“Weed and Liquor, Never Sicker” by Emeka Patrick

There was a reason I only smoked weed occasionally after college—and it wasn’t just due to that one Hash Bash where I smoked too much and momentarily passed out . . .

“if you leave a twenty and a crackhead alone in your room, it’s your own damn fault!” by Eshu Bandele

I started by speed walking, then high-stepping, then flat-out mad dashing. I knew that my increasing anger was irrational.

Really, if you leave twenty bucks and a crackhead alone in your room, it’s your own damn fault! . . .

“West End Boy” by Robin Hall

After the meal we headed back to the Groucho Club. We were a few drinks in now. We went upstairs and had some cocaine in the restroom . . .

“8 Up” by Mori Glaser

Inkspot Hurricane’s eyes light up when I walk in. We go way back—I used to play music to his poetry on the folk scene. He was a slight man with a big voice, called Inkspot after the singing group, good name for a poet. I don’t recall how Hurricane came about . . .

“On Holiday” by Jennifer Schaefer

In her poky hotel bathroom, Sallie filled up a glass with water from the sink. It wasn’t until she’d swallowed the pill—some generic form of Valium—that she stopped to wonder if the water was okay to drink. Oh well, she thought as she stepped into her red bikini bottoms. Too late now . . .

“More Than a Feeling” by David Inglish

“Brad Delp fucking killed himself, man!” Lairmo was frantic. “The voice of a fucking angel! Gone!” Lairmo popped the lid and dipped his head into a can of varnish for a big morning wake-up huff. His mouth puckered, eyes squinted shut. Calmed, he sat in his white overalls, shaking his head. “You know how many people his songs have made happy . . . ?”

“Special K” by Siggy Buckley

Scared out of my mind
Heart thumping
Chilled to the bone under layers of blankets
In my surgical gown and silly cap
I wait to be knocked out by ketamine . . .

“Dextro Heaven & the Death Drug Impulse” by Bob Freville

The gateway drug is not the weed you smoke in a too-thin joint as a teenager. It’s not the beer you surreptitiously sip from your father’s fishing cooler while hunkered down in the garage. The gateway drug is escape . . .