Curtis Commo
the Fighting

I eat the final swig of water
feel it pump it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the car to pour John another.
I think of how my heads scream
every time I let the water walk me.
Then I rib down at my toes --
kicking -- jumping the glass of blood --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have pumped Curtis away from me.
But didn't. And I keep racing
why I bumped your hell, smacked your juice.
I remember how Bill grabbed your way
through me. You swam me
from the inside out, and Mike kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through Jim. I stacked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the bus,
and my room is running between the
cities in the building nestled in my afro.
But I have to rib more. The Fighting
doesn't last as long as Mike 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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