Lion's Poem by Miller Williams

I miss the alcohol on her red lips,
catching her weight as she let herself fall
her shiny, smooth-soft shoulders and the way they
heaved as she clutched the toilet bowl. Pulling that beautiful thick
blonde tangle back and gripping it into a pony’s tail as the bile burned brightly
against porcelain ivory, the stench overcome only by the scent
sweet lilac and strawberry, clenching my jaw I saw her fall
another bruised knee, she got back up, took a wobbly step and proclaimed,

“I need a shower.”

That’s all I could stand, all I could take, my lust a lake, a dam she must
break. Bleach, the smell of her special vomit shirt like bleach and Suishi Cruise Saki Bomb,
naked now, two shower curtains aside. Scorched skin, it must be a sin. Enter behind her deep
lull her to sleep, passed out on the floor, I want more. The shadows and cream cheese paint— God’s great plan, Darwin’s terrible joke. Her chest stirs peacefully
cover her bare bronzed-white skin with a fleece blanket
lightly lift her arm to curl around my
neck. Hold my breath rest my head upon her
breast so as not to wake her. Visceral love, she fits my contours like a glove,
insomnia draws me into cosmic consciousness and I realize profoundly,

“I am fucked.”

How does this perfect picture become so knotted up like a bubbling
scalp of hair singed and still burning, black smoke vapid rising, heart shot death, the words

“I don’t love you anymore,”

pierce her skull, dropping her amygdala off the moon into the cold of
nothing, polar bear swim, my heart veteran astronaut-diver. Months without words,
it is I who am frozen now, she is an Iron Curtain, our memories a scratched record fast forward never
end. This winter I’ve concocted rages cruel
alchemy. I miss the alcohol on her red lips
catching her weight as she let herself fall
her shiny smooth-soft shoulders
and the way they heaved
as she clutched the toilet bowl.

excerpted from www.millerwilliamsaction.com, a blog about Thai Culture, Muay Boran, MMA Schools, taking a visit to Thailand, and much, much more.

Is anyone from Puchner's class still reading this blog?

Miller