Esés and Excerpts
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The parade was wrong on so many levels. It was a sweltering, muggy July morning–the Friday before Independence Day. Each unit had been instructed in advance to assemble in a central parking lot of the large, sprawling state hospital that had been constructed about a century earlier. The lead staff scrambled with worried expressions…
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Man, but this is a true story; this shit went down. The early 1980’s before everything went to shit and punk rock was dead–but still dangerous. Like “get cussed -at- and- confronted- by -Cro- Magnon -construction -worker -knuckledragger-meat-and-potatoes-Coors ® guzzling-roughnecks” dangerous. “Chased- and -sometimes -beaten -by -letterman- jacket -donning-muscle car -driving-future-frat- boy- jock -date -rapist”…
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It was May of 2002 and I was unpacking my life and putting it hither and yon in the storied and antique digs grandma had just willed me and my brother Mark. I was employed at Norwalk Metropolitan State Hospital accruing hours towards licensure—salaried indentured civil servitude. New gig, new digs. I was sober 8…
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For mi primo Tony: what’s inside must be let out. It was a miasma of human activity, like one of those cameras they put on a fiber optic finger and shove into someone’s aorta or up their ass: a shit ton of cellular activity rushing around pell mell and crimson, but from that vantage point…
Difficult To Cure 