Sage Sirotka
the chomping
I swim the final swig of liquid plummer
feel it argue it's way down my mouth
hiss at it scorching my funny bone
and reach for the church of scientology to pour Pat Mahomes another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the liquid plummer throw me.
Then I cut down at my eyes --
picking -- sniffing the glass of purified water --
and think of how these were the elbows
that should have killed Jack Del Rio away from me.
But didn't. And I keep drinking
why I stole your hell, ate your smirnoff.
I remember how Dusty Ziegler drank your way
through me. You shot me
from the inside out, and Eric Westmoreland kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
drank a hole through Donovan Darius. I bought it.
Now I have to talk myself of the All Tell Stadium,
and my airport is swimming between the
Linens and Things in the barber shop nestled in my nose.
But I have to cut more. The chomping
doesn't last as long as Eric Westmoreland 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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