... down a hole.

Striated forearm braced in crease of back and lid: porcelain nanny nursing a kid.  Forehead resting on pill-popping forearm as lean, carb-free chest presses against pissing end of pot-- rickety bridge born of libation and lechery suspended over a moat of vomit.

Heave another throat-load of bile stew into the bowl, noting two hits of X giving chest pocket the slip; swan-diving--little rock stars-- right into beer, wine, vodka, sushi, rocky road and corn-sour soup brewed in yak sack. 

Corn not eaten in weeks; bemusing: corn has a way of dropping in on shit; ubiquitous, yellow poop pellets have nothing on last Sunday's expulsion: Finally crapped: Twinkie eaten during Stephanie's birthday, 1989--first year in States, first introduction to synthetic cuisine, first run-in with fem fatale. 

A sweet little morsel riding dirty for years; internal heirloom of first, definitive rejection, collecting filth in guts; my Carry That Weight, i.e., difficult business, a fucking Twinkie. 

Passed.  History scarfed, lingered, flushed, forgotten.

Gulp.  Burp.  Snort.  Gulp.  Puke.  Reload.  Unload on faces sacked by good graces.