Posted in Almost Dorothy, Travel

Almost Dorothy Goes on Sabbatical

The Sky in the Sky | Photo by Neil de la Flor

I’m on sabbatical, I’m gonna get physical, and I feel fine. I’m flying to Europe on a Jumbo jet with a giant bucket of Bubba Gump fried catfish and bacon shrimp. I’ll be back in a few, or even sooner. I forgot my passport. In the meantime, smell my feet and read my alter ego’s guest blog posts at the Best American Poetry blog. Because, you know, we Americans are the best at blogging.

Best American Poetry:

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Themes, Travel

Arizona, Gay Chickens, Identity Cats, Nap


Chickens have invaded. I just peed with my eyes closed and the result was devastating. So many people drive with their eyes closed that I’ve decided to do the same when I pee with my eyes closed. I don’t pee and drive though. Mom says I should wear a diaper if I’m gonna act so stupid but Jada the Cat thinks it’s really cool to act stupid when you’re really not stupid, which is dumb but fun.

I totally want to marry my homosexual chicken even though I’m not a homosexual, nor a chicken, nor old enough to marry yet. Now I no longer want to marry my gay chicken. I want to marry my heterosexual chicken. His name is Bawk! Maybe I’ll marry a Buick instead if Bawk! is unavailable. Does GM still make Buicks?Are Buicks organic? What is a Buick? Bawk! says Bawk!

Anyway, the reason why I wrote this is the reason why I woke up today. I just accidentally made out with my cat and I don’t even have a cat. How weird is that? Anyway, I’ve ordered a three-lawyer cake, which is really a three-layer cake, and mariachis to serenade my non-gay homosexual chicken wedding in Arizona where gay marriage is forbidden unless you’re gay married to the opposite sex or species. We don’t have our Identity Cards yet, so I’m not sure if we’ll get arrested, but I have my passport. Bawk! doesn’t have an ID card yet. When we enter the state of Arizona, I’ll tell the cops Bawk! is my dinner.

I totally just touched myself and I thought I was someone else. I’m gonna take a nap now. To be continued…

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Themes, Travel

Almost Dorothy Is Not a Trucker

I had to hitchhike home from Denver because I lost my identification card. The TSA wouldn’t let me on the airplane because they thought I would cause problems, like put my tongue in the pilot’s ear or trip the stewardess as she passed out gin and tonics. I’m not a jerk, I’m a kid. I really think the TSA are jerks and stink really really bad. However, I’ve forgiven them. On my way home,  I discovered what I will be when I grow up. For example, first of all, and foremostest, I want to be a trucker because truckers drive trucks, and trucks are awesome. Trucks have wheels and a horn that toots really loud. I also want to be a hooker, but that’s because they get to hang out with truckers often. But hookers don’t have trucks, at least not the big big trucks that I want one day. I also kind of want to be a Taxi driver but I hate the color yellow. I love the color purple but someone said I can’t paint my taxi purple because no one will want to ride in my taxi. I also want to be a mechanic. I like tools. I like grease. Enough said about that. I’m also considering a career in cow farming, or herding, or whatever it is you call it when you raise cows and turn them into milk. It’s fascinating. I always thought milk came from breasts. Anyway, when I got home, mom was pissed cause I arrived like 4 or 13 days later than she expected. She said she almost called the cops but changed her mind because she wasn’t sure how she’d explain why she sent me away to Denver in the first place.  Mom didn’t want to get arrested, again. In any place, I’m home. Mom is home. Bobo the Mutt is home. Amanda Bernstein is home. The phone is off the hook and I definitely don’t want to be a hooker now that I think of it. I really like to drive trucks. I don’t want to be tossed out of ’em at the end of the day like most hookers are tossed aside like a piece of meat, or cow tongue. On second thought, maybe I’ll start a labor union for hookers and fight for safe working conditions for  all hookers, and even non-hookers, or friends of hookers, like teachers. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll open up a union for hookers and maybe then women will finally get the respect they deserve. Truckers are jerks. They’re big fat fucking jerks.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Themes, Travel

AWP Denver + To Queer = Bubba Gump

AWP Day 1 – 2 or 1 and/or 2: I don’t know what day it is but Toi Derricotte made my day even though I thought I misspelled her last name. It’s insane. The spelling of names and the rain that turns to ice when it rains in winter. Yesterday, I saw my girls (not my boobs), who I met a Bread Muffin years ago when mom sent me there for summer camp, or the opposite of rehab. That’s when I learned to smoke cigars and play poker with the janitorial team. I was so excited. Really. Winning more peanuts than all the older people. I didn’t cheat. I didn’t even tickle their feet. Anyway, I saw Sandra Cisneros too, and she didn’t make my day. I screamed, Sandra Cisneros, te amo! I giggled and she just smiled, or was chewing gum, or mangoes. Mr. Magoo, I swear, she didn’t even blink.

AWP Day 2: Later we went to Bubba Gump because I love gump and Brent Goodman, who I want to always call Brenda Goodmen, who told me Gump is/was the bomb, or da’ bomb depending on what part of the country you come from. Bubba makes my tummy yummy for shrimp fried in as many was as possible. Popcorn shrimp. Shrimp po boy. Double fried shrimp. Refried shrimp. Coconut shrimp. Fried breading with or without the shrimp. Fried shrimp cocktail. Refried fantail shrimp. And, my favorite, fried shrimps. Anywhere, I hope to get Steve Fellner, Charles Jensen, and a few other potty mouths to sign mom’s bra.

AWP Day 2: Before Bubba Gump, we went to queer, which is a verb (and a panel) (and a noun on Sundays) that means to make everything so much better, like Chelsea or South Beach, the Castro and Tennille, even when the skitzos want to make life dirty underwear, and not the good kind of dirty. Think shit. What I learned at AWP Denver: we’re not responsible for Whitney Houston. I still love you Whitney, but come on girl. Stop pandering to Jesus. In any world, to queer is very uplifting, especially for a puppy like me, especially when I lost my identification card in the Yogurt shop. Now, I don’t know how I’ll get home or if I want to go home. I don’t know why I’d want to go home,anyway. With all of this love and anti-love (or Antigone which I always pronounce anti gone) around me I want to erupt into a bowl of strawberries. I also want to fly a helicopter in reverse.

AWP Day 0: I came out of my shell, a little, a clam or bottleneck I am. I smiled a little and waved some. Mom said I shouldn’t be too friendly or they’ll eat me. By they, she means them. She’s nuts.

AWP Day 3 (or 4?): Denver isn’t forever. Fireflies aren’t forever. Ice cream isn’t forever. Moms aren’t forever. Not even the Internet is forever. Mom called and asked if I murdered anyone in Denver. I told her I’m not like her and that I’m a vegetarian now. I bought cowboy/girl boots. I bought a stuffed shrimp. Mom hung up. I called her back. She hung up again. I called her back again. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message. In that message, I told her about the girl I met, who is always a boy like me. Her name is PK, and has no connection with PF Changs. PK told me about her father, about the future he faces in Iraq and the silence that constricts him like a unitard when he returns from combat. She’s afraid that this time, his fourth time in Iraq, that he will lose his entire voice, even basic sounds, grunts, vowels will become inaudible. Even the ability to 000000000000000000000000. PK hopes, and I hope, when he comes back this time that he will come back a little less gump. More Bubba. Whole. If not, I promised PK I’d speak up for him, even if I’m not real and no one believes a word I say.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Travel

Almost Dorothy + AWP = Hot Poker

I’m going to Denver without mom and I’m gonna smoke cigarettes. I might even smoke a cigar and drink cognac with the boys (or girls) (or girl-boys). I might drink something sexy, like a White Russian, but I don’t speak Russian. I know people who’ve been to Russia. Sarah Palin can see Russia from her toilet. In any case, I’m afraid of wolves and what they’ll do to me in Denver. Will they pull my hair? Make fun of my butt? Try to touch me appropriately? I’m gonna bring a hot poker to Denver, so that I can poke people in the butt, like Steve Fellner or Jeff Walt, both of whom I fear are rabid, or rabbits with rabies. Rascals. I hear Brent Goodman will be there too. And Maureen Seaton. And Megan C. Roth, who is not related to David Lee Roth, or the Rothenbergs. Other cool peeps like Andrew Wessels and Neil de la Flor will be there too. I hope they have teeth. I have teeth. Two feet. I have a wig that I’m gonna wear so no one knows who I am. Or was.  Or will be one day.