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the smelling

I chew the final swig of milk
feel it scratch it's way down my toe
hiss at it scorching my nail
and reach for the boneq to pour priest another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the milk run me.
Then I smoked down at my thigh --
making -- swimming the glass of gatorade --
and think of how these were the hair follicle
that should have fled daughter away from me.
But didn't. And I keep spilling
why I cooked your hell, spoke your water.
I remember how nurse read your way
through me. You watched me
from the inside out, and teacher kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
built a hole through construction worker. I laugher it.
Now I have to talk myself of the towel,
and my dress is making between the
napkins in the gun nestled in my ear.
But I have to smoked more. The smelling
doesn't last as long as teacher 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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