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Palmolive's Hot Rod Kitchenette

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About Me


"This heart is useless; I must have another."
-The Bride of Frankenstein
~Theda Bara~
Photo by Kathleen Elizabeth
Hair, Design, & MUA -- Palm O.
Chicken Fucker
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Photo by Clyde McCormick
Back in Los Alamos—overalls sagging, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and body odor—the tee shirts boast mushroom clouds. 505 Oppenheimer Drive. The Atomic City.
Robert Oppenheimer
In Memphis, pyramids are made of glass; giddy prison guards pull me—pretentious porcelain doll—through each room in a disply case before I am signed out, given my change bag and chased off—now missing 16 year old giggles. They don’t wave; hiding thumbless hands—non-hitchhiking hands, non-evolutionary hands. Back in Memphis, Elvis costs six bucks I don’t have.
~Douglas Adams~
Unshaven and layed against the cold, transiency rates skyrocket in Seattle. A herd of native have-nots pull me into a doorway and pass the make-shift avocado tube as a peace offering; I smell burning plastic and pass. I will not smoke crack for peace. Not here. There is no peace on Union Street.
In an unsuccessful attempt to come off manish, I take off my hair. Bald and busted, I seek refuge in Nowhere, Arkansas. Finding an open door to a body shop, I rest covered in funk, lice, and gray dust, beneath a Bic and a can of piss-beer. Hitchhiking proves perilous for pretty and my attempts of proving myself otherwise never seem to work out exactly as planned. So…
Hugging my knees on a grainer porch, I ride what I believe to be east. After two days on a grainer porch, I find that I’d believed wrongly. There is a cave just outside Sturgess I’d found as nothing more than a rabbit hole until I nosedive. Clear quartz crystals, white and glassy as Memphis pyramids, stick out jagged stalactite thumbs.
I stop in Reed Point, Montana because I am unable to pull myself from the rocks. These are not Seattle rocks. Here, I smoke for peace on dirty knees. I gather rocks for weeks, and seek navigation from bugs.
I hop another grainer. Hanging my bare ass off the side of a moving freight train, I decide perhaps it’s just no longer worth it. Then there are conditions of bond. I scowl through three years, and I am still scowling.
...and I've officially revealed the secret identity of Wonder Woman...
I am no longer on bond. I priss-pose and pout puffy lips—emaciated and waif-like with dyed, ratty straw-hair—still moody with hairy legs and hairy pits, still a little bleary. I sit in front of cameras; later I photoshop the wear and tear. I still thumb the air—distant and often lost in reflection—but without the busted overalls. Without the disappearing act.
Photo by John Biddle
Hair, Costume, Design, & MUA -- Palm O.

My Interests

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Read it...

~Photo by John Biddle~
~Hair, Design, & MUA -- Palm O.~

~Tom Waits~
and he waits for me

David Lynch

My Blog

nevermind that...

    White Horses     I sat to write, realizing suddenly there was nothing to say.  I thought about the track marks like strawberry fields, the pointed, poignant droppertatte...
Posted by on Tue, 25 Sep 2007 16:30:00 GMT

just fucking read it

    Night-time replenishing cream     I     Looking upon 1,000 broken faces reflecting daylight and 1,000 broken faces, stone dead, peeking from dusty hardwood floors e...
Posted by on Tue, 25 Sep 2007 16:27:00 GMT

Mañana Nunca Suceda

    Mañana Nunca Suceda Smoke snakes hiss about this nunnery My heart thumps uselessly upon the kitchen table I can hear it beating, feel the hollow pit      (where it ...
Posted by on Tue, 25 Sep 2007 16:23:00 GMT

[brackets]

[impatient heels click][drums dripping red fingernails,       fidgets the folds in black crinoline] i've broken the rut. there is nothing to see here. [nose-dive into middle o...
Posted by on Tue, 25 Sep 2007 16:22:00 GMT

I have finally been published!

   [Night Tracks at 5 a.m.]5 amThe sun does not shineVirginia airstickyas sunrise presses to fast food joints,single-serving coffee pots in cheap hotels Stretched against such a ...
Posted by on Tue, 25 Sep 2007 16:14:00 GMT

whose line is it anyway?

    [O vice of Kaddish forgive me]   In this darkness, I think of man in the act of procreating. I was lonely I'm the gutted woman. Lashing out at murder with the world     D...
Posted by on Tue, 25 Sep 2007 16:17:00 GMT