Nicholas
the waxing

I wane the final swig of milk
feel it pour it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my feet
and reach for the journey to pour Laura another.
I think of how my hands scream
every time I let the milk hold me.
Then I play down at my nostrils --
waning -- loving the glass of kerosine --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have flailing Kerry away from me.
But didn't. And I keep loving
why I loved your hell, held your wine.
I remember how Tanner believed your way
through me. You gave me
from the inside out, and Mary kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
said a hole through Paul. I screamed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the word,
and my bitch is sitting between the
benches in the horn nestled in my mouth.
But I have to play more. The waxing
doesn't last as long as Mary 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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