I Followed My Bliss
like a drunk sorority slut following a drunk fraternity asshole
upstairs to his used condom littered bed
like alice down the rabbit hole
polite in my starched pinafore
like a lonely three year old on a red tricycle
fixated on the rainbow somewhere beyond the swings
I followed and swallowed the ebullience burn
learned the ABC’s of biting off much more
than I could chew
tabulated regrets
calculated guilt
threw it all in a pot of boiling water
with cum stained g-strings
and scribbled phone numbers
toasted my stupid ping pong ball spirit
with an icy corona
wrote a story about the whole shebang
and published it
myself
- Misti Rainwater-Lites
Some Bitches Just Ain’t Never Satisfied
i don’t get those Fifties housewives
discontent
depressed, even
popping valium
crying into their creamy coffee
inexpertly slashing their wrists
shit, if i had lived back then
with a husband who worked his ass off
so that i could live inside a pretty
suburbia splendid cage
resplendent in pearls and chanel no. 5
my days filled with baking cakes
shopping
figuring out ways to make myself
as sexually appealing as possible
i would have been a good stepford wife
a happily beeping robot
living fake orgasm to fake orgasm
bon bon to bon bon
- Misti Rainwater-Lites
i put myself in
a big ass vat of holy water, boiling
various authorities had informed me
that i was some kind of vampire or somethin’
mango bubblebath ain’t strong enough
to sweeten the stench
of my kind
of evil
so i soaked in the vatican approved vat
and bats flew out shrieking
in japanese
and worms crawled out
the color of ramen noodles
then there was cupid
singing a michael bolton ballad
followed by about a thousand different demons
pissing and moaning about the lack of videos
on mtv
- Misti Rainwater-Lites
Paganini Plays His String
inside my head which is hell
over and over again he plucks
the fuck out of the gut
making music i can’t dance to
it is hell
tuning him out
for five seconds i would love
to lose myself in the silence
that is heaven
that is an easter egg speckled butterfly
beating its wings
and getting somewhere
my mother bleeds her angelic into my ear
which is a robot
which is her receptacle
for toxic tears
and broken lullabies
guilt is plopped down on my paper plate
which isn’t as sturdy as her good china
i’m never in the mood for her meatloaf
but i eat
i gobble
and ask for seconds
my sister speaks of god, again
tells me i read her cards
told her she would die a horrible homicide
she still has nightmares
but she doesn’t blame me
she blames satan
the angels are tipsy and puking
beside me
as my heart breaks
like a dollar store toy
the demons are dancing around
the totem pole
that is my reminder
brightly painted and wooden and standing sentry, always
i will never
be on top
i will grovel
i will writhe
burning alive and begging saturn, my stepdaddy
for ice chips and redemption
this is what i was assigned
standing in line in the cosmic waiting room
deciding on the next womb with a view
should have been less of a snob
should have settled
on something more along the lines
of destiny as accompanied by freddy fender
no virtuoso, certainly
but man, he touched on something holy
when he sang about those
wasted days
and wasted nights
- Misti Rainwater-Lites
Mother May I
barer of breasts
bearer of bad tidings
baby born to teenage mom
a year after her abortion
beauty pageant guinea pig
topless dancer at nineteen
here is the truth, mom
the truth that does not jibe with
your How Great Thou Art Old Rugged Cross mantra
you ask me to bring back my innocence
dust my purity off in time for my son’s birth
be the lover of God
the example to him
the conduit
the conductor
of the glory train
you have seen me fall and crawl and bawl for peace
you have seen me with messy hissing medusa hair
face bleeding from self-inflicted scratches
hiding in closets
defacing white walls with scented rainbow markers
bouncing off walls from prozac
writing poems about checking into a cheap motel room
and checking out
before life could really fuck me up the ass
loving men who didn’t love me back
wailing in the dark swigging from a bottle of vodka
puking up cheap wine with billie holiday on the stereo
and your favorite ceramic angel
broken into pink and gold shards at my feet
whore, mom
i am
wanting the most return
for the least effort
tired, mom
exhausted
but God is not my naptime
the angels are not lulling me to sleep
I’m not standing in that line
begging for blessings
holy, mom
you are
you have no idea
i sing hymns to you
memorize verses in your name
tell whatever special fucking invisible holy powerful thing
is listening
Her Life Will Not
Be My Life.
I Will Not Go
Down Like That.
Nailed To Anybody’s Cross.
A Waterfall Of A Woman.
Flowing Blood And Tears And Regret
Dying Some Asshole’s Martyr
While A Sad Dolly Parton Song Plays.
- Misti Rainwater-Lites
Our Song in Five Choruses
we begin & end with guilt
leaving my first husband
to fuck you
get to the bottom of you
on the leaky air mattress you gave me
otis redding on the stereo
in my studio apartment
in the back booth in the dark
at our favorite karaoke cantina
slamming tequila shots
sharing enchiladas
burning ears in two different states
with our sulphur tongues
for the first three months
we had the passion I envisioned
and prayed for
when reading Erica Jong’s primer
How To Save Your Own Life in 1999
we had the Hollywood thing
the top forty pop ballad thing
the crazy foaming at the mouth creaming the panties thing
all girls want when the Disney brainwashing wears off
I left
I came back
and the return was better than the beginning
you gave me a dozen red roses
and I devoured you like the starving bitch in heat I was
we shared a single bed with springs sticking up
psychotic social butterfly roommate down the hall
then the rain came down in torrents like it does
and the pretty red ink dripped down our storybook pages
like slashed wrists blood
somehow we survived the poverty handicapped fake friends blues
now I eat guilt each day
promoting what is left of myself online
to strangers who are doing the same
while you work two jobs
eating stale sandwiches on your breaks
coming home to watch television and sleep
we’re polite company
the passion has gone to that graveyard
overrun with weeds and broken beer bottles
but the affection is alive
we kiss and caress
soothing each other
telling each other in our mommy and daddy voices
things will get better
someday we’ll sing and dance again
and the world will spin like it’s supposed to
making us dizzy
with delight
- Misti Rainwater-Lites |
