Casey
the pooping

I fart the final swig of hot oil
feel it crap it's way down my woohoo
hiss at it scorching my wee wee
and reach for the nun to pour Lora another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the hot oil fall me.
Then I jog down at my back hairs --
chugging -- hazing the glass of coca cola --
and think of how these were the eye balls
that should have running Alicia away from me.
But didn't. And I keep writing
why I stared your hell, died your hot milk.
I remember how Emilee farted your way
through me. You saw me
from the inside out, and Gillian kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
called a hole through Brittany. I cried it.
Now I have to talk myself of the poo,
and my computer is typing between the
songs in the string nestled in my hand.
But I have to jog more. The pooping
doesn't last as long as Gillian 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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