heard from him; no one'd heard his handle since or found his cb. that roll of film that dude'd found in Brooklyn wasn't the trucker's even tho she wanted to pretend so bad it was the love letter he never sent. that he'd kept it under his cap. until he went down.

(say reduce me, seduce me, dress me up in Stussy.)

& mama said, you ain't real. & then mama was alone at a truck stop and she was watching some trucker snort ritalin off the lottery machine & it was 3:30 in the morning somewheres & mama wanted to get back to the woods.

but there was no good witch to tell her she'd never left them.

so mama got those nachos with the runny fake cheeses (like cheez whiz almost but mama ain't nostalgic, just fucked up) and coffee and then she sniffed the residue of ritalin after that trucker'd left. she tried on cowboy hats and snuck gatorade and red bulls and took a whore bath and a trucker shower and drank more coffee and ignored the new clerk who had a black eye, and coke dribbles coming out her nose.

mama couldn't find the way out; she couldn't find the door.

there was only the wall that was the cervix and the window that had the skeet and the trucker that was lost & the woodsman waiting somewheres in the brush with a freshly cut heart.

yours, all plato cave-like & shit,
ryder

here is a boy

mama only has kind words for...

& all this talk of tattoos means mama is def finna get that homegirl! heart tatt now.

& here is a song for Homegirl & Punkboy 

yours in needles & pricks,

ryder

done with the tortured souls

it's kinda fitting this is the only version mama could find for the song she wants to play for all her tortured souls...

this is a good song, too. it is a very good song. it is very good for the sexings. it is better than the lounging song. mama's reserving it for non-tortured mens. or the ex-Marine, for old time's sake...

mama feels that creeping ennui

it is like kudzu & it climbs & wraps & grows & climbs & i can hear it growing growing, & there's no natural enemies cos mama's ennui's from japan or someplace. mama's ennui's almost smarter than me & makes me want to exoticize things or some shit.

mama's ennui sends her on safari. mama's seen things. strange safari things like loch ness monsters & kids in capes & bad brains singers & you have to pay the rent puppets & all these other pix she stole

mama doesn't own the pics but mama tried to claim them

mama tried to claim them and/or other them

that was the theorist ennui talking. ignore it or send it postcards signed, Love, Edward Said...

mama was bored & tried to claim whole continents at the bar & when they didn't even send her back a jim beam & coke, at least, mama said they couldn't get it up

mama's gonna burn the fucking kudzu. mama's gonna be burning up that kudzu with a can of petroleum & a flamethrower & then there'll be a woodsman & not a smokey the bear & the woodsman'll say, hey, give me your twigs.

cos the woodsman knows things no trucker'll ever know.

the trucker showed up on safari; the trucker could outlast the safari, but the trucker's on his own safari & his safari is all mac n cheese & not loch ness

& just in case the woodsman doesn't work out, & just in case the trucker safaris out, there's a rest stop a couple miles from my house. mama can walk it if she's drunk. mama's always drunk when the ennui hits & she still walks & walks.

yours cos mama knows how to pick em,
ryder

eggs & peppermills; bastards and whores

this post is not about sex.

mama doesn't just think about the sexing. mama also has to eat sometimes & sometimes she works & sometimes she pays bills & sometimes she does all those live-living things that make her heavy bored & feel like she gots no inner resources.

she spent her last inner resources on that box of wine she brought to her last lover's wedding as a gift; she spent her last inner resources on the dozen eggs she let rot & then hurled drunkenly at his house after she pulled that Berryman & squatted, square jauntily hanging from her mouth, & peed on his porch; she spent the last of her inner resources on a tank of gas, a pack of cigs, a car wash, & a free poke from the car wash attendant who was legal, thank you, officer; she spent her last inner resources on ripped fishnets & tea & crepes with her ex's mother.

mama's sick of filling her own peppermills & that is a live-living thing & not a non-sequitur. mama's looking for a mans who'll sneak into her kitchen when she's gone or sleeping & who'll make sure her salt & pepper shakers are filled & that is not a euphemism...

mama's looking for a mans who knows she hates eggs but knows she's got eggs & wants to lick her eggs & ram her eggs & this is the only egg mama absolutely loves that doesn't make mama want to reach for a gun.

your bastard, you whore,
ryder

not nearly incoherent enough & mama just crossed the country

& my eyes crossed from fucking once & i had to hit my head against the truck stop wall afterwards to clear them & i walked back to my car with blood dripping down my face & a nice Kentucky woman asked, honey, are you all right? do you need a cold rag?

& i told her to stuff it & grabbed her cigarette from her fingers & said, ha, i don't even smoke.

& i took the rag, too, cos mama needed a whore bath & i sped off, listening to Grinderman & rubbing my cooch clean

here is a Grinderman song. it has good lyrics; like, i'm only happy when i'm inside her, & my baby calls me the loch ness monster; two great big humps & then i'm gone...

mama'll find that trucker who's only happy when he's inside her. she knows he's somewhere near a vending machine & he likes the candies, of course, & he doesn't have any change & that's how we'll meet. it'll be all ferris bueller's day off charlie sheen-like, except it won't be charlie sheen & he won't be handcuffed & mama's nose's small without a nose job & mama may be the one who's handcuffed later & there'll be no chorus going, mama or shauna or whatever...

whatever, & mama's eyes are crossing now cos she just found out her chapbook's a semifinalist for the Black River Chapbook Competition. there's some eye-crossing sexing  in the chap, too, & a fuck lot of glass smashing. tho it's not about truckers, just the apocalypse & balaclavaed babies & anarchists...

loves,
ryder

first mama'll be all body body & then all sappy sappy

a new year and i'm not gonna bore you with best ofs or rezs or auld lang synes or any of that crap. but i will impart some words of wisdom or some such shit:

1) never shave in the shower with an electric razor with your eyes closed and/or without your glasses. mama somehow shaved off a line of pubes so then she had to shave part of her mound clean and then she didn't have time to shave for like three days cos she'd been kicked out of town again & on the lam and she met this trucker at a rest stop and he was all like, hey there northern girl, get in my cab and she was all like, only if you have cheez whiz to spread all over me and he was all like, of course and so she did and they fucked in the cab and it was hot & she was on top & her tits were jiggling jiggling niceynice but the whole time mama had this little thread of worry, in the back of her mind, behind her eyes closed and that overwhelming feeling of shuddering, which kept her from completely shuddering and crying, that her trucker was gonna shout out miami vice miami vice as he shot his load...

2) biz markie's "just a friend" is the hardest song to get out of your head ever. that is all.

3) make sure you know your foreign languages when you're speaking the dirty talks to your trucker: je te fumerai la tete is not the same as je te plumerai la tete; i will smoke your head's okay but i will pluck your head's so so wrong...

4) after mama left her trucker she was sad and she almost got on the cb to tell him but mama's cb's actually a highball glass of whiskey manhattan and her handle's a handle of maker's so mama couldn't really get the word out about how she felt & there's really no moral here at all; puritan america go suck it. mama'll eat maraschinos and watch...

5) nobody drinks mickey's big mouths anymore. it's a goddamn shame. there should be more mickeyslutting in the world today.

yours in green hot pants,
ryder