Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Garden as metaphor

Dear critics,
It bothers me when you comment on the quality of my voice.
It hurts my feelings.
I know exactly what you're going to say.
Helium like.
Sarah Vowelled
High pitched.
Glass breaking.
Not very attractive.
Or intelligent.
I'm standing right here.
I refuse to live out the rest of my days on a deserted island.
I refuse to look you in the eye.
I prefer to look just to the left of your right ear.
That way I wont do something I regret.
And you know what,
Not just the critics,
All of em'.
All the patrons and passengers.
At least three times a day I have to explain to someone that this is in fact my voice.
Like, what, I was faking it?
How do I answer that?
Then there's my particular favorite,
Where'd you get that voice Josephine?
I don't know, the gumball machine at the Jewel.
The closet.
Should I answer these questions in a series of clicks and chants?
Do you really want me to explain everything that happened behind the boarded up bathroom door between the ages of two and six?
Because, most of it's suppressed and I would need my voice for something like that.
That's what I thought.
Now order your mocha like a normal person.
Write your reviews like a big Daddy,
And call it a day.
A night.
An entire life.
That's what we're dealing with here.

Thank you for your support,
Skin and Toast

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