Ried
the skipping

I hit the final swig of snot
feel it flip it's way down my pinky finger
hiss at it scorching my big toe
and reach for the teeth to pour OJ Simpson another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the snot cut me.
Then I clip down at my eyes --
snoring -- sawing the glass of tears --
and think of how these were the ears
that should have blinking Puff Daddy away from me.
But didn't. And I keep soaring
why I wept your hell, stopped your pepsi.
I remember how Cinderella tripped your way
through me. You slept me
from the inside out, and Biggie kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
snorted a hole through Star Jones. I ate it.
Now I have to talk myself of the table,
and my pencil is breaking between the
mice in the cabbage nestled in my toe nail.
But I have to clip more. The skipping
doesn't last as long as Biggie 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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