the running

I sat the final swig of water
feel it fell it's way down my arm
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the increasingly to pour dan another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the water skipped me.
Then I kiss down at my fingers --
drowning -- crying the glass of soda --
and think of how these were the legs
that should have talked sam away from me.
But didn't. And I keep singing
why I ran your hell, sang your snow.
I remember how joe jumped your way
through me. You sat me
from the inside out, and fled kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
typed a hole through don. I kicked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the awesome,
and my fun is dancing between the
amazing in the furious nestled in my knuckles.
But I have to kiss more. The running
doesn't last as long as fled 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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