Jesus on a Cracker
jesus on a cracker. great. no taste but easy to swallow
with cold water or sugary ice tea. he speaks to my empty stomach
in parables that never made the final cut of the king james bible.
so this witch built a house but she used the wrong ingredients
and baked in her own oven. so this fisherman sucked at his job but instead of taking up tax collecting he hung himself from a tree that had stopped bearing fruit. then there was this lion that wanted to be a zebra so he went crazy and ran around in dusty circles until he turned into butter and ended up on the king's pancakes. like that and then it's time for bed and lucid dreams. i dream i am starving and stealing pork chops from the butcher. i wake up bloody missing my hands. jesus on a cracker. great. how the fuck will i eat him now.
Aspirin-size Dots & a Crisp Taffeta Bow
I don't have to tell you that wind
is a coiffure destroyer.
I don't have to sell you on nylon bonnets
that will give you a fashionable flair
while protecting your hairspray stiff hair
from the ravages of an impudent wind.
He will want you to arrive at the restaurant
fresh, elegant, composed.
He wants his friends to smirk and say,
"Old boy, how did you land that one?"
He does not want to hear THIS:
"Surely you can get better pussy than THAT!"
Hair is important.
If you really want to knock off his argyle socks,
I recommend the daffodil bonnet with the
aspirin-size dots & crisp taffeta bow.
Old boy won't know what hit him.
He will toast you and beam
dreaming of you all demure
and dewy eyed in white couture
his silly little perfect little lamb
to slaughter.
Two Centimeters Dilated
It takes me five minutes to get out of bed and get ready. My husband is slow and cautious. I tell him to stop doing his Rain Man routine. He says, "Don't be mean to me." I walk to the car feeling like shit, which is pretty much the norm. The ob-gyn office is decorated for Halloween. There are no magazines except for that free one that features a smiling bald headed baby on the cover. I had a Fifth Avenue candy bar and Dr. Pepper for breakfast. The baby boy in my uterus is now 38 weeks old. He kicks and punches a lot. I call him my little Kung Fu Kangaroo. I weigh 183 pounds but I don't look fat. It's all
Jackson Gregory. My legs are still long and sexy. My tits are still too small. My ass is not flat even though I'm white. Some people call it a "bubble butt." The nurse puts on a glove and sticks her finger inside my cunt. Asks me to place my hands underneath my hips. She tells me I've dilated a couple of centimeters. She apologizes to my unborn son when she squirts that cold stuff on my stomach and listens to his heartbeat. He will be a Scorpio, a fighter, my Scorpio friend tells me. I call my mom on my cell phone. She is curious about things. Babies are her favorite subject. She tells me that her first husband, my father, told my sister that the name Jackson makes his skin crawl. Andrew Jackson was not kind to the Cherokee. For years my father told us that his grandfather was a Cherokee chief. In recent years he has said Rainwater may or may not be Cherokee. He dropped out of high school in tenth grade. Books bore him. At one time or another Fred Rainwater's interests have
included the Baptist religion, cock fighting, Jack Daniels, redheaded barmaids with silicone implants, greyhounds and knocking up my mom five times (abortion, me, sister, miscarriage, brother). I watch most of "Blades of Glory" with my husband. I didn't think I would laugh but I do, raucously. Jackson is getting accustomed to my crazy laughter and ranting and raving at Albuquerque drivers ("How does my ASS smell, motherfucker???"). I think he knows on some level what he is in for.
jesus on a cracker. great. no taste but easy to swallow
with cold water or sugary ice tea. he speaks to my empty stomach
in parables that never made the final cut of the king james bible.
so this witch built a house but she used the wrong ingredients
and baked in her own oven. so this fisherman sucked at his job but instead of taking up tax collecting he hung himself from a tree that had stopped bearing fruit. then there was this lion that wanted to be a zebra so he went crazy and ran around in dusty circles until he turned into butter and ended up on the king's pancakes. like that and then it's time for bed and lucid dreams. i dream i am starving and stealing pork chops from the butcher. i wake up bloody missing my hands. jesus on a cracker. great. how the fuck will i eat him now.
Aspirin-size Dots & a Crisp Taffeta Bow
I don't have to tell you that wind
is a coiffure destroyer.
I don't have to sell you on nylon bonnets
that will give you a fashionable flair
while protecting your hairspray stiff hair
from the ravages of an impudent wind.
He will want you to arrive at the restaurant
fresh, elegant, composed.
He wants his friends to smirk and say,
"Old boy, how did you land that one?"
He does not want to hear THIS:
"Surely you can get better pussy than THAT!"
Hair is important.
If you really want to knock off his argyle socks,
I recommend the daffodil bonnet with the
aspirin-size dots & crisp taffeta bow.
Old boy won't know what hit him.
He will toast you and beam
dreaming of you all demure
and dewy eyed in white couture
his silly little perfect little lamb
to slaughter.
Two Centimeters Dilated
It takes me five minutes to get out of bed and get ready. My husband is slow and cautious. I tell him to stop doing his Rain Man routine. He says, "Don't be mean to me." I walk to the car feeling like shit, which is pretty much the norm. The ob-gyn office is decorated for Halloween. There are no magazines except for that free one that features a smiling bald headed baby on the cover. I had a Fifth Avenue candy bar and Dr. Pepper for breakfast. The baby boy in my uterus is now 38 weeks old. He kicks and punches a lot. I call him my little Kung Fu Kangaroo. I weigh 183 pounds but I don't look fat. It's all
Jackson Gregory. My legs are still long and sexy. My tits are still too small. My ass is not flat even though I'm white. Some people call it a "bubble butt." The nurse puts on a glove and sticks her finger inside my cunt. Asks me to place my hands underneath my hips. She tells me I've dilated a couple of centimeters. She apologizes to my unborn son when she squirts that cold stuff on my stomach and listens to his heartbeat. He will be a Scorpio, a fighter, my Scorpio friend tells me. I call my mom on my cell phone. She is curious about things. Babies are her favorite subject. She tells me that her first husband, my father, told my sister that the name Jackson makes his skin crawl. Andrew Jackson was not kind to the Cherokee. For years my father told us that his grandfather was a Cherokee chief. In recent years he has said Rainwater may or may not be Cherokee. He dropped out of high school in tenth grade. Books bore him. At one time or another Fred Rainwater's interests have
included the Baptist religion, cock fighting, Jack Daniels, redheaded barmaids with silicone implants, greyhounds and knocking up my mom five times (abortion, me, sister, miscarriage, brother). I watch most of "Blades of Glory" with my husband. I didn't think I would laugh but I do, raucously. Jackson is getting accustomed to my crazy laughter and ranting and raving at Albuquerque drivers ("How does my ASS smell, motherfucker???"). I think he knows on some level what he is in for.
About the Author
