Willie
the Traveling
I travel the final swig of paint
feel it swing it's way down my finger
hiss at it scorching my arm
and reach for the Daly City to pour clerk another.
I think of how my eyes and mouth scream
every time I let the paint sails me.
Then I strike down at my nose and ears --
talking -- acting the glass of latex --
and think of how these were the heel and toe
that should have sold Jane away from me.
But didn't. And I keep sneezing
why I licked your hell, blew your water.
I remember how vendor soaked your way
through me. You covered me
from the inside out, and mailman kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
colored a hole through John. I wrapped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the garage,
and my Nordstrom is shopping between the
boots in the boat nestled in my feet.
But I have to strike more. The Traveling
doesn't last as long as mailman 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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