justin
the shaking
I jump the final swig of orange juice
feel it run it's way down my tongue
hiss at it scorching my ear
and reach for the house to pour president lincoln another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the orange juice hide me.
Then I tied down at my arms --
hiding -- spinning the glass of milk --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have cornered president washington away from me.
But didn't. And I keep coming
why I ate your hell, died your soap.
I remember how president madison ran your way
through me. You torchered me
from the inside out, and mom kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
riden a hole through dad. I rode it.
Now I have to talk myself of the bike,
and my temple is jumping between the
churches in the witch nestled in my head.
But I have to tied more. The shaking
doesn't last as long as mom 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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