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76 It Comes with the Job It comes with the job. Cleaning up other people’s vomit: all that has someone’s unintelligible signature on it: a smell, a color, the evocation of a bad trip, a prolonged ache, or an impossible to rectify negligence—convulsions from bottled up spirits or the un-twisting torque of myco-hallucinogens. I wipe away the wall paintings, the post action display, the two-hour spills, the five-second eruption, the half-second punch. I pop back the line of rhythmic dents or potmarks and poke-throughs. I scratch and scratch and we scratch at whatever they wrote: waxy testimonials, errors, numbered pronouns, a stated message beside another stated message beside another. And then I gather what they could not hold: moist confetti drawn into the sky: an attractive image—nothing more—soon garbage to be, and scrape it off my tools into the collective bin. ...

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