kassiedoll

I remember dancing in the back of the all-night diner. The whiny scratches of the record machine barely heard over the bleeping, blaring, booming bass of the subwoofer pounding from the street. There in the all-night diner, Chet bought me pancakes while itching for a hit. Miles came in to while away the time in a Vinyl-covered booth, while Etta sang love songs and lullabies for the lone dancer in the back of the all-night diner.

Honey-child ragdoll. A red-delicious treat for the Candyman. I’m a wide-eyed jade, a tragic Romantic. (Weren’t they all though?) Splinter the wooden spoon yourself. This is my body, it will be given up for you. Oh wait! It’s friday. You’ll just have to put me on ice. Let me get freezer-burn by forgetting me in the back of the ice box, behind your Hungry Man dinners. Don’t bother defrosting me on the kitchen counter: too many sketchy ice-crystals encase me now, anyway. Pitch me in the trash. I wasn’t your leftovers; the restaurant screwed up the boxes. You eat single-serve Dinty

It’s Tuesday. I eat fish on Tuesdays. I wake up and kiss my side-by-side pictures of the Pope and Karl Marx. I go downstairs, like every morning, open the freezer and take out my weekly dose of Gorton’s. In the morning it’s fish fillets: breaded, pan-seared, whatever was on sale with my Pathmark Walbaum’s Stop and Shop A & P discount card doubling my weekly circular coupon. Lunch is fish sticks. Dinner? Dinner is special. Dinner is artificial crabmeat warmed up in a salty seafood casserole made with fake brine and Velveeta cheese and week old vegetables half way to compost. Tuesdays are special