All Those Tom Waits Tapes
I love him but he is a jealous guy, a bit too sensitive
not exactly attractive but has startling blue eyes
that dance when he plays all those Tom Waits tapes
in his bedroom sitting in a swivel rocking chair
he covers his ears with headphones and disappears
into the burning dark with all those Tom Waits tapes
I don’t exactly know why I am writing this little poem
he tells me I am a terrible writer and I should stop
trying
the words I write never compare to all those Tom Waits tapes
I love him but he has creative limitations, a bit too
cynical
not wholly present but he has way of walking with
adventure
breaking through the noise with of all those Tom Waits
tapes
I can’t ask him a question, he possesses one clear cut
answer
“nothing beats the drama of a bullhorn”
everything he knows he learned from all those Tom Waits
tapes
how to step on the Devil’s tail, how to light a house
fire
how to make a hundred dollars, how to look drop dead in a
suit
how to ride on a downtown train, all from those Tom Waits
tapes
I love him but he is too bemused and moody-eyed, a bit
too obsessed
to share a cold pizza, beer, anything else that isn’t a
gravelled lyric
anecdote or all the things he feels from all those Tom
Waits tapes
anywhere I lay my head I hear the strains of ten thousand
songs
anytime I try to hush my love he plays all those Tom
Waits tapes
my eyes rain hammers, my heart pauses, orphaned by the
sounds
of all the things I can remember and those I long to fully
forget
I hate everything about all those Tom Waits tapes, yet I love
him
**
In propinquity,
Nic
