I grew up in a small town called Colden just outside of Buffalo, New York. I completed my M.F.A. in Creative Writing - Fiction at California State University, Fresno. I have previously published both poetry and fiction in The Trident, Lipstickparty, and The San Joaquin Review. I currently work as a professor at Medaille College and as a journalist for Mix 247 EDM. Orlando Kept Me Up at Night i. When we slept through my alarm the third day at magic kingdom I woke up to your screams and mad twisting like strings on a loom though you weren’t disturbed at all as the blow and amphetamines still worked themselves out in every bucket of salt and water threading into the off-white sheets. ii. My first memory of achievement that doesn’t involve a podium or plaque but the ever-lovely influenza instead happened when I was eight I closed the Jurassic Park ride by furiously coating the exit gates with ten dollar hot dogs and stomach acid I remember hearing the announcement it would stay closed the remainder of the day I laughed through the blisters of fever marveled that one body could do such a thing. One Pill is a Windmill For Mike, after Marilyn Chin One pill tastes like grit and wheat One pill is blue, oblong like a daisy petal One pill snuffs easier, one gums quicker One pill has black specks, one has red flakes One pill makes you see a windmill One pill takes the windmill away One pill, kissed toxic by dragonfly wings One pill is synthesized with countless, nameless others Understand they killed you more than they would ever save you Understand their vacuity; that broken on/off switch buzzing in the back of your head. Pedagogy for Heroin Abandonment 1. A close friend’s father stayed awake for three days his first time with one deep inhalation of bronzed powder. He wrote essays on physics, created electric gridline diagrams, and scaled the fibrous texture of black lithograph all while working his night shift, digging graves in Cedar Hill. And on the third day his eyes, like a discarded pet abandoned on a country farm, finally closed. ~ ~ ~ 2. I passed a man on Venice Beach, uncouth in ragged leather, caked in caramelized dirt, track marks visible as any wristwatch his eyes red as any shelved wine. He wasn’t screaming, but begging, not begging for money, or even acknowledging the mindlessly vibrant hipsters walking past, but asking himself in curdled, humid bouts of air where his mother was. ~ ~ ~ 3. My third year of undergrad a close friend relapsed after two months, suffering spasms that could’ve evolved into catatonic heart failure and pneumonia from passing out in his car. The night before he went to rehab, we played Cards Against Humanity, a game with where the goal is to play the most shocking, offensive card to get the best reaction. And my same friend played 8 oz. of sweet Mexican black tar heroin, to answer What keeps me up at night?
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