It's snowing - finally. The sky is pale and soft as a fetal pig. The heaters clank. I've taken out my winter sweater. I've salted the sidewalks and my pillow. The snow hides things. The cold hides things. I know they're there, but the surface is so damn pretty. I fly over islands in my dreams - green and blue and hot white sand. I am a crane. Schools of red-yellow fish burst like fireworks across the shorelines. Clouds moisten my eyes. The sun bakes my skin and the soles of my feet. Bronzed, hardened by the heat, softened by the hanging fruits. Fat waves curl and fizz and throw themselves at the devouring shore like Buddha from a cliff to feed a starving lion. What more could I want here?

This island is deserted.

I wake and so is my bed... Something's gone missing. Something's fading out and uncovering an artifact that I am terrified of. A beautiful carsophogus opens. I can barely see what's inside...romance, drama, acrobatics - one, two three. One, two, three, like a dance back and forth over thousands of miles. But it all melts away. It's a movie. I'm in a theater and the film has gotten stuck on one frame that just burns through and melts away right there in the middle of the scene.

Illusions are made by artists and magicians and a certain desperation. This island is deserted.

My body has turned on itself. My stomach is a small furnace. The burning is starting to overcome me. I wake up from the pain several times each night. Nothing quenches the thirst of the fire. Antacids, water, enzymes, vitamins, herbs, prescriptions, acupuncture, diet changes, and exercise have all failed. I’ve even raised the head of my bed to cooperate with gravity. I never cared much for physics; that could explain the vigor with which my stomach, that rebel organ, attempts to defy Newton’s law. Come children, gather at my torso and stay warm.
I got high on my visit to the gastroenterologist. Not at first though. I sat on the faux-leather examination table in a lovely blue paper ensemble. The nurse stuck things attached to wires to several strategic (and conveniently, hairy) places on my chest. My heart began to race. I’d never been knocked out before. The doctor walked in, a friend of the family, and pretended not to notice my nipple piercings. My father, (who has colitis) plays poker and golf with the same man that drugs him and sticks tubes, instruments, and hands up his asshole. I told him he could get the same treatment much cheaper at The Cock in New York. He was not amused. Fortunately for me, I was there to get drugged and have tubes shoved down my throat and esophagus instead.
The first shot did nothing. “I’m still awake!” I proclaimed.
The second shot did nothing. “Nope.” I said. The doctor looked at me, puzzled.
Finally he shot me up with enough drugs to take down a linebacker and everything went black. I remember an instrument being placed in my mouth to hold my jaw open. According to the doctor I stuck my tongue out through it and laughed at him. I also remember a bad pain in my stomach as they took a biopsy of the tissue. Other than that, I can only recall being driven home. My father claims that about a half hour after the procedure, I sat straight up on my cot and said with a Texas accent, “let’s high tail it out of here!” while tearing at my IV lines frantically.
I took a purple pill every day for 2 years. The gelatin capsules were made from boiled hooves, tendons, cartilage, and skin. The side effects were unknown. The long-term affects were unknown. I weaned myself off of them. The burning immediately returned. If I could make use of this excessive acid it would be great. I could learn to projectile vomit at will and take to the streets fighting crime. 

I had a nervous breakdown when I was six. Mrs. Baker told us that outer space went on forever and ever. I fell backwards out of my chair and onto the floor where I stared, bug-eyed, mouth in the shape of a small 'o', at the ceiling. I pictured traveling through and across and never stopping. This made me nauseous. I would eventually let my mind find some sort of wall so I could sleep. I knew there was no wall - and if there were one, it would mean that it had another side. I had a second breakdown the next year during mathematics. I was determined to find out what the last number was. I counted out-loud for an entire day until I was tranquilized. The drugs made me think weird. I realized that one could count backwards into the negatives. They upped the dosage. This sort of thing went on for a few years. My older sister's severe fear of vomiting rubbed off on me and by the age of fifteen I'd been to four psychologists and psychiatrists. The first one I went to did nothing but play Stratego with me. Another thought it was amusing that I contemplated infinity rather than what new He-Man figure I wanted. The truth is, I wanted She-Ra. For my seventh birthday party at the Burger King with an indoor carousel and slide, I told every single one of my friends to get her for me (but not to tell their parents). I ended up with eight She-Ras. My parents were baffled and I denied everything. Boys aren't supposed to play with pretty dolls that come in pink boxes - even if they are the strongest blonde in all of Eternia.

It's grey in midtown. The coulds drop so low that the skyscrapers are beheaded. The rain is cold and hard. People scurry around under umbrellas with steam bursting from between their lips. I always imagine that when it rains, the layers of grime will be washed away. We all shove orange peels up our noses at this little cafe near 72nd street. I hear that the citric acid is supposed to clear the sinuses. We don't look to clever though, sipping tea like this and snorting.