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Tom Waits, I Hate You--
the way your voice snags my skin when I’m waltzing through a coffee shop, for the thousand crows caught in your throat, how it rains every time I play “Tom Traubert’s Blues.” I hate you for every Valentine you never sent. Call me indigo, azure, cerulean; call me every shade of blue for being born two decades after you.
I hate you for every cornfield, filling station, phone booth I’ve passed with my feet on the dash, listening to you pluck nightingales from a piano; writhing as if it were my ribcage being played beneath a moon that is no grapefruit, but the bottom of a shot glass.
For every bad relationship, every dead pet, and every car I’ve wrecked into light posts trying to tune you out; for all the lost radios, Walkmans tossed over bridges--still the sound of you rising from water like a prayer at midday, or the ragged song of cicadas tugging frogs out of watery homes.
For every lounge lizard, raindog, barfly I've met; for every vinyl booth I’ve been pushed into by a boy with a bad haircut; for every man I’ve fucked according to the angle of his chin or the color of his coat. Tom Waits, I hate you.
Well, the night is too dark for dreaming; the barman bellows out last call; and you’ve turned me into a gun- street girl with a pistol and a grudge and an alligator belt, a pocket full of love letters that have never been sent.
Simone Muench
:hi:
RL
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