Portfolio construction dolls

And in my most confident of puffy chest selves,

I have to admit,

That

I knew that she wasn't there.

And, I have to conclude from the feeling I find,

The feeling I scrape

From the edge of my grey spotted chicken liver;

That I didn't want her there at all.

It doesn't make sense now.

Sure maybe if I'm at a fork in the middle of a Chinese take out land mine I wouldn't mind, could even relish

A conversation

A glass of milk

A damp living room on a third floor

If I'm shitting my brains out in a public Bulgarian meat house,

If I'm far far away from the blond familiar patty cakes

Maybe

But, we don't really have to worry bout that

Because the hour I first believed has led me home I see

No more bad childhood

No more fat jokes

No more I'm a bad writer and they don't want me small talks

And fake mom and I have transitioned nicely into plain mom

And I'm sure you wouldn't mind

Cause you always seem to do your best

I venture to say with every Buddha blowing ass wrinkle it takes to squeeze that out nicely

Thank you millions of pennies of coffee shop therapy

But, In my waking life I don't have time to long for anything

I'm busy taking orders

Rolling forks

Operating land lines

Selling out

Ordering out

Pushing down

And out

The Calvin Klein cologne of your 100% GAP branded cuff

Links

And chains

And hard

Packing

Crunch pounding first snowy

Queen kiss

Good

Night

And, furthermore, I am ripping my shirt off,

And I am screaming,

"Take a pottery class!!!!!!"

And!

This is not about you!

There is that copy of King Lear I keep on my dining room table that I haven't touched in years.

There is that copy of Motherless Daughters I keep on my shelf that I haven't touched in months.

Over two hundred interviews.

Respectfully, this is not about you.

Its barely even about me.

Its about that copy of Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters that I haven't touched in days,

On my night stand

On my chamomile,

My honey

My lavender

Scrub.

It doesn't go away.

She asked me what was wrong

I told her I broke a window

She laughed and said that she had been meaning to get a new window

Three years later

She told me she was leaving

One year later

She was gone

Every time I take my shoes off I remember her

But somewhere

In between the rage and the cold showers

And the fried chicken

I couldn't care less

Except there sometimes seems to be a thumping in the back of my head

Especially when the seasons change

Particularly when I cross a street between the hours of noon and four

I’m talking about my mother

I’m looking at the patches of light on the floor

I’m drinking tap water

Happy enough at my table

But

Wailing on Wednesdays out my back door

Like a kitty lost

Come back Come back Come back

You little wretch like me,

Skin & Toast

PS: Watch Letterman tonight. Count Animal and his lady of the pink tights have friends appearing as tonight's musical guest. As I would imagine they say in the Merge house; support local music bitches.