Matt
the Dancing

I push the final swig of Milk
feel it slide it's way down my Knee
hiss at it scorching my Hip
and reach for the Cup to pour Cate Blanchett another.
I think of how my nipples scream
every time I let the Milk read me.
Then I touched down at my elbows --
coughing -- sitting the glass of beer --
and think of how these were the butt cheeks
that should have scraped Charles Manson away from me.
But didn't. And I keep watching
why I sought your hell, noticed your club soda.
I remember how Tom Paulsen closed your way
through me. You stretched me
from the inside out, and Kevin O%27Dowd kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
kicked a hole through Nathan Gregory. I screwed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the picture,
and my beard is flopping between the
tapes in the fan nestled in my nose.
But I have to touched more. The Dancing
doesn't last as long as Kevin O%27Dowd do(es).

---

Original poem:

the burning

(written June 8, 1989)

I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.

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