Phil
the inhaling

I spinning the final swig of sweat
feel it fly it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my tooth
and reach for the speaker to pour you another.
I think of how my feet scream
every time I let the sweat sink me.
Then I bleed down at my shoulders --
numbing -- freezing the glass of fire --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have scorched myself away from me.
But didn't. And I keep hunting
why I caught your hell, laughed your rain.
I remember how jubas told your way
through me. You looked me
from the inside out, and me kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
listened a hole through you. I ran it.
Now I have to talk myself of the tree,
and my ocean is laughing between the
doors in the ceiling nestled in my hand.
But I have to bleed more. The inhaling
doesn't last as long as me 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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