Monday, November 12, 2012

Deepest Swoon / Sap / Odd Hum

Misti Rainwater-Lites stays alive in San Antonio, Texas. She has one son and four tattoos. When blocked Misti Googles Captain Beefheart lyrics.


Deepest Swoon

She feels him fucking her astral style so goddamn it
he must be, he is, he is fucking the shit out of her
from all those wine soaked states away
and she feels him so good and she feels him so hard
she bites her own arm
screams blow down the straw walls

stars and satellites shake their heads
smoke curls and those are her ten wicked toes
witches drown sultry and those are her two evil eyes

and her hair such disobedient sprawl is a snake cemetery

in other words the road that leads in clouds of dust

up the mesa that is Acoma Sky City.

Her ass, meanwhile, is some kind of basket.
Delicious. Untouched. Brimming with a most
unusual picnic.




Oh fuck these sad songs this lonely beer
balloons fat with maybe bursting beyond
your fingers which are aching for mine.
I could blow you kisses from my particular prison

until I fall down dead and get thrown out with the slop

but then everything you love about me
would be a guess at most and baby
we’re better than any game show.
I’m done with games. I’ve lost all the darts.
Your mouth is the prize I’ll never possess
but instead of Billie Holiday records in the dark
I’d much prefer to treat myself to 48 hours
with you…tangible, tangled up, treating time like taffy
s t r e t c h i n g

p u l l i n g

sticking our tongues out at clocks and televisions,
telephones and calendars

the entire calculating gawking drooling world
beyond us.

We could meet in Vegas and I promise
it wouldn’t be tacky.
Slot machines and tourists and drunk frat boys
pissing on the sidewalk in front of the volcano
would disappear
but the neon would stay on for us
and it would be Paris and Cairo and Coney Island
the carnival that ate the planet

the circus that stayed

the wedding cake that did not dissolve in sobs

a tiny godless infinity

our piracy

so much gold

visible only to us

no one could ever

steal it.

Odd Hum


Eat thistles from cunts, celebrate the sixty hour work week

with angel piss beer and darts, gallivant desperate

in the shit smear parade and disregard me, the forsaken cow

shadowed ugly in the corner.

The grass is gone.

I’m licking salt from wounds, spouting fables

in an American sitcom cheese ass accent

to soothe myself

put myself out to pasture

in a manageable trance.

The fat of sacrifices is yellow

and I lost my martyr glasses in the snow

so I don’t see that, however noble.

You might assume I’m lazier than Lazarus

and trashier than gasoline sign orange,

waiting for the ghost foxes to appear in the glowing garden.

I’m ambitious enough for twenty cowboys

but I was raised to maintain a phlegmatic profile.

I chew things slow when there are things to chew.

If there were pudding you would find the proof

but I can’t seem to locate an acceptable bowl.

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