Tank

His eyes are blue as salt.

The rest is toasted silk.

His voice is waved like soap.

The tank.

So, you're teaching a writing class.

Yeah, you should take it.

Yep.

Stack it up.

When fascinating folk safely my senior listen to me with their whole face, I feel grateful. I feel the unholy holy string of lights flash like a dragon on water from here to San Francisco. Bloody. Caked.

Skin & Toast & Hats

Convent.

Dress in the dark.

Fingers and forks.

A convent filled with stockings.

You might like my neighborhood in the morning.

~Skin & Toast

Stray

When I was in college

The first time

I had a friend graduate

Good friend

Talked with her hands

Looked at me when I talked

Bought me beer

Took me to horse farms

Put make up on me before shows

She got a job right away working with puppets in Romania

Someone died

She found God

She was that girl that a million people loved in a million different ways

We were the same size

She left nearly all of her clothes in garbage bags outside my door

For the next couple of months every time I walked into a room

Someone left crying

Threaded deep,

Skin Toast

Packed?

I have to post more often.

Because T-Rex is moving to LaLaLa next week.

But, if I publicly write just about every night,

Then we can still muse each other.

Right?

We can all connect our little dynamites across the country like field mice in a war.

It's always war.

It's how to war.

It's about the millions and billions.

I get so close to these people.

It's the best job in the world.

It's a quilt.

Red bracelets,

Skin & Toast

Like A Figure Skater, Why?!

Well,

I got the orange pills with the long name.

I'm taking them like I'm supposed to.

And, my throat feels better.

But, the other stuff still cripples my entire day(s).

The sinus pressure is numbing.

Like an elephant on the face.

Like a can of stewed tomatoes in each shoe.

Also some cramping and nausea which I gather is a side affect from the orange drops.

You guys, I have never been this immobilized for this amount of time.

Starting to dig my fingers into the tiny holes in my head.

Called work to tell them Friday is a no go, no way, can't lift my head.

And one manager says don't worry about us honey you just feel better, and you call me if you need anything honey.

Only to have another manager call three hours later to say I got your shift covered, but, you know the protocol yadda, yadda, yadda shut up you stupid cow.

Yeah if there's a movie I want to see I get my shit covered.

But, hello brown cow, if I can't lift my head I call that shit off like a safety seal.

Especially if it's more then twelve hours notice.

I've read the hand book plenty of times on the occasions I forgot to stick my literature in my nap sack at three am.

Oh, corporations.

Oh, transitional assistant manager positions!

Oh, living hell at eighteen hours a week.

Guess what I didn't call off to.

The six shows I'm committed to drumming in three hot little circular days.

Just gonna have to.

Normally I'm of the philosophy that life is more important then a silly little show.

But, when it comes to children, and pride, and hot lesbian screen writers flying in from LA.

Well, wild horses couldn't.

Plus, you know the aesthetic by now, all I have to do is get on the voice over and explain my disease, and promise to give it my best 65%.

OK,

Pass the knee socks.

Mama's going out.

Twist,

Skin & Toast

Me Too

The disease has moved up to my eyes.

Yes.

Something is ejaculating out of my eyes.

It's green.

And it adheres to my cheeks like honey on a spoon.

I have an appointment tomorrow.

Noon.

Make sure I go.

Please.

Pull a string out of my ass.

Tie it to the clinic door knob.

Please make it easy to swallow.

Black tea.

Whisky in my hair.

Talked about nuptials. Slid the details past our molars like old people talking about cars.

When I'm old I'll take up tennis, and home brewing.

And I'll keep scribbling and jumping my best though it hurts to breath in.

Have to.

Have to.

Many, many projects right now, folded like a deck, unfinished yet functioning not at all visible from the front lawn.

Worried he might not win the second one.

What would we do?

Who would be left to fuck?

Fold.

Hack.

Spit.

Drive long distance, riot the west.

God bless the skin toast,

Night

Glazed.

Dear Viewers,

I'm much better than I was,

But still a little one foot in the mashed potatoes.

I was so sick these past couple days.

I felt like Linda.

Immobilized.

Curled like a crispy creme on a conveyor belt.

Hot like the Texas who eats it.

Being sick makes me really crazy.

On a good day I feel handicapped.

On a day with the flu, I'm like a less attractive version of Nell.

And my poor husband to be,

He takes it like a champ, with my feet in his lap and my brains oozing over to his side of the bed.

I don't know what's worse, the irritable idiot I turn into,

Or the paranoid freak of me who calls him at work the next day and apologizes in tears for my mucus behavior.

I had to do things this week like,

Say no to things I had said yes to,

Call a doctor,

And swallow big pills.

All hard.

Yet here I am,

At the theatre,

Ignoring that blob in my throat,

Setting props,

And stretching.

Just kidding.

I never stretch before a show.

Too method.

Sniff,

Skin, Toast, achy joints

Ladies And Gentlemen

My mother knows that I am betrothed.

Had lunch with east coast half #1.

I'll have to tell you all about it,

As soon as I get this American flag adult diaper fitted to my genitals.

And the betrothment came up over the salad.

And she brought those beans right back to mama.

And mama sent me a three sentence message via the social network.

And maybe now she will finally kill herself.

Wasn't that the plan?

~Skin/Toast/Figures

Long Showers.

Just transitioning back into writer/performer/director/barista.

You know what that means,

Long showers.

Tart lemons.

Salt on shoulders.

Medium amounts of pressure.

Steaks up to my waist.

And a lot of hair on the bed.

We all have to work.

There is one class left. One class. One lone little class. You know how there's always that one class. Guess which one this is. I'll tell you. Playwriting. Yeah, I couldn't get out of it. But, lord knows I tried. So, myself and two other students meet at my teacher's apartment every Wednesday. And we talk about a famous as balls play sack. Each week it's a different one. This week was Hamlet. Hamlet. How does this happen? That takes about an hour and a half. Then we read our dumb little scenes. You know, the prompt is like, A wants to get something from B, but A wont say what it is. Heaven help us.

It's OK. The teacher's actually a peach. And by August we're supposed to have a ten minute staged reading kind of thing. Maybe I'll get back to that solo show.

Stretch Pants,

Skin and Toast