I love my friends.

Dear Grandma Miner,

I am sorry that you are not here tonight.

I am sorry that your daughter is not ever here.

I apologize with the depths,

the deepest parts of my self,

the breath, and width,

and depth,

of me.

I know that I have said some very mean things,

I know that I have been very immature,

and I'm sorry.

I didn't mean them.

Any of them.

I don't know what happens when you die.

I don't know what happens when I die.

But, I think that I might have loved you once.

On a lake in Canada.

And I know that I would like to take harmonica lessons at old town.

And I love my friends so much,

With the breath,

And width,

And depth,

of me,

Skin & Toast

Remind me to get my eyes checked.

Thank You Secret Santa,

There is a plate of soft cookies on my table that somebody else took the time to make,

For me,

There is an orange kitty on my bath mat,

My kitty.

There is a jug band at the Grafton tonight,

And I'll see my ol' friend,

And I'll blink my eyes,

And I'll take as little time as possible in the bathroom,

And I'll put the front of my toes on the tops of my feets,

And pay no never mind to the polar bears or the forest fires.

Bless the students in Virginia,

My prayers.

Got the license today,

No lines,

Its off season,

Had a lot of fun getting up early and getting the coffee and taking the train,

I'm talking painful stomach fun,

I'm talking people looking at us fun.

Number one most awkward question in the universe: What is your occupation?

Despite our writer/performer/waitress/painter/free lance/child care/barista/teacher answers to these questions;

Self employed is typed in black ink on lines seventeen and eighteen of the certificate.

Did I mention I plan on wearing combat boots and a jean jacket?

Did I mention this is all that I am and all that I have.

Skin, Toast, Humans.

I have to say

just like they tell you in therapy,

this is not my fault.

Sure, my anger always gets the better of me.

But, I love my anger,

I don't want it to have the worst of me.

And its all very ironic and strangely timed

Tied in tune with the step of a mere ten days before the linens are rolled out and pressed into

Plastic marbles and bubbly stem cells, staircases, lashes, really great lashes.

At the end of the night you always meet the back of the toilette and kick as hard as you can.

Just like they tell you in therapy,

They say,

Don't speak out, you have no proof and you're not strong enough.

So it all manifests into small voices and acne, Paul Simon and tall buildings.

And non linear monologues with very clear endings.

And isn't it funny when the bald headed polar bear retreats slowly away,

Completely and utterly free as a Scott.

And we're the ones left.

Doing the work.

For nothing.

Barely even the tightly wound Lebanese tortilla that got me here in the first place.

Here I am drinking whisky with my friends till its all the way out.

Into the minutes.

The pajamas.

The parking space.

The next day phone talks.

The early bird cinemas with pops.

The playlist.

The ghosts.

The jeep.

The long houses close to the ground,

Spiraling back at you,

Winking at the blades of grass on the corners of your eyes.

Chanting into the tin cans around your heart,

You can have one some day promise.

Promise all that you are and all that you have.

And the women. Women. Women.

Free parking,

Skin and Toast

I Like

Violins playing on hard wood floors.

Pretty girls in leg warmers.

Flat bread with drizzles.

Superstitions.

Kleenex with lotion squirts.

Diamonds.

Muddy hand prints.

Paint.

Hugs from people who know how to poach eggs.

Book stores that sell coffee.

Trips.

Suite cases with combination locks.

Three legged cats.

White musk.

Keys turning in doors.

Chapped lips.

Bundles of wheat help together with bright red yarn.

Kind eyes.

~I have seen at least three of these things today. I don't mind the cold front.

Hats,

Skin & Toast

Dear Dr. UnRooley,

I know you have two daughters.

You talked about them all the time.

It was awesome.

"Your girls."

But, I have to tell you, no matter how much you've sacrificed.

There are days when after an uneventful day at work,

You stop at the grocery for three bottles of your favorite water,

One jar of banana peppers,

And a box of dried kale.

There are days when you pray to the self check out contraption.

When you sit on the El platform for an hour,

Watching half a dozen trains go by, perfectly accessible trains that you can't seem to board,

Rather sit on the bench.

And when you finally do decide on a train, you sit all the way in the back,

With the candy wrappers, and the backwards motion,

And,

You have a wonderful conversation on your smart phone with your step mother,

And you feel you are in the throws of happiness.

But, your landlord hasn't yet kicked on tonight's furnace, and

You can't find the space heater,

And everything tastes bad, and none of the Cd's are in the right jewel case,

And you can't sit in one place for more then five minutes because your jeans are too thick, and You're sick of your home and you want to go home.

Just for a night.

You want somebody to fill the fridge with your favorite snacks.

And have just the thing that you want waiting for you on your old bedroom floor.

A new printer.

That sweater in the window of the Anthropologie that's across from your restaurant.

Stupid Lakeview.

And she'll tell you how pretty you look.

And she'll put on your favorite episode of John Laurequette.

And you'll fall asleep to your old petty desires and wake up forgetting all that you are and all that you have.

But, you can't. You just can't. (Sally Field is screaming in a cemetery).

"She never could!"

So,

You dig the green and yellow striped blanket out from under the radiator.

And you just want your mom.

Nothing else will do.

Sorry Rooley,

Skin

If We Could Talk About Me For a Second,

I have a mole on my back,

Just below my left shoulder blade.

Well, it could be a birth mark.

Because its not raised, I can't smooch it between my fingers like I can the ones on my neck.

Its light brown, like coffee with too much skim milk.

I know from my many trips to the derm that it is in no way cancer.

And I've had it as long as I've been able to reach my neck over the front of my medicine chest.

And its never bothered me before.

Until now.

This transitional time.

I can't stop thinking about it.

I feel like there are twinkling Christmas lights all around it.

It is a perfect circle by the way.

Not fetus shaped like normal back moles.

Its a stamp.

Plop.

A glaring perfect imperfection.

An eye sore.

A heir lip on a middle ton.

So, I just thought I'd tell you.

So that you know.

So its not a surprise.

So we can all eat plenty of frankincense that day.

So we can get our minds out of our bra straps and play nice.

Skin, Toast, Nooks, Crannies.