Eighty-First Entry

Continuing on in my gross poems vain, I warn the squemish that this stuff is gonna get grosser before it gets less gross.

Here's my poem:

PURE VOMIT 2

Rich's vomit was pure red, the Manhattan
sidewalk steamed with this out-pouring,
this shedding of skin, I spooned
the mixture into my already full mouth.
Broken glass, uncooked franks, wine-
flavored sick, watermelon rinds, uncooked
scabs, scabby chicken legs, it took twenty
minutes or so to horribly gag it down.

As I was punched it spewed from my lips,
leaving me new and empty like a fancy chair.
Someone decided to make me taste my blood,
which wasn't as sensory an experience, but
rather like the wine, Rich was nowhere to be found,
and I didn't dare open my eyes. The experience
was perfect as it was. Later, at my focus group,
I tried to re-create the effect with toothpicks,
wet cigars, whiskey soaked raw ham, etc.
We sat in a small circle and discussed. Then later,
I tripped walking down the stairs and tore a hole
out of my left knee (and jeans.)