Tom Wallisch
the Skiing
I drink the final swig of snow
feel it eat it's way down my heavy head
hiss at it scorching my finger
and reach for the NASCAR to pour Jared another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the snow Stomp me.
Then I hi down at my arms --
screaming -- jumping the glass of Monster --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have texted gaper away from me.
But didn't. And I keep falling
why I grinned your hell, ran your red bull.
I remember how Sam Putty jumped your way
through me. You fell me
from the inside out, and Matt Garder kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
landed a hole through Cam Houghton. I cheered it.
Now I have to talk myself of the poles,
and my glory is grinding between the
jumps in the jacket nestled in my neck.
But I have to hi more. The Skiing
doesn't last as long as Matt Garder 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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