Tally Of The Dolls

I started as a piece of northern ash to make baseballs bats but was rejected and auctioned off to Hasbro. It was there that I met my marbles. "I can hear them roll in my head."

I graduated from Willy Wonka medical school and did my internship at Mattel and Hasbro. Considering my internship was talking to pencils. I was recovering from seizures after therapy with leadless pencils. I was chewing on the erasers and making too many wood chips. I was called Bucky Beaver, MD.  

I have spent many hours analyzing dolls trapped in their condition from puberty to adulthood. I have even developed the software to better understand their subconscious. It can be purchased at your local Dollar Store.

The story you are about to read should in no way suggest that lunacy runs in the world of dolls. It's only borderline crazy. In many ways, I may have been robbing them of their insanity to pay my bills  

 
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Within the womb of dark's addiction. No distraction from the embryos. Mom is going to make a little shortening bread. It was the voices from the teapot, echoing, that got attention as she realized I was talking to the spout. 

From my mind's inner sanctum and the gallows, I swing. I write in my journal of sins to offend, often tightening my sphincter with laughter. 

"The psychiatrist said the devil's anvil left an imprint on my head when I fell from the womb." Mom had shoplifted me from a Woolworth so that my sister could have a twin brother. I was the last doll on the shelf with a caul. Smote upon my backside, as the web peeled from my head, and the thunder played castanets. I was namby-pamby at the time stuffed with straw. I was anatomically correct to a doll with a lisp, when the umbilical cord was pulled. 

Writing, of all things, paid the bills while holding my mind in escrow. I had the personality of a nasturtium with a chameleon complex. Thinking that I was Cyrano de Bergerac, but my attire was out of my character. For several years, I was mom's,  Little Lord Fauntleroy tickling the swoons with gothic prose at her noon soirees.     

Electric shock treatments, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth, causing my tongue to tingle. It felt as if I was "hot-wired" to my granddad's 1957 DeSoto. "But! My tongue could melt the caramel on a candy apple." Feeling the vibrations as I lit up like a menorah singing Hava Nagila while chewing gum. My mind wasn't plum to a thought in the geometry books of the lords.

It was 1963, and I lived inside the TV. Beaver Cleaver to all our neighbors. Living life as a fantasy. A psychotic that entered the threshold of insanity's illusions. Often playing patty-cake at Alice's tea party. In my jealousy, not holding anything back, I killed her Wizard of Oz. But it could have as well been Gumby. Snipping out silhouettes and putting them in the lava lamp to watch them swim.  

Most of the time, she put me in "time out" on the top shelf in the hall closet next to the gun dad brought home from the war. Eventually, he shot his mouth off while playing the muzzle's piccolo.  

 It got to the point where I buried my alter ego in the garden. My conscience from childhood, when I talked with dolls before they left home for another dollhouse. A house with gigabytes and a motherboard.

Some years later, Mom said I was a cheroot, lean. and ill-tempered like a bad dream in baby shoes. I broke her heart when I came home with tattoos and a cell phone with a pregnant chad.      

In my episodes, I would often bring flowers to mama. Next to the apple tree and glider were granny often counted my toesies. In case she

was just lonely in her grave. I often entertained her with my friends, the dancing spoons as I fed her yogurt. Her drool, curdling with laughter. 

When death becomes the collector, where do dolls go after they decay and die? Now only the garden swing holds the memories.