I hate you because I hate myself.
I hate you because I am drunk and cannot remember if I loved you yesterday.
I hate you because you will not leave me to drink in peace.
I hate you because I hate my friends.
I hate you because I hate my family.
I hate you because I will forgive them all in moments of terror.
I hate you because I hate my government.
I hate you because all of my acts and words are impotent against it.
I hate you because I hate the rich who, for all of their money, still live like shit.
I hate you because I hate the poor who spend their money on beer instead of machine guns.
I hate you because I hate the working class, for their pettiness and stupidity, and because they hate as well.
I hate you because we do not laugh aloud at the fascists and treat them like children.
I hate you because anarchists sit bickering in fashionable restaurants.
I hate you because I hate your family and the house that they live in.
I hate you because a drunk lies on his back, feet kicking, in a doorway.
I hate you because I do not help him up.
I hate you because I have stood in doorways, eyes drilling the cement, my blood pounding like a hydraulic jack.
I hate you because the concrete did not burst.
I hate you because it did not rain.
I hate you because the exotic dancer, in the tavern where I ate my lunch, had stick legs and tattoos on her thighs.
I hate you because I did not like the food I had to eat.
I hate you because I did nothing today.
I hate you because you love me.
I hate you because you wanted me and want me still.
I hate you because I will awake sick in the early morning and compare your snoring face to the severed head of a fish on ice.
I hate you because you are beautiful.
I hate you because my hand between your legs finds the oozing of our unborn children.
I hate you because I do not want children.
I hate you because of the thousand nights we will lie together, hating and loving.
I hate you because I did not desire you on the morning of July 18, 1981.
I hate you because soon my liver will kill me.
I hate you because Jack Kerouac’s stomach burst from the same poison in his forty-seventh year as he watched the Galloping Gourmet on television.
I hate you because I will die hating.
I hate you because everything that we tried and will try to make perfect was and will be only what it was and will be.
I hate you because I love you.
I hate you because I can only know this in several moments of drunkenness.
I hate you because I cannot believe in my disbelief.