Baby won’t you please come home? Thanx, you can go now

Hi, whattaya make of this font? Pretty, but a little ruffled, could slow us down, it goes fast here sometimes so don’t wanna fuck up the pace with some girly curlicue font type thingie for little ole

ART’S SAKE

Personally I can barely see straight which makes this particular script the most appealing for today, once everything’s said and done it all comes down to a beautiful thing, what do you say?

Someone’s having men problems again, I may be a classic Borderline but am getting no kicks (har har) from the big-n-tall bullpen, all due respects as in piss off to certain Dr. Fuckheads for skirting bad-girl boundaries of DSM template, this never happens to anyone but me, that’s why they call it a template, hee, hee, hic.

I’ve been here all day in search of guidance; am askin now in all sincerity, if you, reader, happen to be a male, which rhymes with jail, do everyone a favor, sit down nicely and shut the fuck up, thanx, on the other hand if you happen to be a

Feminist, blow me—

Get thee behind me satan

Take yer good-fer-nuthin designer label teeming satchel of post-modern cant you call realpolitik to some other simpering website, the sisterhood awaits you, world-wide-spider-woman-web-woven-coven

frogs legs are on the house tonight

But little sister listless is not takin orders,

fooled me once, huh, mother told me there’d be templates like you,

three-hundred-sixty-five days of the year, scar-lover, and every one still

bears her disfigurement,

your sham-ticket to the good life, vermin,

~~wimmin,~~

go get real real gone for a change,

There must be hundreds of construction workers

available to give you PTSD with a wink and a whistle,

seriously your gaping psychic wounds are making me snore.

Oh hell, I’m sorry. God knows you deserve as much respect for your views as anybody else, but troublewaits.com?

It ain’t me babe.

Five, count ‘em, five full hours on the internet lookin for answers and I don’t know what’s wrong with you people, I’m not having

JpretendJ

man problems, Christ, if there is an adult woman in the vicinity please be man enough to step forward now and/or live to regret it.

When something bad happens to you and you’re a kid the same bad thing keeps happening over and over the rest of your life, period, end of story, no wait, beginning of story, beginning of end of story, no, wait, lately all I can do is try, you said so yourself

-Christ is she trying-

You can close the book now, it’s all the same chapter, written in wet cement, shut the book, it belongs on the shelf or wherever you keep the useless scrap metal.

-I thought you liked nuts and bolts big boy-

You still here?

Of those so close beside me which are you?

Oh for crying out loud, not another gambling man, read the sign bro, casino’s closed, here comes the wrecking crew, just like the one that came before, funny how they still look like you, let’s all join hands and level the building, where you been, is this our swan song, which bro are you, what took you so long?

Shape-shifters of the world unite, big funeral party on my front lawn tonight

Come as you are

said the poet,

and I swear that I don’t have a gun.

Beautiful ass-holes in mismatched pajamas die everyday and I swear

he didn’t never not tell a lie.

Do all new things look like whatever things came before only bigger this time?

Yes, of course they do, nothing of integrity will ever exist around here and when you realize that it roughs you up.

Oh, one more thing:

You are the one who keeps corrupting new shit, but this is something you don’t want

to know.

Just to set the record straight, next to me I have never abandoned another human

being per se.

Just because someone shows you the door-

Beat it

Scram

Pack it up

You’ve been dismissed

I mean it this time

Don’t let the door hit you on the way out

And the speaker issuing the directives is the only one who really and truly will not go away does not mean she wants you to stay any more than she wants you to leave, such is the enigma, this thing called the blues is a woman in a tight black template,

Merle Haggard makes his-n- her misery-n-gin

We go to such lengths to squeeze into your soundtrack—

It’s not you I’m trying to get rid of, it’s only a facial expression,

perplexed, see, fucks with my public image, can’t have that—

(my mystique is so chic it brings me a shot of Jim Beam every hour on the hour.)

The harder you try to hide your heart the more exposed it becomes, your intricate and culturally conditioned good girl persona is the same camouflage that’s made you

the bull’s eye,

Everyone’s a marksman but it’s

not their fault, we’re all ripped

to pieces inside, pissed off, everyone is nice and everyone is dormant,

doormat,

the chip on his shoulder is not an option, it’s part of everyone’s package just like you and it bugs him too, no one chooses

to wreck but the gun’s loaded and the safety’s off,

you my deer are the golden opportunity,

they don’t call pretty things

trophies by accident,

girlfriend.

What I said in all sincerity, honest:

I don’t love men, I am against these feelings, I come from the female bohemian sub-cultural value system where we don’t love men, we love each other, we only love women, and just use men for transportation, money, cigarette lighters and acting out and

musicians and everything.

What he said:

{Sorry? Blocked 69 weeks for making me horny? Didn’t we already fuck about this? No thanx, Gotcha. No thanx again, not here, not now? Ok, thanx, implode.}

No recourse but to bumble through the archives, worn-out penlight running low on ink, but hey that’s a talisman for ya—

Replenish me this minute and we can trade places babe, I’ll be back for a refill whenever I feel like it, I’m a traveling man I was born to ramble, you are born to succumb to the greatness you alone perceive in me

and when you find it,

doe-eyed gal pal

waiting at the well,

follow the list,

bow head well,

admire weller,

worship wellest,

well well well

at last all is

hell

and you alone are my one true desire.

I’ll call you.

The last man I loved, he was a prince, so according

to my friend Vicki, this one should be the emperor.

Her evolution theory regarding the hairy male animal begins with a knuckle-dragging gorilla

and ends with

uh-oh

king kong,

This sound familiar or is my personal world view an

incoherent chemical spill

Again?

Still?

Vicki is that long-lost girl you keep pullin up from your inside self who is now part of your deepdown comfort and consolation, we two kids met 15 years ago in a support group called, this will fuckin kill ya, it was called

P. A. S. T.

as in

PEOPLE AGAINST STAYING TRAUMATIZED

She was the breath-taking midnight headcase Tennessee Williams wrote sonnets about,

Raven-haired Joan Jett lookalike, perfect figure, leather boots, question authority bumper sticker, a stylist, a knock-out, supreme beatitude, but no artifice, zero pretension, one hundred proof authenticity, most often

man-i-fest

in unrelenting, un-ironic, indeliberate public battle between self-respect and self-deprecation.

Intensely innocent, vulnerable vixon running the photomat with 8-hour affability, dutiful, on-task, stewardship, putting out fake firestorms of your unceasing banality, when all of a sudden—

something bad just happened

Something traumatic only Vicki knows, almost knows, kinda knows

the time is right to ring the alarm

Get your tickets now folks—

Gongshow cued up and ready to gong—

Bingo, hello, switch flipped, monkey wrench, uh-oh, oh shit, not again, here we go,

looks like we gotta bug in the motherfuckin system, now where the hell is

Bob Dylan when you need him?

In it

Her words, DSM bible-writers,

In it

Bawling her head off, sniffling, can’t stand up, apologetic, shrugging it off—

Seeping, she’d say, could you reach me a Kleenex, it’s not you man, it’s on me, this is what happens whenever I go in it.

Help, rebuilding, need tools quick, seeping, dig deep, working off the brick-list.

Robin tore my list up,

I aint working off shit, I got nothing to work off and neither do you, sister.

Professional lush says Vic, meet me at the next 250 A.A. meetings.

Robin and Vicki conduct 12 hour marathons of self-hatred, membership is limited to templates but spectator lotties always free to watch, til the razor blades come out, Robin’s favorite sport for one pure reason:

Vicki always puts them back.

We will talk about the dickies first album, I’m stuck in a pagoda with Trisha Toyota and giggle like schoolkids as if it means something while Robin drinks herself into a stupor in front of struggling A.A. member whose favorite words are:

Hey, it’s cool, we’re cool man, I’ll let you know somehow, you’ll know in there when I’m not cool.

Vicki gets manhandled by pigs in nightclubs, jumps 20 feet in air screaming, comes back down and apologizes to sleaze-pig,

Wow, sorry man, no, you’re cool, it’s not you it’s me.

Robin puts pearl-handled six- inch switchblade back into sheath.

This is all true stuff.

Vicki has worthless nieces and nephews, some already killed themselfs before age twelve.

Vicki working around the clock, designing schemes to save worthless lives, ditto to the max Miss Robin Plan. We write family savin floorplans hand in hand, drinkin coffee, starting over, Vicki leads in crying Robin follows, anytime anyplace…

Vicki’s boyfriend is afraid of Vicki.

Robin sends Vicki’s lackey one quick, curt reminder:

It’s ok to be afraid of my formidable friend, incidentally you punk, you lack everything that moves in humans.

Actin crazy, we hate this shit. Crazy ladies Rob and Vic acting crqzy left and right, whole world stops around loony babble twitches,

The redhead’s out there but

The brunette’s hot

I’d fuck her.

Once.

We hear nothing but clarion call of bats in belfry,

juju music,

call and response.

As we must.

Respond.

We must

ignore

Whole planet of stoppers and stare-ers.

Stop, stare, now blatently eavesdrop.

Offer nothing but stock incredulity—

Maniac-mama and Psychorella.

Lucy and Ethel

Bustin out from beyond gates of hell

Bursting in on our family-saving floorplans—

Look what we brought you kids today.

Standin before us in top-hat and tails,

The way they wear their clothes

no,

They can’t take that away from me.

We take on our moms man, me and Vicki,

Start actin like our moms

Like someone tryin to get in who can’t get out because the deadbolt’s

about to or has or is still not finished

(we’re a work in progress)

shooting holes in the walls.

Whoops, make that deadbeat, not deadbolt, no they are not the same,

my daddy is a heroin addict, my daddy loves me, plus he plays

drums in a rock-n-roll band, taught James Deans everything they are too lame to get

But the deadbolt man,

No, no-one’s ever told me what that’s for yet.

That’s nothing, says Vicki, wait til you hear what they do with

a stepladder.

Just yer average B-Girls trying to get some sleep,

Backseat divas

Horn non-stop blaring

Running down police roadblocks, sirens blazing,

Helicopters overhead

Crashing through bushes, hiding in drainpipes,

Come on Dad, let’s get real real gone for a change.

Fuck yes that happened!

Can you beat that, come on Vicki,

gimme what you got!

Was that the first time your knees gave out,

did you fall on the ground too,

go boom, go dead?

How old were you the first time he forced himself to keep himself

from fucking you, should we feel sorry for them, is this a bad time or can I

give all you got back?

No back

Says Vicki, no the poet screwed up,

You really can’t keep from how much and how fast

It all comes

Back.

Back? You ever seen my back?

You call that a bullet wound, my dear little junkyard sister?

Let me tell you about a sunny day,

then we’ll head back to the first ravine and marry our memories,

whoops, I mean bury our memories.

You got it right the first time, it all goes back to the first regime—

Oh golly oh jeeze oh shucks oh Robin you are the most incredibly exciting woman I’ve

ever tossed, think I’ll nickname you

“Let’s Get Lost”

Prepare for the Clampdown.

Smartass, you there, runnin your mouth,

picking on police officers,

Mind telling me quick now,

Is that there toaster oven my mom again or is it time to rehabilitate this conversation?

Vicki and Robin get mixed up a lot,

Say crazy, scary, questing things out loud and in public—

Hold on a minute here,

Wait just a second please,

Which one of us is you,

Which one of you is me?

“They must be studying the theatre, I bet they’re drama students practicing their lines.”

Excuse me, vultures, voyeurs, and doctors of philosophy,

we are not the type of people who study fuckin theatre, the theatre studies

fuckin people like us.

The stage does not stand for your

Discretionary Spending Power.

The purpose of the theatre is for the sake of her and me.

Your favorite playwright earns a version of an honest living

detailing human theatrics he can’t quite put his finger on—

All hail the canon,

the novels academics fight about,

are based upon uh-oh people,

almost always almost-people

also always not like you and mostly always almost Robin, always Vicki,

all y’all ever need

do with recalcitrant templates is

phil-in-the-blank

(Hi Phil, how’s it hanging? Hope you’re feeding the llama its proper medication!)

Some real gong people are based upon the horses’ mouth,

articles of faith or fiction, all I know is

vegetables like me are good for you,

that’s an article of fact,

you can really put your clothes back on.

Pardon the histrionics,

On with the show

Your take on this will simply have to develop,

Like a picture, see—

Take on personas yo,

Me and Vicki,

Robin falling over furniture explaining why men can’t stand funny drunk women—

If men didn’t hate funny women writers so much

Dorothy Parker would be with us today, if you’re looking to get silly

you better go back to from where you came

(no thanx)

because the cops don’t need you and man they expect the same.

Is it me Vic, or are they all of them cops, just cops?

Ever notice how men keep constantly somehow turning into cops and locking me up in a one-inch box stamped

Mental Problems?

Thank God for my hairpiece multiple wiglet personality wig

multiple waist-length hairpiece personality disorder,

doctor beware, join the marines,

we’re looking to confuse a few good cops, we got some hungry women here and they’ll really make a mess outta you

and my best friend Madonna won’t even say what it is I’ve got.

We spill the beans Vic and me on daytime teevee

Oprah wannabe: are you girls victims or are you artistic?

We cleaned up that place like

Whistler’s Mammy,

Vicki doing just fine, never been better,

Robin’s house now haunted by Oprah’s evil spirit.

Robin’s doc says no more talk shows until I say so,

Vicki still scared of lackey boyfriend,

Stalking, calling, won’t take no.

Rob makes Vic shocking home-cooked meal

I’m in it,

She’s in it

Parents all over us policing every second guess

Parents pouring poison into

Electric Purple

Kool-Aid Acid Test.

Again?

Those little shits are asking for a beating.

Vicki teaches Robin her brand new best thing—

Look at the world she says

Through the eyes of a camera,

Be a camera lens, she says

Goin’ to California,

Make movies about us,

Nothin comes with me this time but the list.

How you comin’ with the list, she wonders,

baggage packed and ready,

her dog in Raybans—

Santa Claus put me on lifetime probation,

No list I’m afraid, can’t get nowhere from this

stuck-in-mud-place.

We’re cool, says Vicki,

Man, that list she says, the ever-present list man,

It’s nothing and it’s everything,

It’s nowhere and everywhere you ever wanna be

Or Not

Ha Ha

To Be

Am I right?

No. Yes. Answer me this:

What are men for?

Why are they here?

Are good men cops?

Where do they go if not at the

Top of our to-do list?

Decent men, top of the line men…

Good men, she reminds me,

Gassed up and ready to roll,

People like us man,

That’s our soul salvation.

Doubt it.

Modern gentleman when he falls hard is like your typical, everyday

blood spatter specialist,

He wants to love

(Stop The Murders),

but can’t exactly walk up and remove the gun from her outstretched hand so he

does his job

after the fact and from a distance,

the technology he uses is

different from the traditional man in love but the goal is the same:

deterrence.

These words have been brought to you by the

Certifiably Insane, or as

Lou Reed put it:

Aren’t

You

Glad

You’re

Married?

Home.