Misti Rainwater-Lites
- His Passions Included -
golf and disco and soft porn and "South Park"
and "The Simpsons" and some stupid online game
that featured a dragon
...and brutal truth
the kind that drives a half-starved woman mad
a trip to Jamaica with a platonic lady friend
that he couldn't very well cancel
they shared a bed but didn't fuck
even though he wanted to
she ran her nails down his bare back
and he made his own fun
then there were the pictures of his ex-wife
in the neatly displayed photo albums in his den
he still loved her even though he knew it
was futile
there wasn't much left over for the woman
who wrote poems dedicated with muchness to BFC
(sounds like a sandwich)
(or a fast food chain)
...ah, well
We'll Always Have Sea World.
- Anorexic Ecstasy -
"Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are
starving to death."
~Rosalind Russell, Auntie Mame
no. I can't squelch it. the hunger is
deeper than you can imagine and it can't
be bribed with grilled shrimp and Foster's.
The sadness is legendary, bad ass, like
Bette Davis. everyone simply adores Bette Davis...
in theory. But life is so much bigger than
8x10 glossies.
riding around this desert oasis I look at
the Sandias and feel nada. and the yawning
bluest sky is pointless. Wonderful shopping
and eating and drinking opportunities and no
refineries or rednecks, at least not the kind
we left behind in East Texas. and that's a very
good thing.
I can make collages and read Sweet Valley High
books and Movieline magazine. i can watch
classic video rentals.
"Sunset Boulevard"/"Auntie Mame"/"Key Largo"
I can put on my sexy/retarded femme fatale
turquoise blue wig and scarlet feather boa
and Hindu tank and Christmas pajama pants
and big furry purple slippers and liquid
eyeliner and red Elizabeth Arden matte lipstick
and pose for pictures in our new apartment.
i can make love to you by disco light while
a nun sings arias on the stereo.
but I will always be starving
staring through the window
at the display I can't touch.
maybe at the moment of death
I will at last
break the glass.
- Starter Marriages -
like what Uma Thurman had with Gary
and Madonna had with Sean
marriage tried on for size
oops...doesn't fit, after all
my ass has gotten bigger
easily discarded vows
divided books videos cds dishes paintings
another label slapped on Generation X
"starter marriages"
no kids
just shared acid trips
to Nepal
cool distaste for varnished baby boomer ideals
a waste of time?
no, it made for some really cool photos
at heated moments I lash out with
My Next Husband Will Let Me Work On My Collages
As Much As I Want To!
And He'll Let Me Sing Broadway Tunes!
And He Won't Hate the Idea of Living in San Francisco!
like any grown up but not really
former latch key waif
I don't fight fair
I don't like to share my toys
Don't Touch My PEZ Dispensers! They Are Arranged
in a Very Specific Order!
and I take over the closets
and refuse to throw away certain photos and letters
but I know better
most of the time
it couldn't happen twice
you say something as I'm thinking it
you let me hang weird album covers on the wall
above our bed
we laugh at the same scenes in "Boogie Nights"
and talk about driving to L.A.
just to get lost for
a couple
of hours.
- My Head Is Crammed -
It is early Saturday morning and my head is crammed with cheap candy thoughts, a doomed pinata. Saturday mornings rocked when I was a kid. This was in the Seventies. Back when cartoons and even the commercials were cool as shit. "Fat Albert" and "Mr. Magoo" and "Plastic Man" and those Honey Comb cereal commercials.
My Saturday mornings no longer rock the schoolhouse. This Saturday morning I am digesting a bad banana and wondering if I should put time and effort into making a Chef Boyardee pizza. My husband's alarm just went off and I don't want to see him. I want to leave in my pajama pants and red sequined flip-flops before he sees me. He will be tired and frowning and will have bad breath.
I want to get in my car and drive until I am surrounded by hot air balloons shaped like moo cows and cartoon characters and cowboy boots. I want to take pictures and send them as postcards.
I am thinking bad thoughts. I am thinking about how I made my Barbie dolls interact with each other when I was a kid. Ken was always taking Barbie places in his shoebox car. Ken would do the splits for Barbie. He would do back-flips for Barbie. He would even stand on his hands for Barbie. Anything to make her laugh. Ken was crazy in love with Barbie because she had good hair and she was always smiling and there was never any lipstick on her white teeth. Sometimes I got so pissed at Barbie for being so beautiful that I gave her a punk rock haircut and dressed her in ridiculous tattered clothes. I would make Ken cheat on Barbie with the next-door neighbor who had short black hair and wore a pink mini-skirt and purple high heels and a see through yellow shirt.
I am thinking about Tony and Rene from "Days Of Our Lives." And Hope and Bo. Back in the day when the women had real curves and better dialogue. Back when Bo rescued Hope from her wedding with that ugly Larry dude. She was in her wedding gown with heaving breasts on the back of Bo's motorcyle. "Holding Out For A Hero" was playing. My heart pumped neon pink bubbles as I thought,"Oh, yeah. That is IT."
I am thinking about late night conversations with my little sister.
"What kind of guy do you think I'll wind up with?" I'd ask.
"He'll be an intellectual who plays the guitar. He'll look like John Lennon," she would reply.
I could see that. Even though I was always falling in love with guys who could barely spell their own name, let alone mine. I fell in love with men who jammed to Vanilla Ice and M.C. Hammer and fucked to Prince and Mariah Carey.
I am thinking about all the things my family tells me about myself.
"You will never find another man who loves you more."
"You're lucky you finally found someone. Treat him right."
"There aren't many men out there who will want to be with someone who is always depressed and can't hold down a job. Besides, ya'll have so much in common. Ya'll both love to read and write and spend money ya'll don't have at the dollar store."
I'm thinking about a weird reality show I watched a few hours ago. All these women who are trying to improve themselves live together in this big ass house. One of the girls was told to hang out in the guest bedroom alone for four hours with her thoughts and a journal because there was too much noise in her life. Another girl was given a makeover and had her picture taken to post at Yahoo with her personal ad. My favorite woman was the 62 year old who wanted to be a stand-up comic and bombed huge on the stage but handled herself with grace as she put down the mic. At the end of the show there was a url in case I would like to audition for the show. I drooled at the prospect but I was too tired to write the url down.
- American Men -
perhaps I overestimate myself
could be I'm an egomaniacal
bitch on squeaky fucking wheels
but when I'm sitting on a
bench with my sheer black pantyhosed
long legs crossed with my black
liquid eyeliner and Drumbeat Red lipstick
adding drama to my pale studious face
as I write in my notebook fragranced with
Divine cologne and white tea & ginger lotion
I expect at the very least mediocre results
when men walk by
I don't need or want
wolf whistles or smacking lips or
waggling tongues
I don't expect Robert Plant in the
throes of Madison Square Garden
electric orgasm saying oooooh oooooh baby
give it to me give it to me yeah
I don't expect a guy to crawl toward me
on his hands and knees begging please with
his eyes as he pries open my thighs and tries
me on for size because I realize that sort of
thing could be misconstrued and his ass could
be sued but I would not come unglued over a
passing sly grin a generic greeting a fleeting
meeting of yin and yang a Word Up, Miss Thang
or an I Know A Woman As Fine As Yourself Gots
To Have A Man but let's hang in the break room
make fun of the morons who buy all the vowels
'cause they don't know their ABC's
I am not a sleaze
but a little appreciation, please
I know you can see me
I'm not Casper the Friendly Fucking Ghost
and I'm not exactly
Brunhilda, either.
***
Misti Rainwater-Lites has had her work published at Zygote in my Coffee, Baby Clam Press, Poetry Super Highway, Poor Mojo's Almanack, LitVision and the Blender of Love. She has published two chapbooks at Kinko's. When she is not writing poetry she makes pop art collages and mix tapes.