Thursday, May 26, 2011

Just This Once

I'll allow myself to wonder what I would look like in a pretty dress.
Should I practice for December?
Should I purchase some cotton sun dresses from the boutique on Clark and Berwyn?
Should I?
Should I spray perfume in my eyes?
Should I smear lip gloss on my wand?
Should I make outfits for cute little mice named gusgus and jackjack?
Should I click my heels against me emerald city and dye me eyes to match my mom?
Or, maybe I should just ask you if you'd be willing to pass the salt?
Remember the salt?
I forgive you for the salt?
There was one time when someone else was having one of these self indulgent love celebrations. These sparkly Mark Twains of life.
I wont name any names, but I'm sure you remember, I think it was the last time you wore a dress. I opted out of the dress that time. I just couldn't do it. I was already the maid of honor drop out so I had to lye real low. Low and slow. Like a beauty sleeping soundly in a wet spot.
By the way, all dresses make themselves known to me as the dress. I don't have a collection.
I have an occasion, and then that occasion calls for the dress of that occasion, and then once that occasion has cried itself to death by pregnancy in the handicap stall I then make my way to an open flame and burn the sucker like a witch by the first name of goody.
I'm not mad.
But, at that rehearsal was salmon.
I did not RSVP so I wasn't planning on eating.
But, after a sketchy cab ride through the rural racism of Massachusetts, what's a girl to do?
Salmon, yes, and baked potato, thank you. Oops, I'm wearing jeans. C'mon, it's a rehearsal, I left my corset and character shoes on my other island. Deal with me people, I don't make money. Not on purpose anyway.
Anyway, your high school aged son whispered into your ear that he would like some salt.
So, you, the devoted mother, asked the other end of the table for some salt please.
Your son salted his fish.
he must be very smart.
Now, that looks good said my soaking liver.
My fingers curled around the glass.
And I'm not mad.
But, before the force of the table was even lifted into salty negative nine point eight,
Pointed right between my eyes,
And said,
I'm not mad.
But, if you really want me to grow up,
Then, just pretend I'm dressed like the big girls.
Just ask yourself,
Would I say this to a big girl?
I was drunk.
And I ask for things all the time for your records.
And when I don't, I don't, that's between me and my sodium intake.
It's OK, I'm pretty sure you stopped reading this blog,
And furthermore you have no idea it's you.
But, if you do that's OK too because no body's mad.
I just missed mom.
I guess.
If everything had never changed we would have been sitting shoulder to shoulder in our cotton weaved dresses whispering low bout how everyone looks ugly but us. We would have put lots of cream in our coffee. We would have asked each other for gum and left early.
Out east I still feel king of awkward without her. A colt with flutes for legs, and carrots for eyes. A butterfly in a box in a classroom. Penetrated it's cocoon over Christmas break. Trapped. Dying for an early flight.
You should see me in my element.
I'm just like you.
I speak in full sentences.
And don't get nearly as angry as I used to.
I even have a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbows.
Graduations and Jewish rights of passage love me.
You should see me.
I should invite you.
I love you.
~Skin and Toast and Pardon My Reach

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Oh, I Wonder Where I've Been?

I'll tell you.


Ever heard of high math?

Nobody panic. I heard a rumor you can't not pass these two week summer classes. Like, if you're the weirdo who decided to take physics of roller coasters, then your punishment is a guaranteed c-. Does that make sense? Oh, well excuse me while I look up the equation. Excuse me while I transition from high powered non-profit community out reach to lab with Owen Meany.

Thank you professor, see you tomorrow.

Blog by procrastination,
Skin and Toast

Friday, May 13, 2011

In Conclusion

And to the point
Skipping to the
Of this
Most certainly
And incandescently
Devotedly conclude
That I

But the water looks so still

And cool


Dispersed and unsentimental

Like a season in a folk song

Ladder's that way,
Skin and Toast

Oh, fuck you! Fuck you and everything in your pantry, how dare you fray the edges of this list of insecurities I stick onto my fridge with my do's and my maybe' s. I've seen your closet. I know your skeleton. I know what makes you ugly. I tried on your shoes long before your stupid little disease crept it's way onto your bony fingers. How dare you have an opinion about me you childless poet. I'm not afraid of you. You're the problem, you gypsy fucking wino, go home to your pack of wolves and say one for me. Leave a light on. I'm on to you. I will walk right over you next time I see you in the back alley, begging for money, warming yourself over crack pipes and missing manifestos. That's right, I can rage with the big girls. I have girth in my cheeks, and there's no telling when I'll crack.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Oh My Goth.

I just wrote 21 fake journal entries.

You know, the secret ratio of faking it, to applying it, to handing it out on the street is written on the bathroom wall.

But, I'm not in the bathroom am I?

No, I'm urinating blood into empty coffee cans.

Empty like the cobwebs in my buck naked brain temples.

Call me, It's raining in this phone booth, and the yellow trench coat is a sexist republican butt munch, he reads Jodi Picult and listens to jazz.

I probably spelled her name wrong, I went to elementary school on the south side,

Skin and Toast

Monday, May 9, 2011

Hey Mister,

Are you really going to put it right on me?
The devil knows my name,
My full name.
And the load is so blazingly right up on me.
Up against my ol' china dolls and crystal deco trays for ash bout' time.
I bet I could pluck a violin if I had too.
Oh, Moses,
Why can't you speak?
Why can't you just tell me what you see?
I forget about these songs and then I listen to them over and over again.
And it's not like I ever thought of myself as unattractive.
It's just that I really really never wanted to be beautiful for anyone.
I only wanted to sit cross legged in the attic sneezing and wheezing my way through the spotted full length glass.
Got a mass thread of information about step grand dad's trip to the sick.
Haven't seen him in a decade or two but wish him ease and sunny flutter what you will go I.
There is so much step and half in law gone by, even I forget, I, your dutiful preservationist.
Oh wait, that's the other one, she has a child, full blood, two easy branches, no apples yet, just crust and carmeled sugar.
What happened to those hiding places?
And you speak about your disorders so eloquently once the sheets have turned themselves down and the men have left the room for the night.
And it's going to take a while.
But, you crave some sort of peace down in your bones.
I look damn fine in cowboy boots with ribbons.
I won second place this Saturday at the Haymarket.
Two drink minimum writing contest.
They called my name into a microphone, and the one little devil in the corner of the Kentucky Home Derby raised his head to nod.
I have gone this way.
I have led myself to this pile of cotton, and nails.
Call me sir.
I don't believe in the mam.
I can be so dramatic, especially once I have set a deadline on my table.
Don't fail.
Dr. Un Rooley is depending on you.
Counting the petals on your floor.
The way you long for Dempseys and Toms and pedestals on loafers until you can reach the net yourself never never will cause you are not just small but girl tired girl waiting for the men to come back into the room with their listening eyes I will tell them what happened before balconies and fanned out fans of Atticus! Atticus!

Did they kill his mocking bird songs? Or was he born that way? Tell me



It's time my little cannon balls/Only hurts for a second/All over me/Have some special guests with us/Nazareth is a beautiful name for a place/Dum/Dum/Hummmm/Ummm/Um.

~Medicine of skin on toast

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


What's worse then hot lettuce?

Thomas Aquinas.

If you could just coast me through this week,

I promise never to get that look on my face ever again.

And, Mother's day in my house was always one of those stupid Hallmark holidays,

Like secretaries day.

Have you ever noticed I'm not much for spectacle.

Ceremonies make for nice theatre,

But, I'd rather see a play then a queen.


Take me back to my hotel and help me with my zipper Daddy.

Skin and Toast