A photo of the author and a female friend of his from their collegiate days. They are passed out on the porch after a house party in Ithaca (waiting for a taxi that never came), holding hands and leaning into each other. There are cigarette butts and empty plastic cups littered around them.

Snapshot: And This, Too, Is Life (Diary of a Fentanyl Relapse)

Stream-of-consciousness reflection on a relapse in progress.

1 day ago12 min read

Image of poet Laura Ingram, a mid- to late-twenties white woman with her hand on a tree trunk and her eyes gazing upward.

The Physics of Absence: The Anorexic Poetry of Laura Ingram

If someone else were paying me to write this, I might feel compelled to begin with something pithy and breathless: "Even as poet Laura Ingram's body vanishes, her body of work grows..." It's a good thing that no one else is writing over my shoulder.

Feb 2310 min read

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TRAIN OF THOUGHT

Snapshot: And This, Too, Is Life (Diary of a Fentanyl Relapse)

Stream-of-consciousness reflection on a relapse in progress.

Addiction and Recovery

1 day ago12 min read

Fresh track marks from injecting drugs (on the author's right forearm).

Beat and Evil Days

Wretched, interminable relapse + cyber bullying: 7,300 days of being a loser; on being called a ghoul and a navel-gazer.

Addiction and Recovery

May 512 min read

The Physics of Absence: The Anorexic Poetry of Laura Ingram

If someone else were paying me to write this, I might feel compelled to begin with something pithy and breathless: "Even as poet Laura Ingram's body vanishes, her body of work grows..." It's a good thing that no one else is writing over my shoulder.

Media Reviews

Feb 2310 min read

Screenshot from Clement Schultz's cell phone video of the 2015 Fairdale, IL, tornado, which destroyed his house and claimed the life of his wife and her best friend (a next-door neighbor).

Vent Post: Livin' the Dream - Er, the Purgatorial Nightmare

Vent post: When I was a little boy, I always dreamed that I'd be 37, stuck in my hometown in a dead-end teaching job; biochemically handcuffed to methadone after years of carpet-bombing my receptor systems; physically and emotionally separated from my fiancé, who is geographically so far away that he couldn't be any more distant without leaving planet Earth (although, to be fair, I have become such a ghost of myself that it arguably wouldn't matter if we were physically toget

Mad Mutterings

Feb 24 min read