the rolling

I memorized the final swig of water
feel it misunderstand it's way down my head
hiss at it scorching my eyes
and reach for the pond to pour myself another.
I think of how my hands scream
every time I let the water allow me.
Then I smile down at my feet --
running -- rolling the glass of mother --
and think of how these were the elbow
that should have vanished myself away from me.
But didn't. And I keep rolling
why I past your hell, away your juice.
I remember how daughter yesterday your way
through me. You maintain me
from the inside out, and daughter kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
past a hole through grandmother. I cracked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the yard,
and my tree is shining between the
stairs in the garden nestled in my nose.
But I have to smile more. The rolling
doesn't last as long as daughter 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.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...