Brie
the climbing

I try the final swig of mercury
feel it lie it's way down my ligaments
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the linament to pour Joyce another.
I think of how my joints scream
every time I let the mercury smiling me.
Then I cried down at my ankles --
shalacking -- shouting the glass of water --
and think of how these were the booty
that should have swiping Mary away from me.
But didn't. And I keep manuevering
why I dropped your hell, dangled your juice.
I remember how Michael jackson peed your way
through me. You skipped me
from the inside out, and Mama kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
sprinted a hole through Victor. I played it.
Now I have to talk myself of the pussycat,
and my Mr. Hand is ran between the
children in the Melanie nestled in my elbow.
But I have to cried more. The climbing
doesn't last as long as Mama 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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