Ernest Hemingway knew more than most
about the nasty way the morning after has
of shooting up your nose to strand you,
strangling, on the dockside. After a while,
food drunk and regular old fashioned drink
drunk blend together into a vibe-ing burlesque
pulse of hot pepper and stale vomit. Balance
the sheets, the input-output thing is confounded
in the shadow of the lighthouse. OK, so, beer
in, there seemed to have been some weed
involved at some point, uh, right, and electrolytes,
water, dignity, anxiety, standing deathly still on
the side of the highway somehow both secretive
and proud, like a 6 foot tall erect penis in the ocean
wind. Oh, and speaking of that last… well, suffice to
say, it’s hard to know the score, exactly. Bartender,
bring me something spicy and alive, it’s 10 AM and
all these damn stray cats are counting fast now, I need
to slurp the morning down like soup, or better still, toss
it in the furnace and anoint my forehead with the ashes.