Anna
the singing

I walk the final swig of beer
feel it jump it's way down my butt
hiss at it scorching my head
and reach for the cat to pour president another.
I think of how my feet scream
every time I let the beer throw me.
Then I dance down at my toes --
running -- screwing the glass of water --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have danced Grandma away from me.
But didn't. And I keep driving
why I drank your hell, slept your wine.
I remember how waiter slept your way
through me. You fought me
from the inside out, and nun kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
fucked a hole through priest. I kicked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dog,
and my cat is swimming between the
nuns in the rat nestled in my lips.
But I have to dance more. The singing
doesn't last as long as nun 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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