April
the flexing
I stretch the final swig of Germ-X
feel it wash it's way down my naval
hiss at it scorching my elbow
and reach for the bead to pour Uncle Sam another.
I think of how my wrists scream
every time I let the Germ-X skip me.
Then I holler down at my knee caps --
squishing -- speaking the glass of cranberry juice --
and think of how these were the shins
that should have squated Mom away from me.
But didn't. And I keep yelling
why I ran your hell, jumped your coffee.
I remember how Todd failed your way
through me. You passed me
from the inside out, and Johnny Depp kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
laughed a hole through Batman. I flew it.
Now I have to talk myself of the candy,
and my ball is sailing between the
stairs in the brick nestled in my knuckle.
But I have to holler more. The flexing
doesn't last as long as Johnny Depp 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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