I don’t know where to start here.

am i writing to some faceless audience now that my former writing muses have turned against me, moved, or died? but i’ve got new muses for other things. so then i write for just myself and then there’s no beautiful tension romance and foreplay / James says to start nice and easy because i write like anal penetration with no lube. before he leaves for the gym he reminds me, “think lube…” /

but life has not used lube these past ten years. life had me ass up/head down in my pillow facing my own Nothingness Meaninglessness and Irrelevance. or maybe all this WAS lube because i’m still here and the bouts of drooling babble have subsided to a trickle and spatter. but i can both court and take a beat down, and all that has still kept me up at night cracking my teeth with terror at growing older and exhausted in a ruthless “get up old man before i fuck you right there” america.

i don’t know/i almost didn’t make it for i died as i was, did a living suicide because the real kind didn’t make sense with James and the kitty still around./ but now that i died as i was i no longer believe in the law, private property rights, quakerism, feminism, neoliberalism, plain old liberalism, conservatism, industrialism, corporatism, democracy, capitalism, socialism, communism, white nationalism, black nationalism, black community in america, i no longer believe in the Indians secretly having All The Answers (spiritual as well as radical or tactical) for just the “right moment,” i no longer believe in any truly thriving community in america because america is and has only ever been about going to make a killing like going to vegas. it has been acid to community family… Home…

i no longer believe in safety or personal freedom as an actual american concept because humans seem to fear actual free time and free choice responsibility as well as plastic straws and innuendo / yet the very same kids who can go to war to defend the country’s financial interests, sacrifice their very bodies to actually lubricate our exceptional american lifestyle can’t even drink or smoke to squelch all the eventual PTSD… i no longer believe in pro choice where casual abortion is birth control while rich ladies can freeze their eggs for later for when even their deadened botulistic flat expressions have leaked stains rot & mold through to their souls and their rich pampered powdered and shorn ladies’ pussies dry up …but were they ever really and truly wet and leaving trails of slime for anything but their own social standing? i don’t know…

but nor do i any longer believe in america as an idea or ideal. i feel utterly bamboozled and left alone to even care that this new era sucks as it is and with gentrification clearing out humans who look up and out at each other, i am surrounded by people afraid to even look up or feel each other up for the inevitable changing of the mind later. yes.

someone said someone wrote something & someone dreamt somewhere of opening up all the manhole covers and letting the earth swallow these magic phone meat bags back up from whence they came like martians coming of age taking away our genitals because we’d apparently forgotten what to do with them.

i don’t know where to start because i’ve been here before and i didn’t wanna do this again but i cannot fit in and get lost in the anonymity and herculean mediocrity of the gig economy work force in every fucking industry up and down and across that yeah… exists to serve rich folks and rip the hair off all their proverbial vaginas and assholes that don’t know action / only photographs they took for later to prove how good of a fucking time they are continually having at diddling the help and each other.

don’t fall for it.

i don’t know where to start. but my goal is to help fan the fires of destruction so that the monster troglodites and real true drag queens and superfreaks can come back and give us all what for.

and my goal is to figure out how to make a living of the kind you don’t see around in america anymore. a living off my craft where i’m not getting buggered by absolutely everyone analogue or digital. this is an experiment i will show the pink on in the hopes that others will quit the constant obeisance and rebel and find another way. some other way. something other than capitalism socialism communism. / it’s time for new fresh “what-the-fuck-is-that” thinking. we artists are made for fucking with the creepy and unknown and looking at this new rich white girl world we’re living in now full of all the cute and brutal connotations one would expect to come with a rich white women’s “feministic” world where they still get all the shit on top of all the best jobs while the rest of us are relegated to ruthlessly competing with the Vietnamese ladies who risked their lives to come here for the american dream to wax rich white girl vaginas all day.

not me.

i even tried to wax my hair my asshole my everything to see what all the falderal was about, but i love public hair now that it’s extinct. i want it in my motherfuckin’ teeth. i was born in ’67 and pubic hair is sexy a sign you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be. prepubescent ken/barbie nubs make me feel pedophilic. that’s why i also don’t trust sex in america. or anywhere anymore. america has ruined fucking and aloneness family and community for many.

Basul is right Kris was right: we wanted so hard to belong, to be square, we opened our legs and let the death stench of disneyland in / and now this is what we’ve got: tour buses of the dead taking over all our lunch tables and leaving us the highway overpasses. well, Basul and Kris didn’t quite put it that way.

Basically: they each feared that publicity acceptance and legitimacy kills everything secret nasty good fun and special.

i didn’t get it at first.

i’m going back to secrecy. as much pink as i’ll show you all here from either my legs being spread too far or my pink guts splattered on the sidewalk below me as i share with you the details of this my living suicide, i must keep as well as create the secrets again. the best sweetest ones.

creating secrets is fun special sweet and hot. something to jerk off to when the trees get bare. like nowadays.

anyhow…now that so many of the most interesting inappropriate scary crazy & wrong artists writers musicians photographers and people are retired near death broke insane co-opted sidelined neutered fired or in jail, as one of the Last Mohicans holding out here in san francisco at the pleasure of rent control, i’ve apparently got my work splayed out helplessly before me.

you all can treat your own life like it’s meaningless and gather small grocery items for others til the end of time and hunch yourself for the 5-star ratings on your existence/raison d’etre. i know that i died as myself and came back and after everything i’d believed in held to be sacred and true had withered simmered burned scampered and skittered away i was left with the belief in humanity our delicious primal nastiness as well as sweetness and animal and fucking and wetness of all kinds as a good thing. fecund. life. / i believe we are really who we are when we are alone, sad, broken down, turned out, and being kind to each other.

i no longer believe in institutions of any kind. i believe we are on our own. but i’m okay with that now that i admit it.

i believe i must love whoever whomever dares to know me smell my breath look into my eyes and see the faint blue plastic outline of my contact lenses on the white of my eyes because you are that close. even if it’s the new cool guy in the wheelchair at the gym. i like his arrogance that he won’t even say “hi” to me when i’m surrounded by other men. he wants to be the only one and when i called him out for that he just smiled and said, “good… i’m glad we have an understanding” and rolled away. /now that is interesting.

i believe we are on our own and that’s perfectly fine with me because now that i have completely alienated myself from my father, my mother, my sister, my family, my former friends colleagues and acquaintances, now that i have alienated every last being at KPOO the best radio station in the world whose mission helped me believe that starting fights with these new gentrifying folks and trashing their fancy cars or surveillance systems wasn’t the answer…

i believe in starting over and seeing what is real for me and what was inherited imagined foisted tricked hidden… a lie.

i believe that the suicidal the insane the despairing and the few not addicted to magic phones and those big fat expressionless reality show paintbrush eyebrows that seem to come with everything now like fries, the few broken hearted actual humans left not addicted to anything foisted upon them, addicted to nothing but oxygen, they need new writings scrawled anywhere and everywhere messages hidden like easter eggs scattered like glitter and plastered like posters in old new york or plastered like happy and wet pubic hair that is scary to these new asexual magic phone people who’ve taken over the city and make even quick mangy street dog sex seem more erotic than it usually did to me with that penis KNOT thing they say is like a mace inside you locking you to whoever’s fucking you til they’re good and done… imagine with as sex as complicated as it is, that as a woman you cannot disengage til the motherfucking KNOT goes down. what does that do to your mind and way of thinking? like a tree that cannot pick up and leave, staying somewhere you can’t swipe your way out of changes your state of mind.

we americans don’t know that because we’re expected to pick up and leave for a job. sell out our preachers for a stint in the white house.

that’s why i don’t care about day-to-day politics. they are small and symptomatic. frosting atop mold. i want to understand what’s underneath everything now. but truth be told, i actually relish watching smug rich white folks constantly losing their motherfucking minds day in and day out. their weaknesses scares me and i can’t take NPR or PBS seriously anymore now. all their new age stuff now seems just like more lullabies about whistling past graveyards.

20 years ago when i was first doing books, i would’ve kissed the ring to be asked to be on terri gross’ fresh air. now i’d squirm uncomfortably, knowing to be asked meant i was accepted safe irrelevant as the Loyal Opposition. i’d feel sick accepting or declining because we’re each forced to be whores in this system so i can’t judge anyone really if someone else’s menu includes gang bangs and anal while i insist i maintain purity by only sucking dick and swallowing for a little extra and you can come in my face for a little extra on top of that.

as my generation memorized from spinal tap: it’s a thin line between clever and stupid so i’d feel sick either way and go listen to KISS’ Gene Simmons interview with Terri Gross and remember just how tickled with glee i was when i first heard the original interview over the air.

i think it’s because he fucked Cher and was never the same. say what you want about my theory but even her own daughter, as face-crushingly adorable as she was, she said fuck it to the whole girl thing because what was left for her to even pull off in the girl realm when her mom is Cher?

back to the incantation that was Cher’s 1970s unshorn pussy. understandably it was intoxicating to Gene Simmons because that’s why he was talking to Terri Gross that beautifully foul nasty way. that’s the way you talk to anyone who’s bypassed the pleasures of …well, the 1970s. it’s why america is this way now. Stephen Sayadian’s sci-fi porn movie “Cafe Flesh” has come true. where only a few can have sex anymore and they must perform on stage for the ones who’re half dead and cannot have sex or they will vomit, get sick and instantly DIE. there’s that artist calling the future thing.

so here’s what happened to poor Gene Simmons to shamelessly disrespect his Jewish sister like that: once you fuck 70s Cher that’s what happens to you. you start barking and babbling in tongue from there because you just want back IN. your motherfuckin’ MIND is blown. Sonny himself tried to make another Cher out of sand silicone and clay or the renaissance of the Salton Sea./ maybe that’s why he ran into a tree. first love… it’s powerful stuff. trust that. then if it’s baby-to-star Cher, where to go from there?…back to the Salton Sea from whence we all come?

Now whilst Cher may take her hairless vagina into 2020 and be as graceful as she can about Chastity, poor dear Gene Simmons can’t UNKNOW WHAT HE KNOWS. we women can pretend all sorts of shit because that’s what being a woman IS. but Gene Simmons can not unknow Cher’s 70s pussy and bring the knowlege of cher’s 70s pussy into this millennium and NOT talk to Terri Gross or ANY woman (or man) like that. i add this footnote because i’m sure he’d deny it but the 70s had a pretty deep “on the low” side for just about all so-called straight guys. they were fucking more men than even guys who visited the meat district trucks in the middle of the night were. the seventies sexuality for men’s sexual preference always had rules like if you parted your hair on the left once a year you were a bottom but not sucking dick or decorating houses so you’re not gay.

i really did digress there with Cher’s 70s vagina but how can you not? anyhow, now that the former caves churches parks and collective meeting places have either been razed to erect pseudo modernism apartments with frosted glass windows that never look out, or it’s all become privatized and you need an annual membership just to go outside and think… i believe in writing art music again, too. eventually.

i’m working on it.

art writing music thinking is what brought me back to myself so i have to give back now. San Francisco is a magical place and it made me who i am gave me a home and i have to give magic back to this place or i’m just taking consuming and not bringing anything to the magic.

that’s why i’m here. that’s how i suppose i ought to begin:
by saying that i believe in life again. scary messy wet exciting adventurous life. romance of the most bodice ripping kind. not safe mundane boring out in the open surveilled fake public life. i’m about sunglass secrets again. (h.e.r. has it so right about this being a time of the anti-star).

and yes yes to nasty secrets. jerking off whenever i can, and when the music is sad and blue, i read old nasty wrong erotica from the 1920s before the Hayes code was implemented, impregnated everywhere including in our own heads and between our legs.

but that’s why i’m so angry now that i’m saying goodbye to being a fertile woman and not seeing others mourn this time like it’s nothing. i get what Audre Lorde, my James, and others tried to say about feminism being a subset of CAPITALISM and COLONIALISM. i fucking get it. i feel swindled.

not because i didn’t have children. because those who DID were belittled ridiculed as small unworldly unsophisticated. and look what we have now: with all this self fulfillment we’re all as fucked up and twitchy as abused feral alley cats made to suckle at the teat of a wire monkey mother. the women who were the Mothers to us all with a capital “m,” they were condescended into exile.

what the fuck? how did being a woman become such a bad racket? how did we get it all so twisted? we were supposed to suck it up and deny the reasons for our menstrual cycles our hormones and become better …working hungry ghost ambitious “look at me” machines? what is this “personal fulfillment” bullshit? we’re all atomized and lonely trying to get the fucking meaningless thumbs ups of fucking strangers. what the fuck? where the fuck is romance? cuddling? relegated completely to a cheesy drugstore card aisle? having children became an embarrassment an apology or something to accessorize your accomplishments. and where was economic or any kind of freedom for anyone else? poor folks? imprisoned folks? and where are my inspirations for being a middle aged female now that all my former women have become men? i am lost here, people. my closest friends and family are now three white men who spoil me mercilessly and don’t fear me.

that is why my heart my muscles chocha my pussy is are all my divining rods for what is good exciting alive necessary… and next. she goes cold and dry if something’s not kosher. if something’s real she applauds. my pussy has teeth. so those teeth, they chatter madly happily and snappily like those wind up teeth. my pussy cackles like a looney tune cartoon witch. the one who left bobby pins flying when she moved fast.

so that’s how i’m starting. just finding my voice. font. capitalization. i may delete this and not start this way.

but again as usual this will be for the ones who come after me. after us. the freaks the ostracized the odd the interesting. the only ones i ever really wanted to talk to at lunch time. the only ones i ever still wanna talk to.

more later. this is just a hello. me kissing the stars on someone’s neck. first gently then… comes the bite. i don’t know what will happen or where we’re going. but i’ve got my kin and i feel loved and safe in that so here we go….

hello. i’m back yet again and coming to kiss you and fuck with you and all you think you know or think before the streetlights come on and i’m called back inside for suppertime. / for good.

(there. i didn’t know how to start but there… that was a start. i’m just now learning to do this website on top of what i’m doing in real life, so it’s choppy messy and will change evolve be edited as i have time.)

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