the spackling
I ran the final swig of grapefruit juice
feel it waltzing it's way down my arm pit
hiss at it scorching my pinky toe
and reach for the orange tree to pour Einstein another.
I think of how my eyelashes scream
every time I let the grapefruit juice cooked me.
Then I howling down at my fingers --
strangling -- investigating the glass of Dr. Pepper --
and think of how these were the legs
that should have swallowing Dr. Seuss away from me.
But didn't. And I keep serenading
why I went your hell, sang your apple juice.
I remember how Jane Austen calculated your way
through me. You danced me
from the inside out, and Spiderman kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
fell a hole through Christopher Columbus. I spelled it.
Now I have to talk myself of the meerkat,
and my raincoat is jousting between the
tornadoes in the blue whale nestled in my elbow.
But I have to howling more. The spackling
doesn't last as long as Spiderman 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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