Posted in Misti Rainwater-Lites on April 2, 2012| 1 Comment »
By Misti Rainwater-Lites
Everything wills it.
I will step out of this box
like I’m going for a drink of water.
The heavy clothes will puddle at my feet.
The fresh air will burn my lungs
the blazing blue sky will deafen me
the waiting earth will welcome me
with a mother mouth, deep and ravaged mother heart
accepting the sorry gift of me
as if I were made
of shinier stuff.
Posted in Misti Rainwater-Lites on February 8, 2011| 6 Comments »
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.
Posted in Misti Rainwater-Lites on September 10, 2010| 2 Comments »
By Misti Rainwater-Lites
That was the time. That three months in 2004 time.
March. April. June.
A spoonful of time in Albuquerque
when we were starving
and taking to trough
two shameless muddy glorious pigs.
Taco picnics and tequila slams
by neon Budweiser and Dos Equis signs glow.
That Easter time of Risen Indeed
me sitting in chair
of studio apartment
in flowered dress
legs spread
so to receive
the healing worship
of his industrious tongue.
Stars spilled absolution
and Mercury whizzed past
faster than usual.
We were surrounded by intoxicated aliens
and displaced angels.
“Your eyes change colors. They’re
green when you’re horny. Blue when
you’re not horny,” he said.
I was his kaleidoscopic next of kin.
We’ve been there and we keep going back.
Today’s tacos are too fucking stale.
| M | T | W | T | F | S | S |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |
| 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |
| 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 |
| 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 |
| 29 | 30 | 31 | ||||
Clutching at Straws 