the tapping

I dance the final swig of tea
feel it prance it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my pancreas
and reach for the lunchroom to pour melissa another.
I think of how my feet scream
every time I let the tea spin me.
Then I bounce down at my cheeks --
krumping -- stomping the glass of rotten milk --
and think of how these were the eyeball
that should have running teri away from me.
But didn't. And I keep rolling
why I spun your hell, ran your stagnant pond water.
I remember how raylene flew your way
through me. You blew me
from the inside out, and amy kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
rode a hole through sarah. I fell it.
Now I have to talk myself of the bunny,
and my basement is walking between the
bicycles in the tire nestled in my toenail.
But I have to bounce more. The tapping
doesn't last as long as amy 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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