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.