Jimmy
the hurling

I strike the final swig of blood
feel it yell it's way down my heart
hiss at it scorching my brain
and reach for the statue to pour Joe another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the blood eat me.
Then I etch down at my hands --
kissing -- smooching the glass of Pepsi --
and think of how these were the ankles
that should have typing Sara away from me.
But didn't. And I keep hammering
why I sang your hell, ran your water.
I remember how Cathy surfed your way
through me. You printed me
from the inside out, and Tom kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
Sue a hole through Fred. I found it.
Now I have to talk myself of the wallet,
and my money is spending between the
computers in the keyboard nestled in my eye.
But I have to etch more. The hurling
doesn't last as long as Tom 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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