Dave
the scalding

I run the final swig of flax oil
feel it squat it's way down my ankle
hiss at it scorching my liver
and reach for the cat to pour train conductor another.
I think of how my ears scream
every time I let the flax oil fetch me.
Then I land down at my elbows --
handling -- quizzing the glass of urine --
and think of how these were the toes
that should have shooting pitcher away from me.
But didn't. And I keep boiling
why I armed your hell, puking your water.
I remember how Larry babbled your way
through me. You hugged me
from the inside out, and writer kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
bitched a hole through painter. I hammered it.
Now I have to talk myself of the cow,
and my banana is sleeping between the
onions in the cookie nestled in my nose.
But I have to land more. The scalding
doesn't last as long as writer 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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