the typing
I stretch the final swig of water
feel it sing it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the pencil to pour Michael another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the water measure me.
Then I touch down at my ears --
itching -- playing the glass of olive oil --
and think of how these were the teeth
that should have wasted Mark away from me.
But didn't. And I keep procrastinating
why I ran your hell, learned your lemonade.
I remember how Chuck Palaniuk slept your way
through me. You meditated me
from the inside out, and Mom kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
studied a hole through Richard Nixon. I listened it.
Now I have to talk myself of the shoe,
and my sleep deprivation is eating between the
songs in the table nestled in my eyes.
But I have to touch more. The typing
doesn't last as long as Mom 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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