Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Dear Book Worms,

You would not like what your name sake is doing to the face.
Having one of those days where I hate the scroll down.
Wish I could change the color of my background like I wish I could change the color of my skin.
Change it to something that has suffered to accurately represent what went on during the formative years with Linda.
Is that racist?
Yes, Beverley Tatum, yes it is, also, your name rhymes with taint.
My point is that we have communicated every nuance of this pregnancy through facebook!
And when I say we, I mean them, not necessarily me.
Merely the public, generation me.
A memoir by Kate Hepburn.
I also found a small patch of mold under the kitty's water dish and it made my mouth hot.
I think I lost you,
Not you,
Also, it's never been my place.
Or my cup.
Or my Father.
Or my science.
Or my dress.
Or my sister.
Or my license.
Or my sand.
Or my coast.
Or my business.
Just my rage, and my lock, and my need.
Also, your shoulders go up when you smile,
They go up so high that my nose bleeds,
Thick, golf ball baby bleeds.
Maybe the death will come before the helpless.
The death we've all been praying on,
Choking on,
Counting on.
Except I keep telling you crazy vampire half people,
Down here on planet CBS,
There's no way of telling just who's gonna go and when.
Only that it will,

Skin and Toast

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Garden as metaphor

Dear critics,
It bothers me when you comment on the quality of my voice.
It hurts my feelings.
I know exactly what you're going to say.
Helium like.
Sarah Vowelled
High pitched.
Glass breaking.
Not very attractive.
Or intelligent.
I'm standing right here.
I refuse to live out the rest of my days on a deserted island.
I refuse to look you in the eye.
I prefer to look just to the left of your right ear.
That way I wont do something I regret.
And you know what,
Not just the critics,
All of em'.
All the patrons and passengers.
At least three times a day I have to explain to someone that this is in fact my voice.
Like, what, I was faking it?
How do I answer that?
Then there's my particular favorite,
Where'd you get that voice Josephine?
I don't know, the gumball machine at the Jewel.
The closet.
Should I answer these questions in a series of clicks and chants?
Do you really want me to explain everything that happened behind the boarded up bathroom door between the ages of two and six?
Because, most of it's suppressed and I would need my voice for something like that.
That's what I thought.
Now order your mocha like a normal person.
Write your reviews like a big Daddy,
And call it a day.
A night.
An entire life.
That's what we're dealing with here.

Thank you for your support,
Skin and Toast

Sunday, April 18, 2010


Dear Universe,

Writing papers is like paying money to see David Schwimmer ejaculate his paycheck all over the sacred grave site of Thornton Wilder; hard.

More later, I'm busy urinating blood.

Skin and Toast, and MLA

Sunday, April 11, 2010


Dear Friends,

You know what I love?
I love,
I adore,
I relish,
Ahhhhhh! Ah! Shhhhhhh!........Hugh!? What the canary was that!? Oh.....!
Shut up!
Shut. Up!
The back of the stage.
You guys,
There is nothing like being back stage.
I would have to say that I love being back stage more then I love being on stage.
I love to wait-
A minute-
In a panic-
With people-
Also waiting-
In a hurry-
In a listen-
In a gasp-
In a dark-

Behind pieces of wood and switches of don't you dare touch that.

I never went to camp.
But if I did,
If I had slept under unbearably hot three week Michigan star patterns, my ten year old Joe boxered knee caps hooked to the backs of my thighs in terror, in horror of too many giggles, too many secrets, kisses, compacts of flag poles, of mildews, of maple quilted powdered duties, of hidden natured scout badges of almost's, of kind of's, of don't tells, of high stakes, of this is just all that I want, don't ask me to pack---What! Was! That!!!!?

Oh, if I did.

Oh, Angela. Oh, Rayanne. Oh, my.

Just you wait, in the wings, in the still, in the calm, in the in, and the out; this is going to be amazing. This is that thick thick straight delivered line of in between life and all that has past behind veins, behind lives, behind flats, behind cracks in the light, in the ice of the play.

My Heart,
Skin, and Toast, and Curtains

Thursday, April 8, 2010


Dear Math,

I'm in a dark place.
I'm done.
Done for.
I found an entire pork chop between the counter and the stove.
And I ate it.
I chewed each bite one hundred times.
It was covered in cat hair, cheerios, and leaves.
It was once lemon and herb crusted.
Served over steamed brussel sprouts and 27 grain rice pilaf.
I ate it with my hands.
I loosed the ties on my bath robe so as not to restrict my breathing.
I like to take deep breaths in between each bite.
I know I'm full when I can't breathe.
Then I duck taped a disposable camera to the end of a foiled out coat hanger and forced it down my throat like a bulimic lady bug.
Then I lubricated my right hand and shoved it up my own anus like a laxative addicted lama.
Thus, I was able to take a picture of the digesting vintage pork chop.
Several pictures actually.
Now I'm creating a story board.
I'm sprawled out on the floor like a 2ND grader.
Knee deep in crayons and rubber cement.
This is my extra credit Mr. Math department alien porn star bologna person.
This is what I have to do to get an incomplete in the class so that you can dissect me over the summer under your white vegan snow globes.
This is my story.
This is my plight.
This is twenty eight years of could you please repeat the question?!
Could you please excuse my dear aunt sally?!
She's morbidly obese and can't count to five without falling asleep.
Depressing I know.
Well, people are complicated.
If you had read the packet from the government,
Under the column of Math,
It clearly says, Math, above a seventh grade level will be extremely difficult, nearly impossible.
But, you can't find the least common of anything in this wildly creative equation.
So, I guess I'll see you in the summer Math.
I'll bring the sun block.
You bring the human sympathy.

I don't hate you,
Skin and Toast

Sunday, April 4, 2010


Dear Oaks,

I need you.
I need you to
Butter my toast on both sides
And run my bath water.
And twist the little knobs.
And walk around with trays.
And dry my hands.
And see my show.
And brave the rain.
And smell my head.
And make another album.
And sell shirts.
And call me from Memphis.
And cover Dylan.
And taste my corn fed fest feelings.
And pass the salt.
Someday I'll tell you the story about the salt.
I don't even have to lean against anything when I see you.
Well, no walls or poles that is.
And I cross my legs like that because I'm afraid I'll piss myself with excitement.
Happy Easter Two Oaks.
Even though I'm sure you're not into that.
Happy spring time,
Bonnet time,
Born once again time.
If I didn't have you I'd be a jelly fish.
I'd be instant potatoes.
I'd only have an honorary degree.
Did you know that Gwendolyn Brooks has an honorary degree from North Park!
You gotta be fucking shitting me!
let's get mad together.
lets cut our bangs into tiny pieces and load the van.


We real cool? Fine. I get it.

But, if one more bitch gets something for nothing I will give up.

When I lean against friend boy listening to you live,
Crossing one leg over the other leg,
Swallowing the base with a bang of my head,
I think about all the quick people my age too busy playing house to conquer a rock Sunday opera.
Too busy thawing the breast milk to download the latest.

I think about all the black babies I'll adopt when I'm forty.
And finally,
as the kids say,
When my eggs have dried up and crystallized into the virgin white pellets that oozed from the butt of my now deceased bunny that loved me completely. Like she was my flesh. Like I was her skin.

I think of the black baby boy I could take in as my own.
And teach him not to ever never never expect something. anything. for. nothing. at. all.

Skin and Toast