today i’m thinking about what did we mean to do when we started out…
dude, i don’t know- it’s been a weird day.
Connect the dots… somewhere there’s a manifesto based on connecting dots. it’s a 4-part plan. we’re in phase V. makes perfect sense, right?
Diana Rose reads this poem in that ^^^ podcast. She wanted to add “motherfuckers” at the end. What do you think?
America You Can…
by Misti Rainwater-Lites
America of glazed donut eyeballs cotton candy cologne
minty fresh breath brave plastic beauty indomitable
high wire walking smile smug card shuffling hands
& hyper haughty tapping toes you can lick my pretty
pink none too placid mewling ravenous cream greedy pussy.
America I’m making it cheeseburger simple & sloppy with
a pickle spear on the side. America you cartoon carnivore
eat my cunt (you can add ketchup to make it more palatable).
Tell me in your glossy commercials & dazzling magazines & sleazy
school marm voice that oozes irony and pseudo compassion exactly
how much you think my vagina is worth. For America, my darling,
I must confess…the poverty & reality television & throbbing teeth
& the booming bass of consumer whore crap music outside my
paranoid aluminum foil covered windows gleefully conspire to make
this agitated smelly boot cowgirl one more frigid casualty in this
bloody graphic glorious fun zone with soundtrack provided by
Smiley Cyrus and various stoic sporters of apple red leather
& lack of oxygen blue sequins. America, I am drawling those four
precious syllables like the sexy Texan I am to charm you into letting me
back inside the burning building. I’ve got a bag of marshmallows I would
really love to toast. America! God fucking cockroach crunching damn it!
This is, like, a call to action. A plea to revive my zombie clitoris with some
really great fucking multisyllabic zero Jesus zero rabid conservative republican
zero celebrity whore with cock in mouth news! Vary that tongue action, America.
Give me a wiggle waggle I can believe in. Trick this salty treat into believing
you give a good hearty goddamn about whether or not I can climb climb
CLIMB any mountain cross any sea riding the cosmic spasms like Raggedy Ann
on a rocking horse, one hand flopping above my Cymbalta stuffed head, my mouth
a pretty cherry heart crying, “Yippie Ai Ay!”
I <3 that poem. also,
oh yeah. it was something like
more than halfway to goal. The artists, poets, musicians of Collingwood could still use some help. hell, just a bit of solidarity and support. where is the noise? i can’t hear you. Residents of Collingwood Arts Center being evicted (DONATION PAGE)