Monday, August 29, 2011


Dear Sugar Crystals,
I'm only going to say this once,
And then never again,
I'm only going to remind you of,
The people outside
Of this city
Baking under bridges,
Wailing next to gem stones,
Floating on their backs like guppies in bath tubs.
Upon a flowering vine.

Nothing is more healing then a plastic zebra mask tied to my ears.

Pinching my cheeks like a granny.

I turned to him and said I was ready.

I turned to the bricks behind my head and whispered.

You don't scare me.

My anger is a statement. If you don't get that by now. Then you are a robot. Then I wasted my time. I cut you into coupons. Pink. And brown. And blue. And red. Opposite ends of the wheel. Dangling off the tip of my fork like a sausage in a dungeon.

The dogs came a running.

The dogs licked my eyes.

I can't tell you how lucky we are to have a Brita and a can of Old Bay.

The breath, and width, and depth of me,
Skin & Toast

Tuesday, August 23, 2011


Politics aside
It's still an honor
To be positioned
And full of body
Like a shampoo commercial for the underprivileged.

I left my notes inside my shoe box

Now I'm on a wing

Interviewed today for the same ol' waste of Jessica service.
But, trust me I have a plan.

Whatever you do, never tell a girl what to do.
I made this choice.
I tucked these sheets into these corners.
And I'll meet you at the intersection of McSweeney & Roosevelt.

September I Remember,
Freckles & Whipped butter

Sunday, August 21, 2011

She danced.

She held us all together with macoroni
And deep shdes of purple.

We twireled, not really knowing where exactly we were headed.
That's the point.

I have to say I've reached the point where I enjoy these things.

Fish nets and berry compote.

Many thanks.
Home safe.

SkinToast&Packaged Liver

Saturday, August 20, 2011

I Know

That I often refer to that place as the killing school.
That it was by far the darkest hour.
But, somehow,
I made some lasting friends,
Fiends that continue to connect despite infinite cross country moves, breakups, and calloffs.
I meet them always often in the middle of Indiana, the day before their wedding to a man named Chuck who I've never met but can see is very nice.
And Nathan and Heath show up just before it gets dark. They're the live music. And we hug like its the last time because it probably is.
And they look the same, except their beards are longer, and their arms are darker, cause they work on farms now. They grow organic produce somewhere way way up there where Dave Mathews and Phish used to play. Probably still does.
They're no longer an item but still harmonize nicely.
Picked up the harmonica and banjo.
And still know the music that goes to the lyrics I wrote on bath towels when I was 21 and barely hanging from the shower, on the train tracks, sipping cleaning supplies.
Songs about plastic bags and cracked hands.
Every once in a while they shout over the tiki torches,
"Jessica, you wrote this one!"
Not really.
But, not bad.
I do remember writing.
I remember people calling me a writer.
Pointing at me hunched over that raggedy side table with a crayon and a roll of recite paper.
I remember being confused.
Extremely baffled and bemused as to what could possibly happen next.

And we hug the bride and we hug the bride's best friend and we hug the bride's half sister.
And we thank them so much for the burgers and the beer, and the invitation, and can't wait for tomorrow, going to be just perfect, oh, thank you so much, how special, how lovely, good jobs all around, how nice and how lovely.

And then we pile into the civic. Just the two of us. And we cruise back to the hotel with the windows down and the humidity laughing at our cheeks. Doesn't take more then twenty six hours to establish a routine in this town.

And we spoon to the crickets.

And I think what a difference. To have someone to go home with. To have a person to home with. To know a person who homes you.

Got it.


Love Always,
The Writer


Thursday, August 18, 2011


Days Inn Indianapolis
Maybe should have traveled with a bottle of febreeze
Nevertheless having the time of our banana pepper lives
This is our thing
What we do
Here's the plan
If I'm not back in twenty minutes
I'm dead
And the plane never crashed
~Skin and Toast and Dry Cleaning

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

And we're off

Big week, eh?
Sometimes what you need is just a push.
It stays sweltering in these apartments.
Long after that late summer breeze has peeled the slippers off the Grinch.
My landlord has a 15 year old cat named Charlie.
She says he's dying.
He's all spine and dander.
The porch was built with him in mind.
When I look at him I wish I could scoop out a piece of my brains in his name.
A quarter cup of warm ground up grey matter oozing down my wrist.
I want him to eat my mind out of my hand.
There's so much I'm not using anyway.
If it bought him a day?
Peace on the Pacific.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Its Not That I Can't Do It Anymore

Its just that I don't want to.
Like that time I had to memorize the I have a dream speech.
Third year.
Killing school.
For me it was no problem.
To them it was ridiculous.
390 credits later.
I call myself a poet.
I got tired of sad monologues about my mother.
And started ranting.
And now I can't take it back.
Because I don't want to.
Because I'm over the whole thing.
I just want one person to have me.
And the rest of em'?
See em' around,
Push em' a down
Baby Jessica sure dried up.
I just want them all to understand that their babies will get big.
And not as cute.
And then sure enough the babies wont be wanted anymore.
Too quiet.
Raccoon in the eyes.
And they'll all leave their babies and replace them, watch.
So you better thank me when you're old.
I had a dream differed.
Does this make sense?
Give me a break,
Skin and Toast

Wednesday, August 3, 2011


The sudden realization that you're going to have to try harder,

Comes the sinking suspicion that you're being constantly watched,

By a woman in a pencil skirt,

Dusting her pumps across the glass surface of her state school,

Wiping the lipstick off her teeth.

Pulling the chains from the earth.

~Jam and Tarp

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

A Breech Of Consent.

Things I hate:
Staged Readings
Child actors
Children doing anything that is meant for adults
Like keeping blogs
Or having sex
My father
The Internet presence that is Ada Grey and her controlling mother
I don't know them
But, I disdain their hype
I loath the "project"
I want to not only expose it as meaningless,
But, explore the breech of consent that is taking place
I believe very passionately that children should be nurtured
In all their interests
This is the opposite of nurture
This is interfering with growth
This is taking something from her she doesn't even know that she has
Much like rape
Very different
But, the same breech of consent

Things I love:
Advocates for them
My opinions
The opinions of people who disagree with me
My apartment
My ensemble
My partner
My Support
Peach rings
My blog
Alice Seabold
Susie Salmon
My recovery
My survival
My mother