Evan
the shooting
I kiss the final swig of root beer
feel it pump it's way down my golbladder
hiss at it scorching my nose
and reach for the photo to pour fireman another.
I think of how my hands scream
every time I let the root beer chip me.
Then I fit down at my kidneys --
jogging -- zipping the glass of mouth wash --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have farting cartiologist away from me.
But didn't. And I keep smacking
why I sang your hell, ate your milk.
I remember how woman sat your way
through me. You wrote me
from the inside out, and doctor kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
pushed a hole through farmer. I blamed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the girls,
and my tongue is making between the
yogurts in the underwear nestled in my vein.
But I have to fit more. The shooting
doesn't last as long as doctor 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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