A junkie was born

I used to stay home from school to drink fermented grape juice.

To feel the faintest difference.

To be other than

The small spaces between my toes.

I would argue with myself staring out of the bedroom window.

My eyes falling on the snowy branches lit by those bare bulbs, illumination makes me drowsy.

I would say "if the tree falls, I'll stop all of this"

Promises, promises

I didn't lose my virginity

I found my sex

I used to write every day. I had a word processor, one of those old ones with a giant monitor and a typewriter attached to it. It used floppy disks; I must’ve filled dozens of them.

They are buried in a Mexican desert now, beneath my vomit and blood.

My sister left in ’91. My father turned her room into a canary aviary where I had my very first experience with what writing can do. Settling in Midtown apartments after immigrating to the U.S. I befriended a homeless brother and sister duo who would rummage through the dumpsters at the complex. I had a knack for making friends with the rejects. They knew my life, they could smell my insides. The duo would fish out books and give them to me. My dead hero's fished from dumpsters right into my 10 year old lap... Kerouac,

Burroughs and Descartes.

One day they came across a beat up typewriter as I stood watch under the dumpster telling them stories of Russia. I took it home and placed it on the floor of the aviary room and climbed into the abyss.

I was teaching myself how to escape, before I found the grape juice.