Archive for the ‘Not Your Bitch’ Category


Don’t tell me you love me–
I know what you love:
my lips and my tits and my eyes
and my curves and my pussy that
fits you like a motherfucking glove

it’s the tangible things that you love,
and I know this because you only tell me
just before you cum

I have a mind behind these eyes
and a heart beneath these tits;
I like to have conversation
a little intellectual stimulation
some emotional bliss
but you just want to shoot the shit
and blow hot air in my ear and watch
me inflate like a fuck doll…
and there I am with my long legs spread
just waiting for your next declaration
of love



Give it up.
Don’t waste your time telling me
I’m the prettiest girl
or that I’ve got the most incredible eyes
in the fucking world

I won’t melt anymore

You might have licked me into submission before
but that was a long time ago:
at a low point in my life
back when I thought you were God
when you had promised me the world
but all I ended up with
was the short end of the stick
and a bad, bad taste in my mouth

so fuck off, you worthless dick;
go find yourself another flavor of the month
to lick



Sure, I know–
you love me

you love me when the rent is paid
when your ex-wife isn’t trying
to cut your balls off for child support
and alimony

when the car runs great
and the Lakers win…
but aside from all that
I’m just a piece of ass

it’s nice to know where I rate in your life;
somewhere between a hard cock
and a hard place

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 Dear Valentine

MK  says
The true test of a man
is the zombie-war theory.
I whisper this excitedly
all Valentine’s Day night
high on XTC
every other sentence
I love you because-
or what I love about you is-
not that your dick is so beautiful,
and it is,
but because
when they come
“the living dead”
clawing at the doors
bloody mouthed
friends, family,
the guy from Quick Stop down the street
almost unrecognizable-
pleading  to be let in
“But it’s me,”
they’ll say
You won’t be fooled.
You will lock the iron gate
baracade the doors,
know the gangsters to call
the ones with larger arsenals
than The OPD
You’ll throw haymakers with your muscled arms
a pistol in your waist
throw hot grenades  from the front porch,
even if it’s your babies’ mama
all grisly, pitiful, and hungry.
You’ll train the kids to shoot on sight-
sic the dogs-
and I know
that we will survive
the zombie wars


Back Bone

when you offer to oil me down
to massage out my aches
I picture you,
unzipping my greasy body
you rub each organ
squeeze their toxins
into a trash can pulled close
your strong hands
take up the still small uterus
milk out the embryo
like a pus filled pimple
you reach deeper
past viscous reds and purples
remove each disc
file and paste
rotten cartilage
gently  blow off bone dust
and put my pieces
together again.



I suck icicles
Half my child size
Runny red nose
Taste of tin
and cold of winter
Ivory soap goes milky in the tub
House heats up
From wood stove
Snow slides down roof’s peak
Whoosh and stab
snow banks impaled

In jail tiny bars of ivory
float in backed up drains
paper wrappers and all
panties  hand washed
with white squares
dry on the head of the bunk
and the smell of innocence is lost
and institutional.

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Bob in Mexico

Bob’s pale long thin body
graceful in black wife-beater tee
bony hips pressing 501’s
wanders up the cliffs of San Miguel
in $3.00 thrift store wingtips
stopping to muse on a wooden cross at the top
where a mexican peasant died
Pedro Santiago
scratched in coroded wood
where now brown kids in rags
are playing with their madres
having a picnic on the rocks
overcast day June 13, 1992 in Mexico
Rockabilly Bob skinny from five years of drugs
a lovable wreck mugging for me
his ancient profile
my own silent movie
we were kicked out of the VW van
by Audie and Jennifer so they could make it
after 400 miles traveling down baja
Bob’s hand down my shirt
in the rear view mirror
they just couldn’t take it anymore
and kicked us out on the San Miguel cliffs
with one lawn chair
and no beer.


He Say

Should I feel humiliated
or grateful
that we can put Bob Crosby and his Bobcats
on my turntable
The Big Noise in Winnetka
nobody whistles in songs anymore
on my made for once bed
and not
bug each other’s nerves
except when I think he’s being sarcastic
and putting me down
I think
with Special Catholic Boys School digs
except now he claims to be agnostic at 42
I was once agnostic
before I was a pagan
before I was a nihilist
before I was a born again
but now I’m just a frustrated woman
also horny
but I never was a catholic
so maybe I missed the point
is it funny
to take off my shirt
and kiss my breasts
(your brother in LA said you were a boob man)
to take off my skirt
and slip
(I took off my bra)
and feel my wet black tights
front & back
my faster sighs
and then he say
“I gotta go home”
and then he get mad when I say
“you have great moral fiber”
but he just wants to go home
he say.


A snake skin full of piss…

Hooked on those reality shows
watching one with the survivor dude
drinking his own piss from a snake’s skin
he’s been carrying through the desert
after first killing the snake
and running out of water
he pees into the skin behind a rock
to save himself from a dearth of oasis
so now he’s really thirsty
emptying the skin into his mouth
choking on his own nasty taste
spills it all out, the urine
running down his chin and neck
gagging, almost retching the sour brew
while the complete camera crew
follows closely behind
filming every flying droplet.


Electronic Postcards

sorry for the crappy phone pics I sent of my dog…
I keep asking myself why don’t I care
or bother to take better (and more) pics
and post them on the internet like everybody else,
maybe fearful that one day they’ll just be
a sorry figment of our collective imagination,
like once fashionable irony or Myspace
becoming a tiresome bore?
Then all this could be gone,
if you blinked your eyes but twice?
Years ago he said he imagined
that my neck smelled like gingerbread…
the odds are against me now
vintage postcards and boned waist cinchers
are reduced to being quaint and
even my neighbors hate me because I listen to jazz
I was born 38DD
I’m not going to stop drinking beer now
just to be a size zero.
And this weekend my brother-in-law Gregg
is having some real fun at MoKan HAMB drags,
and I have a good book (Blue Monday, Fats Domino)
to read for the beach tomorrow,
Antoine Dominique born/raised in New Orleans
he even made it out of Katrina
rescued from his roof in the Lower Ninth Ward,
so I guess it’s as good gets,
for now,


Vintage Queen

And damn Lorna,
tonight I’m sure missing
my visits to your pad
for local music gossip and cocktails,
the original Band-Aide Penny Lane
who gave me my first lesson
in Depression-era hats,
Bakelite and Fiestaware,
checking out your latest hip
thrift shop treasures,
dissect your frantic new beau
as only best friends can.
You’d casually light my cig
with a vintage lighter
from your collection,
and we’d giggle for hours
over art, poems, and porn.

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