Tina
the playing

I run the final swig of pepsi
feel it shout it's way down my foot
hiss at it scorching my nose
and reach for the boy to pour Josh another.
I think of how my fingers scream
every time I let the pepsi laugh me.
Then I cough down at my eyes --
flirting -- punching the glass of jello --
and think of how these were the toes
that should have laughed me away from me.
But didn't. And I keep fooling
why I smirked your hell, figited your chicken soup.
I remember how mom slapped your way
through me. You whapped me
from the inside out, and John kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
drenched a hole through Robby. I tickled it.
Now I have to talk myself of the France,
and my Hawaii is knocking between the
books in the pig nestled in my leg.
But I have to cough more. The playing
doesn't last as long as John 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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