I am going to write a song for you that will make you feel weird. It will set your teeth on edge, like trains knocked from their tracks. Your skin will get tight and itchy, like you are too much pink meat shoved into a too small casing. You will leave behind a fine powder of skin in your wake You will make such a mess that you’ll need to borrow a little hand broom from that diner that spins chilly pies on a carousel. You will be so ashamed. You will be ravenous enough to eat your hand but instead you’ll buy armloads of chocolate pies and cherry pies and coconut pies which you say you don’t like, but watch. You’ll buy it, along with every other pie in the place on your way out. You’ll sweep up your white dust and you will think about licking it from your palm or rubbing it into the wet screens of your eyes or, if you’re feeling proper like you sometimes do, you’ll opt to sift it into a poundcake batter. This song is going to make you put your hand in your pants when you think I’m not looking. I’m always looking. Put your hand in your pants and if you do, I’ll put my hand in mine, and it will be like we are making cookies together, side by side at the kitchen counter, cracking eggs and measuring out spicy spoonfuls of cinnamon and pulling apart hard knots of raisins. My songs will make uneasy chains of words take over your head, words like rotgut and apricot and kettledrums, and the chains will wake you in the middle of the night, tying you to the bed with your hand buried in your legs. You’ll probably gasp for breath dramatically. I will make you feel so weird if you give me the chance, humming dirty little songs into your pink ear about whining dogs and blue cheese on picnic tables and raspberry poprocks and folding card tables stacked in an uneasy pile on the morning’s spongy, wet grass.


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