(Inspired yet again by the amazing work of my friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks) The Hangover Continues This is no cinematic experience. This is not the morning after. There is no pill to rid us of our pregnant horror. These jokes sour in our mouths. We’ve already missed the party and still the vomiting goes on. Still the nausea without relief and every pill to calm is yet another emetic. Every treatment turns to the oil of serpents. A stinging unguent of reptiles squirms in the bottle. Every one proves to be the cheapest rotgutmoonshine with a handful of healing botanicals tossed in as an afterthought to cover the burning of the grains, the torching of the crops. The fire on the corn transforms the heat and sweat into blood and fire fed back and fed up and poured down gullets too slack to gag, too full to feel feedback from the feed bag gulleys until the streets run red and blue and black and still the vomiting goes on, still the hangover proves incurable, still the hangover hangs over and over and over again and still hopes dangle like clouds of cotton candy for monkeys struck dumb and stuck in cages for another round, another spin another spill upon the pavement and it doesn’t matter how many times you stick your finger down your throat there is always more to come up. The i.v. is still in the vein. The feeding tube comes in the back door. The surge is ass-backwards and the purge is impossible. The source is a spring of sour fluids. The water table is set. The setting’s on spin and the spit itself is spat upon.