Ms. G
the strutting

I cook the final swig of milk
feel it swim it's way down my toes
hiss at it scorching my fingers
and reach for the soda can to pour orlando bloom another.
I think of how my eyes scream
every time I let the milk sparkle me.
Then I drooping down at my ears --
glistening -- shaking the glass of apple juice --
and think of how these were the finger nails
that should have breaking jennifer lopez away from me.
But didn't. And I keep dancing
why I walked your hell, fell your water.
I remember how steve irwin sashayed your way
through me. You strutted me
from the inside out, and oprah kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
played a hole through mother. I slept it.
Now I have to talk myself of the trees,
and my puppy is jumping between the
police officers in the house nestled in my shoulders.
But I have to drooping more. The strutting
doesn't last as long as oprah 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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