you wish to speak – megan heise

AdrianHMolina-150x150

you wish to speak.

once
during
yr reading
in Arizona
u said u hadn’t ever met
another asexual person and shay said their
partner was ace and asked u to
sign yr chap w a
kiss write i’m
here i’m
queer

M didn’t speak for 4 months all the words tumbled out stone.

You dont speak now. You write to your spirits. Say hi wanna join me at work then forget. In Dani’s class you drew the bridge to nowhere. Said to the class I’m moving back home. He met you at the underpass many weeks later. Continues to meet you there. Connecting spirits to one another. Her name appearing in a computer glitch. His blood staining the highway. You dream of avoiding her and all your unresolved guilt. Codependents think they are responsible for other ppl’s emotions she tells you. You are codependent you say. Except you know you really are responsible for other ppl’s emotions. You made your mother’s depression worse. And now you are twisting the knife into grief wounds. Reaching out again after so many years to say sorry. After not even sending in your rsvp for their wedding. He says no hard feelings but she disagrees.

2 out of 6 shelves are clean which is to say you have cleaned off 2 out of the 6 shelves you are endeavoring to clean off which is to say you are attempting to acknowledge your agency which is to say you want to SPEAK in the ACTive voice which is to say you wish to say that which you’ve been trying to say which is to say you will say that which you’ve been trying to say which is to say you are.

the fears are twofold one is that yes he really was a dick and to like him is to be a dick yourself and that so many pretentious dicks like him so does that make you a dick too and the other is the fear of running out that you’ll want more but there will be no more left to consume to receive

he was one of your ghosts too you realize, writing him letters and never asking for a response, never conceiving of the possibility of there being a response. it’s good we never met in life, you used to say. what if i disappointed him. if he disappointed me.

it is hard to set boundaries. with the living. with your living. friends. your spirits. are so much easier. to talk to.

names come to you before you know what they mean you set out to write about queerness and write about ghosts instead you mistype queerness such that autocorrect suggests wildness next to wilderness your ghosts haunt the nighttime forest your dark there with you they love etel adnan too they whisper her messages from you saying thank you keep it up keep asking and of course please

Ahhjjh it has been raining so much and almost always while you’re in your room with the window open your room is off the porch and even your friends who have Major Accomplishments and Better Lives cant say that cant say their room is off the porch whereupon the swing whapped you in the head as a kid when you couldn’t stop crying and had to go to the hospital and for all of your achievements maybe it’s of this one you’re most proud the time you shoved the swing and it swung right back and sent you down to the concrete and fuck if you know what you learned that day but damn did you fall hard

What if u wanna come when u r back from my friends
What if u wanna come it starts at the end of the discussion
What if u want a ride home
What if u want to put them in the same place on my bicep
What if u wanna check in after yr done
What if I can get there btwn herb and space
What if u wanna join me at work then forget to see you and finally give you your bracelets
What if I can get there as a kid is doing lunch with a lot more options
What if we brought our own food and coffee plus obvi karaoke
What if I am outside the first year or not sure when I’ll be headed back
What if I can get there as soon as I will likely be available
What if we can afford it and it’s all just adding it’s been growing wild and then never been growing out of nowhere
What if the same place on earth is that you know what you think
What if the first time last year or so haha I am outside yr apt b4 the boys
What if anyone gets in the evening of course please let me borrow your spirits
What if anyone wants to join at some point in a bit of us maybe it’s a sign
What if u wanna come it starts at the end of the discussion to kickstart conversation with the living in a bit of a snake in this style that looms and then never heard back from my friends yet about rescheduling but I would definitely be down to do what you think and thank you SO MUCH for all of your achievement in the evening of course please include all of this time in your final price for me to come the first time in almost all of the big screen and just left it there to do its work and i are super tight now and laura is a lutherie of the hand tattoo and getting im in town and just wanted to check in w max and toni the first time in almost all of the big screen and just left it there to do its work and i are super tight now and laura is a lutherie of the hand tattoo and getting im in town and just wanted to check in w max and toni the first time in almost all of the big screen and just left it there to do its work and i are super tight now and laura is a lutherie of the hand tattoo and
What if we could be able to swoop the same way
What if anyone who can’t come home would be able to
What if u have my own experience
What if I can get there first

SBGS December


20181022_164729 (1) - Edited

Megan Heise is a writer and teacher based in Western Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics from Naropa University and is currently working towards her PhD in Composition and Applied Linguistics at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. Her creative work has appeared in a number of online and print journals, and she is the author of the chapbook Quasar #6 (Eggtooth Editions). Her website is www.meganheise.com.

Art: Nhia Moua

two poems + a video – hayden dansky

image 3

Grave Nap

 
On the nights
with no degrees left
I tremble when
I think of you
cold and alone lying
on the dark earth where
her bones lay to rest
beside the bones of
her first son
I know you went there
as soon as you were
old enough to drive,
16 and your license was your
ticket to the graveyard.
Finally free
to be alone
in your obsession
Finally free
to grieve
Dear child, and you were
a child.
When your brother
was this age
he was your parent,
died a child.
You can fall
asleep with your family
every night
if you want to
think of them
before you dream
You do not have
to remember where
their flesh was buried

so long as you
let yourself melt
into their ghostly embrace
You can fall
asleep alone
if you want to
give yourself rest
from the memories
squeezing themselves
into your head
You can carry
yourself as you
wake in this world
if you want to
regulate yourself
help yourself
hold yourself
But you will never be
held by your mother again.
Your truth is in death
where your mind
will never go.
Let that be true for
just tonight.
Dream softly of
all that is left
on this earth
waiting
to decay

 

Funeral

 

At my funeral
there will be
only cut lilies
as decoration
so that everyone
will spend their time wondering
almost entirely
about the cut lilies.
How something so beautiful
could smell so bad;
how something
still living, can be dying,
or how something already dead
can still be living.
How long the liminal space
will last for them as humans,
how long it must feel for a lilly,
and if their perspective of
time even matters if
the process of death
is eternal
for every living one.
If we are all just living things dying
or dying things still living
sped up by life
sped up by work
sped up by stress
sped up by fear
and fear
and fear
and fear.
Their hands will touch
my face and they will
swallow the idea of me
Soak in the void
between the present

and imaginary daydreams
that could have happened
between us
if I had only
stayed alive
Trapped in the space
between reality
and dreams
And they will wonder
if it matters
or if it’s all about their perspective
afterall.
If it’s all about what they desire.
And they will wonder
why they ever fed
anything but desire
and pleasure
and love
and hope
Why they did anything
but move towards justice,
demand another world,
smell flowers
uncut,
and pray.

Kiss my forehead
and leave again
and begin again.

 


Head shot 2018Hayden Dansky is a transgender nonbinary rural queer kid trying their best to not to be smothered by capitalism. Their poetry is a process of letting their flesh breathe, of finding oneself and sharing a body that is always in process. Their writing explores the depths of shame, darkness, queerness, addiction and grief. They create and collaborate with local experimental musicians and dancers to create performances that encompass multiple disciplines. They are also a food justice organizer and work to create more participatory and accessible food systems in Boulder, CO.

Photo: Zane Lee

a specific kind of hell: writing and survival in america’s south – blake edward hamilton

a specific hell

A Specific Kind of Hell: Writing and Survival in America’s South

By

Blake Edward Hamilton

 

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

Rites

I once had my right eyelid slit open by a neighborhood boy. A gang of them was intent on taking down our yard fence using the full weight of their bodies, shaking and pulling at it with everything they had. My younger sister, while trying militantly to defend our property, didn’t see one of these neighborhood boys grab our hose and then, with a lasso whip of his arm, launch its copper end across the smooth surface of my eyelid. It split open pretty easily. My face was a bright red leak. The fence demolition stopped just for a moment at the sound of my eleven year-old screech, and my sister’s shouts. But then it continued with the same amount of vehemence after I abandoned the chaos, cupping my right eye, and running inside; refuge and salvaged sight had won, momentarily, over the defense of our temporarily vulnerable backyard.

When I write this I catch myself attempting to document the minutia of the cutting, a step-by-step or frame-by-frame, because I wonder if there’s some detail about it that can be discovered, a detail that could speak about what that moment actually meant. Why were they attacking our fence, exactly? While I knew the general cause had to do with my reputation among these boys as a “faggot,” I cannot recall why it began. It was, after all, just one of many moments like it during those years: sessions of trauma repeated on a kind of blurred loop. I hadn’t even stepped outside that day, the mere action of which was usually enough to provoke them.

My mother had just divorced my father and moved us to Edmond, Oklahoma, where most of this would take place; an empty, flat stretch of beige land, underdeveloped except for suburban sites marred by W.M. Levitt housing additions named after creeks, stones, birds, and trees, or sometimes a combination. The houses often invoke the image of innocuous families having just left a church potluck to sit clustered in plastic chairs in a placid, unremarkable backyard while their children played with a Wiffle ball. It is the only place where the 1950s never died: sons still call for Pop out of truck windows and talk big of dating Suzie at the formal; somewhere a poodle skirt is crushed into an armoire, waiting for its release. In Oklahoma, heterosexuality is a bag of golf clubs in dad’s trunk; bleach blond hair in an SUV, chicken-fried steak, and three-two beer. Homosexuality, on the other hand, is The Elephant Man, fried tarantula, Carrie at the prom.

It would be here that I would first hear the word “faggot,” and it would be said to me by a girl in a red shirt sitting in the middle of a school bus on my first day of fifth grade in this new land not far from the city. I chose to sit next to her because she initially appeared friendly, smiling with great welcome, in fact. Only a few minutes after joining her, and nervously staring at the back of the seat, she said to me plainly and coldly, but still smiling, “You’ve seen one faggot, you’ve seen ‘em all.” I don’t know what provoked this, even now, and had wondered what she meant because I did not yet know the word (nor that she was right: I was in fact attracted to men), and I didn’t ask for an explanation. I remained quiet instead. I smiled back, hoping for a return of her original expression, but nothing happened. She’d gone silent. I had already been labeled a “faggot,” so something had shifted, and the fifth grade school day had not yet begun.

Over the years this word would become familiar to the point of numbness. I almost ceased to hear it. But at times I would jump when I heard it shouted. This almost always meant I was about to suffer something more at the hands of a group of girls and guys; all of them from different ethnicities and backgrounds, and teachers of all ages. One teacher, for an entire year, mocked the way I spoke and walked, both in private and in front of other students. She would throw her arms out, drape her hands femininely from the wrist, and say, “Have I got ya down, Blake? Have I got ya down?” I saw her recently at a café and wanted to say something about the way her humiliations made me feel as a seventh grader, but I kept going, and left her there.

Over the years, since I graduated and left Edmond and moved on to many other cities, I have come and gone from Oklahoma, not because I wanted to but because, for different and unexpected reasons, I had no choice. I think we are irresolutely drawn back to places of trauma because they have a kind of inexplicable hold on us that we have to work to get away from. This is even truer if you’re a writer.

Oklahoma has always thought of itself as friendly; that it’s accepting and forgiving; that it’s Christ-like. People like me get in the way of that idea, forcing Oklahomans to become unfriendly, unaccepting, and not Christ-like because this is how the majority of Oklahomans have been taught to treat people who are not hetero-normative. Like many states in the South, Oklahoma often has to confront its idea of itself (a recent, stark example would be when President Obama was welcomed in Oklahoma City by people waving confederate flags at his downtown arrival).

It wants so badly to be the thing it believes it is. At its core, its true nature is not friendly, forgiving and accepting, or anything near Christ-like. The philistine is at home there, a cultural vacuum populated by individuals who have tirelessly worked to create a culture of exclusion in its place based almost solely on religious belief systems. They are likewise oddly defensive of this, as if some amount of indignity percolates right around the edges: we know we’re wrong, but we do it anyway. The maniacal need to be right at any cost is behind much of this kind of religious shaming, to the extent that the Bible Belt chokes on this need regularly.

When I found writing, I was supplied with a way to survive life in the South and what it asked of me – what it asks of anyone not of it.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

The Locale: I

I came to writing through reading. It showed up first through the covers of books on the racks inside grocery stores. Many I collected just for this purpose; their covers were whole mysteries to me. I loved attempting to solve their meanings, their representations – the kind of story I held in my hands. The more symbolic and lurid the covers, the more fascinated I was. The book-object itself quickly became comforting, like a citadel, a friend, unmoved, asking nothing of me, but prepared to give me a world. Stephen King often gets a bad rap as a popular fiction author, but his books were of the first I collected, and some of the most protective.

Life in Oklahoma requires a shield of some kind. Boundaries between people are rare, and if you’re a “person of difference,” (I define this here as an individual not actively contributing to the extenuation of the vacuum – the space in which Oklahomans who are not “of difference,” work to fill with sameness, hoping to make stringent conformity luxuriant) – the shield is the division between dissolution through irrevocable trauma in an environment bereft of empathy, and staying present, alive.

I did not read King’s books until much later. But I would carry them to school, between forearm and chest, author or title proudly displayed. King’s books provided an unambiguous type of shield that I discovered worked better than other books that just made me appear too intellectual, or snobbish. King’s books simply terrified the other students. Smothered in cliques of young, elitist, small-town Christians who had selected me as their resident “homo,” “Faggot,” or “gay-wad,” I now had the power of King’s name. The Stand, Misery, and Night Shift stood as a barrier, a makeshift boundary. Gossip and stares in the hall magically turned inward, and the groups kept a fair distance from me because I was ostensibly reading the stuff their parents had vociferously deemed “demonic,” and it made me a threat on a different, more esoteric level. My alienation had become my own in some ways, and I could claim it. King’s books also made me privileged – the others didn’t get to read “adult material” in the banal halls of middle school.

Only one teacher attempted to undermine this, to take away what she had clearly picked up on, which was my growing sense of insulation, a subtle relief, and a type of confidence, when she said smugly to my fully attuned class, “Don’t you think you could find something more interesting to read, Mr. Hamilton?” This appeared to answer the unspoken concern among my classmates of the “inappropriateness” inherent in my reading material; kids who, too passive to say anything (or too scared of my demonic books), complained to the teacher, an early introduction to mysteries of bureaucracy in action. I brought my books anyway.

Eventually parents learned of the “gay” middle school boy who reads Stephen King sharing space with their children in groups, in teams, in contests. One such parent came charging up to the classroom on a quiet afternoon, shouting that she would not have her child next to “a gay AIDS kid,” a phrase I heard leak through the cracked door as I waited for my teacher’s decision as she tried to calm this woman’s rising hysteria, reaffirming for her that I did not, in fact, have AIDS. My teacher, however, didn’t attempt to argue on behalf of my presumed sexual orientation. The woman’s son was moved to another group, and I was also placed on a different team. I remember feeling as though I had been heaped upon them, and their silence was one of thick discomfort. I was an accidental refugee mixed in with those who already had a dynamic, and they did not want me. This they made clear many times over. I would remain this refugee for years afterward.

When I chose to finally open one of the books I carried around, warped from my sweaty palms, I found humiliation rendered in ways that eclipsed my own for a while.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

Pain

Brett Easton Ellis in a 2012 Art of Fiction interview with The Paris Review revealed that he writes to deal with pain; that this is the principle reason that he writes. He says, “There’s no mark to hit when you’re writing a book. I write books to relieve myself of pain. That’s the prime motivator to write. Period” (Ellis). Mitigation of pain is necessary and rooted at the center of survival; how we choose to cope with its onset, or its infliction, forms the base of this. There are always those who would inflict it, not just individuals, but entities, bureaucracies, formal institutions. Stagnant or suppressed communication also amasses a heavy percentage of this pain center – the inability to assert a voice. Oppressed states and countries know this and have known it throughout history. Our current study and understanding of the Holocaust, for example, and of its absorption of those crimes and horrors, has been a perpetual investigation into just such a state. The greatest pain arrives from the denial of one’s own existence, selfhood taken away by institutions via unjust policy; fascist zealots working to erode the threat of speech, ideas, stories. Human pain is forever ineradicable. It can only be rendered, and thereby trapped in some way. For a writer, it is encapsulated in story. If Kierkegaard was correct, and anxiety is the space between the thing of anticipation and the occurrence of that thing, left for us on ancestral cave walls is anxiety made manifest; the anxious distances between man and the animals and individuals he witnessed, those he chose to represent. They are offerings to us through time, seeking understanding, while also seeking to mitigate old pain through the precision of articulation; this is the nature of all storytelling. For the writer, it is absolution, turning to another who sees, and asking, “Did you see that, too? Or, is it just me?” Another way of looking at this is through the question: am I alone in my sight? Do I see – do I witness – alone?

Orhan Pamuk in his book, The Naïve and the Sentimental Novelist, is very clear about the purposes of why we read, why we write. He says, “Gradually I began to see the fundamental knowledge that the center of the novel presented – knowledge about what kind of place the world was, and about the nature of life, not only in the center but everywhere in the novel…a good novel evokes in us a sense of the profound, essential knowledge of what it means to exist in this world, and the nature of that sense” (28). Orhan Pamuk is no stranger to struggle, to the agonies of attempting to communicate through story.

Living and writing in the South is to learn about what it means to live in a kind of abyss, although nothing is reflected back at you when you are “of difference,” except your own difference. Eventually you come to understand, like I did, that staying in it is folly, death. If you want to survive so that you can write about what it means to exist, to struggle through it, you have to leave.

Pamuk goes on to say, “We know from our own experience that our desire to understand the world has a political aspect…” (175). This is happening now. In America, polarization goes far beyond simple policy – it is chronic, inveterate: some states want to make it legal to refuse service to gay men and women; this is to “protect” the religious beliefs of others, not gay men and women’s human rights. Oklahoma is one of these states. It is also a state that wants to assure conversion therapy is a cemented option; something that calls to memory the Americanization of Native Americans, stripped of their cultural identities in favor of a more “acceptable,” or more “palatable/ less savage” identity. This originally comes from Sally Kern, an Oklahoma representative who was once quoted as saying that gays are more of a threat than terrorists. Mary Fallin, the current governor, had this to say when the Federal Government struck down the unconstitutional marriage ban in Oklahoma:

In 2004, voters had an opportunity to decide whether or not to allow same-sex marriage in Oklahoma. Seventy-six percent voted not to, and to instead define marriage as the union between one man and one woman. I was one of the many voters who cast my ballot in favor of traditional marriage. Today’s ruling is another instance of federal courts ignoring the will of the people and trampling on the right of states to govern themselves. In this case, two judges have acted to overturn a law supported Oklahomans. Their decision will be appealed and, I hope, overturned… (Dillon, Fox 25)

What is important about Fallin’s unapologetic response isn’t how indicative it is of unyielding, American polarization, or the unabashed discrimination showing the inherent, fascistic nature of the “state,” but the phrase: the will of the people.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

The Locale: II

My teenage nephew who, at the time of this writing, is now in high school in Oklahoma City, tells me that it’s “getting better here.” He says this because many teenagers in his class are “out,” and as he puts it, no one seems to care. There might be other reasons to look at how this phrase applies, or fails to apply, to the territory, not the least of which is the current mass exodus of underpaid teachers from the state, its 49th percentile ranking in education, or the vast budget deficit and the record amount of anti-LGBTQ bills created in 2016 alone. Data on Oklahoma’s educational environment is enough to question the assumption of marked improvement:

Findings from the GLSEN 2015 National School Climate Survey demonstrate that Oklahoma schools were not safe for most lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) secondary school students. In addition, many LGBTQ students in Oklahoma did not have access to important school resources, such as having Gay-Straight Alliances and similar student clubs and were not protected by comprehensive anti-bullying/ harassment school policies. (1)

The ongoing catchphrase that “it’s getting better” has been found in the last couple of decades across social media and in the general zeitgeist. I find it alarming that seemingly few have spoken of how this phrase is indicative, especially if we return to the discussion of how a place comes to think of itself; that it (whatever “it” is: a time, a mindset, a life?), even needs to “get better” speaks so much to the illness at the center of our current social narrative, and our denial of it. This would encapsulate the stories that communities tell themselves about how they behave towards others. Nevertheless, we all want to believe it’s true: that things are indeed getting better. And maybe they are, but how honest can we be?

According to Mr. Pamuk, there is something sentimental about the novelist. Perhaps, as a writer, I am sentimental for a time that did not exist, and a place that I imagine was once real. This might form the basis for America’s recent overt attraction to literature that explores utopias and dystopias (one and the same, really), because some part of us misses or sentimentalizes a compassionate place that was never there, a place of responsiveness; or a place that reflects its opposite, and therefore aspires to some form of jagged truth.

When I write, it is an attempt to understand where empathy goes; why families place inimical ideologies before their own children, often abandoning these children – someone they raised from the womb to adulthood, someone they held when crying and fed when hungry; I write to generate an explanation for the unresponsive void, the great abyss, places like Oklahoma; I write for those who can’t find a voice, who seek to be heard; like Ellis, I also write to deal with pain, and I write because I refuse to digest the naïve notion that it “gets better” – improvement is, after all, contingent upon the will of the people, and people often remain indisputable products of their environment.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

Artifact

“We didn’t know”: the response of German citizens living near concentration camps when shown starved bodies in mass graves.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

Now

If I’m haunted by anything it’s what we choose to forget, to not witness. Writers wrestle with the idea that not all places are entirely bad or entirely good; contemplative writers try to avoid the absurdity of a binary altogether, even when populations try so hard to excuse behavior with statements such as, “Well, there are people like that everywhere. Well, that happens everywhere. Well, you will find that in all places.” The problem with this kind of thinking, especially when explored via narratives, is that the closeness of the characters creates the environment. It is not incorrect to say that a place is what it is because of who populates it. If we return to Pamuk, he tells us, “It is proximity that lends the art of the novel its irresistible power. Yet the primary focus is not the personality and morality of the leading characters, but the nature of their world. The life of the protagonists, their place in the world, the way they feel, see, and engage with their world – this is the subject of the literary novel” (60). The closer we become to fictional characters, the more we hope to understand, even as we rage against the tired, post-modern simulacra found in so many novels today, where characters often dissolve into self-reflexivity and well-worn caricature.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

Hell

Stephen King made his career writing about a place called Castle Rock. Horrible things happen there; horrible people made some of those things happen. Hell is the paramount place of suffering and punishment, a horror show of endless shame and misery, a place bankrupt of empathy or compassion. Dante’s Hell is cold, frozen by the Devil himself flapping his wings. There are ubiquitous versions of Hades seen through the viewpoint of various ideologies. Some threaten the consumption of souls, torture, mutilation, perpetual humiliation. Dante did the best job envisioning it for us, giving us levels, rendering atrocities and castigations as potently and graphically as he could. It was done so well, one starts to ask if anyone is truly deserving of any of these eternal penances (unless, of course, it is a Betrayer, those furthest down in Dante’s Hell, those closest to Satan.)

How do we betray ourselves? Does it happen when the rights of others are betrayed? Does it occur most often when shaming is the premium modus operandi of a single locale? Stephen King has been trying to tell us that Hell exists; that it’s on earth, and it is mostly other people. Look at us; we do this to ourselves, he says, through his stories of petulant small town violence, bigotry, and monsters both political and ghostly. It is a very specific type of Hell, yet people still live in it. They still inhabit his fictional Maine town, and they always will, begging the clear question of why? Why do we inhabit Hell if we don’t have to? Why do we create Hell for ourselves and others? Why do we stay and burn? A writer often travels a crooked path, for better or worse, but I no longer return to find out.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

References

Dillon, Jay. “Govenor Mary Fallin’s Statement on Same-Sex Marriage Ruling.” July 18th, 2014: Fox 25. http://okcfox.com/archive/governor-mary-fallins-statement-on-same-sex-marriage-ruling. Accessed March 9, 2017.

Ellis, Brett Easton. Interview by Jon-Jon Goulian. The Paris Review, Issue 200, Spring 2012.
https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6127/bret-easton-ellis-the-art-of-fiction-no-216-bret.easton-ellis. Accessed March 9, 2017.

GLSEN. “Oklahoma State Snapshot  – NSCS.pdf. School Climate in Oklahoma.” https://www.glsen.org/content/oklahoma-state-snapshot-2015-nscs. Accessed April             24, 2017.

Pamuk, Orhan. Translated by Nazim Dikbas. The Naïve and the Sentimental Novelist: The Charles Eliot Norton Lectures, 2009. Faber and Faber, 2010.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

Blake Edward Hamilton holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Naropa University, and currently teaches college English. His work has appeared in World Literature Today Magazine: Windmill, NPR, Bombay Gin Literary Journal, The Guerrilla Lit Mag., and Punch Drunk Press, among others.

Photo: neonbrand