Francine Pascal Could Not Write by Misti Rainwater-Lites

You can Google.
You can amazon.
Bitch is still alive.
That isn’t polite.
I’m sure she’s terribly kind.
Noble, even.
I’m just bitter because I’ll never
be Jessica or Elizabeth Wakefield.
California girl functioning oh so fine.
With all her talent and money
and two houses in two different countries
Francine Pascal could not write my kind.
Not even under the influence of
Advocare and mescaline.
Not even with a hot yoga fluent
ghost writer whose chakras are balanced
because at forty-three I’m still
tongue fucking the binary
in my Dollar General donut pajamas.
I’m rotten.
I’m useless.
I only cum with my dolphin vibrator
and I can’t keep a man in my Android
for longer than three weeks.
I’m surviving San Antonio
on less than $800 a month
but when in San Francisco
I always remember to tip the maids.
Men fuck me then say
I guess that means I should bake a cake
maybe blow up some balloons
and send up prayers of thanks
to Dana Plato and Laura Ingalls Wilder.
If Francine Pascal were to encounter
the likes of me
in the fertile wilds
of her moneyed imagination
I’m sure I’d be dismissed with
Um. No. That Would Not Sell.
So I remain in bargain bin purgatory.
Defying capitalism and its glittery
Hello Kitty boxes.

Misti Rainwater-Lites is the author of Bullshit Rodeo. Her latest chapbook, No Guns No Knives No Disco Biscuits, is available from DevilHouse Press.

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