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Archive for February 8th, 2011

By Misti Rainwater-Lites

Don’t give me grief, goddamn it. Give me donuts.
Can’t those ojos you call eyes see the guts spilling
like cheap Valentines all over my husband’s funky
old offshore drilling rig sandals? The first 30 seconds are free psychic peep show darling show me what I already know. No new babies or lovers or cucumbers in my future. I am sick of virtue thrift character big girl panties emblazoned with days of the week. Tuesday is happy hour all day long at Crocodile Teardrop casino. I play the penny slots and slur my choir girl stories in lukewarm ears. A light! Motherfucker fuck. Somebody chariot me a light before I curl up and die, smoke signal never received. Bring me a basket, then, a basket rustling with ominous figs. I can
dance
to
those.

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