Posted in Almost Dorothy, Squinny

Almost Dorothy Sits On Poems

My BFF Squinny made me real. Not sure how but she did. Not sure why but she said don’t ask cause I won’t tell. Not sure if I’ll last but she said nothing lasts forever. Not even Santa or our relationship, she said, will last forever ever. I figulated that since Squinny rose from the dead she must be smart and can probably make me real. I imagine anything is possible when I’m with Squinny. That’s why I enrolled in a literature class instead of the Fashion Police Academy. Watch out Joan Rivers. I’m gonna learn how to dungeon dragon you like Nicki Minaj.

Almost Dorothy | First Day of School | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Ma told me we’re going to therapy but she dumped me off at school instead. I was pissed because I’m in love with my therapist. He’s gay. Anyway, on the first day of class my teacher asked us a stupid question. What is a poem? I told her, “I am a poem.” She called me a jerk and told me God would punish me. In the meantime, she said, sit here. So I did.

What is a poem? | Photo by Neil de la Flor

My teacher said that Jericho Brown said “words manipulated into music make a poem.” Then she said Sandra Simonds said “a song is where every beat is perfectly measured—a poem that is perfectly timed and counted like clockwork—this is not for me because I am already aware of time—I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me.” I told the teacher that Simonds and Brown must be high or hijinkers or meat heads or liars. I am a poem, I said, again. Enough said.

Almost Dorothy |Essay | Photo by Neil de la Flor

The teacher said we had to write an essay. The guy behind me was like WTF is up with my horns. I told her I had to pee super hard and was about to wet my skirt. She gave me permission and said I could go. So I did. I sat on the sink and tried to pee real hard. But I don’t have any plumbing. Not even a hole.

Almost Dorothy | Sink | Photo by Neil de la Flor

When I got back to class, everyone was quiet and writing like mad crack head matters. They wrote as if their life depends on poetry. Wrote as if the words they put down would save them from something super supernatural. I just sat at watched the other students write. Write and write. I watched the big boys and girls manipulate words into music. Sonoic boom. I watched them write essays where every beat is perfectly measured—every sentence perfectly timed and counted. I counted their strokes like clockwork oranges. I watched them run their hands across the page like deranged tarantulas.

Almost Dorothy | Sits on Poetry| Photo by Neil de la Flor

This is not for me, I thought, because I am already aware of time, of the orange clock ticking. Tock. Tock. I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me anymore. So I sat on my ass and let the bullet trains run on time.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Squinny

Still I Rise by Squinny Angelou

My name is Squinny Angelou and I can’t wait to tell you I’m not dead. Ready? I’m not dead! And I’m not related to Maya Angelou either even though she probably wishes we were related. I rose from the dead yesterday and my dad is missing. I miss dad but I’m not waiting around for the missing. Jesus didn’t. I think it’s almost noon or midnight. There’s always someone missing and time is just a waste of time.


The Resurrection


If you can find the scar, the purple-black-and-blue bruises and/or any of the identifying marks on my body from the unidentified accident and/or disease and/or  fists that originally killed me, I’ll give you a dollar because I can’t find any. It’s like nothing ever happened, which is fine. I have better things to do.


Frill at the neck,
then the flutings of their Ionian
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that,
His hair long and plausive.
Masturbating a glitter,
He wants to be loved.

Sylvia Plath, Death & Co.


When I rose from the dead, or resurrected myself as Squinny Angelou on behalf of all girls-in-transition everywhere on a bed of red and white roses (or white rice) where stupid ass vultures pecked at my body, I became holy and had an e-harmony moment. My heart is not made of liverwurst. I just want to be loved.


Vultures Pecking Squinny | Photo by Neil de la Flor


When I arrived on Fantasy Island, or got home, I found a photograph of Almost Dorothy and I dressed as Batman and Robin for Halloween. It was our last Halloween together. I never ever wanted to be a bat or a man, so I chose Robin with a capital R. because I thought the Boy Wonder was a girl just like the 1990’s singer-songwriter Robin S. was. Almost Dorothy looked so angry in that picture. Maybe she was pissed cause she looked like a gay Zoro.

I’m home now and dad is missing. Stevie Nicks says I can set my secrets free but I can’t find the carpet where I hid them. I found dad’s gun with two bullets in the barrel and played a round of pinochle with God. I pinned a note to the tail of dad’s donkey and informed him that I’m home, and that I’m never leaving this goddamn world behind again–no matter how hard they pull my hair.

The sun goes down and I imagine I’m up at the corner of Demon and Disaster where my BFF Almost Dorothy awaits me in her Ionian death-gown with her two little feet peeking from underneath the hem, arms waving me home. Home. The neighbor’s front yard is on fire and mama Dorothy’s naked body is covered in glitter. She always wants to be loved. Her long hair dares the firestorm.

Welcome home, mama Dorothy screams. Her thumbs up. And I know I am here.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Culture Clash, Family, Squinny

The New Squinny: My BFF Update

My new BFF is alive and kicking himself for being so depressed the other day. He says he’s totally proud to be gay. He says he feels better and that it gets better. He also loves butter and honey. He says that he is so proud that he will come out to his  homophobic pet iguana. My new BFF’s parents don’t speak English. He says they won’t understand what gay means so he’s going to tell them he’s gay. It’ll count as a coming out because, I say, all coming outs are conducted in English. It’s not his fault they won’t get it. I tell my new BFF not to worry about his homophobic pet iguana because he can threaten to put the iguana out in the cold when the temperature drops. Good idea, my new BFF says and laughs then looks at his iguana and wink winks. My new BFF has got it made now or will soon be making out with maidens. Well, not maidens, but maybe hatchbacks or halfbacks or whatever those guys are called who play football on football Sunday. Anyway, I tell my new BFF I will call him New Squinny after the Old Squinny, who really wasn’t old. She was my VVBFF (very very best friend forever). Old Squinny passed away so I guess I should drop the F from BFF since forever isn’t ever forever. The New Squinny says that this will probably piss off Old Squinny or make her piss her pants. I tell him not to worry because Old Squinny is dead dead and can’t really do much because her (or his) ashes are spread all over the Florida Everglades like butter on toast. Besides, I tell New Squinny, the Old Squinny would be honored to share her (or his) name with you. The New Squinny gets up and gives me a hug. I hug her back.  He says thanks for turning his  little blue world upside down. Ma honks the car horn and I roll my eyes into my head. It’s time to go to church for the free doughnuts and coffee, I tell the New Squinny. I wave bye-bye for now to the New Squinny as I walk out her front door. When I turn around, I see the  ghost of Old Squinny waving back at me and I know everything will be alright (for now).

Posted in Amanda Bernstein, Characters, Family, Squinny, The Mother, Themes

Free Falling

I want to glide down Biscayne Bay in my pink and yellow muumuu. I want to call the cops on the muumuu monster called mom. I want to suck the madness out of the Gulf. I want to fly without wings. Mine the world with mines.

The scene: 9AM. Mom’s false teeth on the kitchen counter. Her push up bra unclasped. No bottom. A frozen chicken pot pie melting in the sink as her lipstick melts on the window sill. Sunday. My photograph of Squinny torn into a hundred tiny pieces on the breakfast table.

Mom said she was upset or pissed off because I had disrespected her when I had sexual relations with that Puerto Rican-Peruvian-Sephardic boy. She said I’d go to hell and my panties would burn in hell. Said that my privates would burn in hell. Said that I’m whore and that I would burn and burn and burn till I understood what she was talking about. You dirty little whore, she said. Just like you, I said. Just like you.

Mom smacked the wind cause I’m too friggin’ fast. I ran to my room. Assessed the importance of things like my Hello Kitty purse, red red ruby slippers, the pink lava lamp. I left my underwear behind. I left the lava lamp and potted cactus behind. I left the whole world behind and Bobo the Mutt too. He was furious at me for leaving him with mom. He looked at me and cried. He said don’t go, don’t leave me, in the language of dogs.

The world is not big enough anymore. I packed my mirror to remind me of who I was and where I’ve been. I scooped up all the pieces of Squinny and sealed her up in a pink envelope. I swiped a pack of mom’s cigarettes from the kitchen counter and then hauled ass out of that house as she hauled ass after me. I jump into the arms of Amanda B., who had waited for me in her getaway station wagon ever since she left mom and me. Hanging. Just in case I needed a lift away from Mars.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Politics, Squinny, Themes

Almost Bjork

When I grow up, I want to be a bell just like Bjork. I will ring all over the world in clock towers and market squares. I will ring inside the heads of happy humans that gather in front of churches and synagogues and mosques and farmhouses as they pray to their Godless Gods. I will ring in the ears of sea otters, lions, and spiders, so they’ll know, for once, that somebody loves them. I love sea life and simple things like hand mirrors and sisters, bells and whispers. I will  ring my bell in the nose of librarians who say be quiet and don’t say a word as they stack ee cummings and Shōnagon. I will ring my bell body in the face of bishops and tell them in tongues as I shake my ass that I’m on their side while I tickle their toes with my freakishly long fingers.  No one can raise the dead, but I will ring my bell and raise the dead and the living dead and the living. I will raise my friend Squinny up with my bell and she will float above the surface of the world in her red dress. I will tell her what I’ve done. Tell her that the world is really full of love. Even if it’s really not. Even if she can’t hear a goddamn thing.

Painting by Macief Hofffman, “Gravitation” (2009), Oil on canvas, 210 x 185 cm, © Hoffman. Special thanks to Scene360.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Characters, Family, Squinny, The Mother, Themes

Heaven or Las Vegas

I just got notification that I’m a jerk. My BFF Squinny, who is dead, sent me a TxT message from Heaven or Las Vegas, which reminds me of the Cocteau Twins, which reminds me that TxT should not to be confused with my Potty Mouth guest xTx. BFF Squinny said, “you’re a jerk.” I TxT-messaged BFF back and told hir to STFU, which has nothing to do with TOFU or Holiness. We’re not talking now, which is fine, cause Squinny is dead.

I realized something today. We’re all little torture devices. Our tiny bodies are too big for the sea. We can’t fit in anywhere but want to fit into place. Secured and locked. Anchored to a boat like Squinny anchored hirself to me. I told myself I’d stop lying about Squinny but I don’t care. I got a clue when Who Cares punched me in the gut at school today and laughed. His mom stood by his side. She laughed. Mom stood by my side. She didn’t laugh. Amanda Bernstein stood by my side too and she didn’t laugh either. I told Who Cares to watch out cause I got two moms and they’ll kick his single mom’s fucking ass. Who Cares shrugged his shoulders like who cares and growled like a fanged-frog. His mom shrugged her shoulders too and rub her shoulders. I will write about Who Cares one day and use his real name. Mom and Amanda B. shrugged their shoulders, winked at each other (imagine one of those CGI animation twinkle), and then pole vaulted over Who Cares and showed his mom what my two moms are worth. Squared.

P.S. I’m a born-again vegetarian.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Family, Squinny, Steve, The Mother, Themes

Lena Horne Is Dead. Long Live Lena Horne.

Lena Horne

Here we go again. Mom is sad because Lena Horne is dead. Amanda Bernstein is sad because mom is sad and because Lena Horne is dead. I’m sad because I’m hungry and I’m sad because these broads won’t cook when they’re both sad. I told them not to be sad because they’re not dead and they both looked at me and said they feel dead. That’s why they’re sad. I think they’re sad because they realize they’ll be dead one day like Lena Horne. I think mom and Amanda B. are sad because they won’t win a Tony Award like Lena Horne did for her one woman show. Mom and Amanda B. have a two-lady show way off-Broadway but no one pays them a dime to watch them perform. Because their show is way off-Broadway. Far from the spotlight. Where no one can see them perform in all their glittery sadness. I’m going to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal with my BFF Squinny. We’re gonna figure out which of us will be Steve and which of us will be Lena Horne when we grow up.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, Squinny, Steve, Themes

Showgirls & Indians

Yesterday my BFF Squinny died. I’m not certain if I really want him dead yet, so I might retract my last blog post, or maybe I’ll ignore the fact that Squinny is dead and continue to write as if he were alive. If I do that, people will probably call me a liar, or non-linear, or King Lear or Liar Pants. Mom says I shouldn’t deny reality or lie unless it serves a greater good like the time she lied to get fifty bucks for gas. She didn’t have a car back then. Mom says I shouldn’t lie when inappropriate but lying is always appropriate, especially when it’s done discreetly, like lies between lovers or cats. If Squinny is dead dead, but he is alive in my head, does that mean he is not dead until I reach the age of dementia praecox? I hate socks and the White Socks and anything that ends with cox. I hate baseball even though my new friend loves baseball. I pray because I think she’s insane for watching men playing with a ball and bat with their clothes on. Squinny never wanted to play baseball, but he loved to play dress up and Showgirls & Indians. I bet you want to know why I call Squinny, Squinny. Well, I’m never going to tell. If I did, it would ruin his reputation as a deity.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, Squinny, Themes

Almost Dorothy Is Not Dreaming

This morning I woke up in a debris field. Fragments of my imagination scattered all about. I ran and ran and ran to my BFF Squinny’s house and Squinny’s house was gone. I ran back to my house and my house was gone. I ran down the street toward North Miami Avenue and North Miami Avenue was gone. Only the impression of an avenue remained like the footprint of an Ibis on the wet part of the beach. I ran back toward Biscayne Bay and Biscayne Bay was gone except for a boat and two fish. I ran nowhere and everywhere was gone. Meteorites skimmed skyscrapers and the world was on red alert. Squinny is dead, mom said. She said Squinny was dead. I know, I said. I know. Then I went back to bed.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Characters, Family, Squinny, The Mother, Themes

Almost Dorothy on Lesbianism

I woke up this morning, again, and I asked mom if she was or wanted to be a lesbian and, if she were or wanted to be a lesbian, I wanted to know what she planned to do about it. Mom said she’s not a lesbian but she likes women, especially women who are on the verge of lesbianism, like Hillary Clinton or Oprah, but she also likes men who are somewhat butch, like Elton John and Kid Rock. I told mom she made no sense and she said she made sense because she doesn’t care to be called LGB or T or PYT. Mom just wants to be mom and do whatever she wants where ever she wants, which sounds like a verse from a Shakira song, even if it means she’s a slut. I told mom she’s not a slut but mom said nothing and just smiled like yes I’m really a slut. I think mom is a true artist because she can survive anything.

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