Michael
the falling

I hit the final swig of spit
feel it run it's way down my toe
hiss at it scorching my ear
and reach for the shoe to pour amber another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the spit fight me.
Then I hit down at my legs --
kniting -- farting the glass of diarea --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have farted michael away from me.
But didn't. And I keep pooping
why I jumped your hell, pooped your water.
I remember how bonita humped your way
through me. You ran me
from the inside out, and ric kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
hit a hole through nick. I sat it.
Now I have to talk myself of the bat,
and my turd is siting between the
houses in the sewer nestled in my knee.
But I have to hit more. The falling
doesn't last as long as ric 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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