June 2005

– <![CDATA[


 ///finsih later when my headache goes away, fix errors

Music: Grateful Dead – Unbroken Chain

Mood: Depressed

Drugs: Buprenorphine 4mg [insufflated], 4mg Ativan

Weather – mid 90’s [fucking hot]


Well a new week is upon me and I am clueless as ever.  I havent had a job in years and I am bored.  So I will write a short story about a day in the life of me…

I decided that I couldnt stay clean a few summers ago living in Chicago so being the inquizitive dopefiend I am/was/is I decided to pack-up and go move with my friend in NYC.

I awoke to the sound of traffic and car horns blaring out my window.  My eyes stare at the ceiling and I curse myself for waking so early, after multiple attempts of falling back asleep failed I drop my feet off the end of my bed.  My eyes drift around my room waiting for something to catch my attention, no I dont feel like doing laundry, no I am not hungry, no I dont feel like writing in my journal, no I cant remember my dream, No, No, No.

My eyes are blinded by a glint of the sun as I lazily stare at a tall glass of water I used last night to finish off my dope.  Tiny air bubbles are stuck to the sides of the glass, the glass sits onto of a chest, the chest litered with last nights dinner [a few ripped glassine bags].  I pick up the ripped wax paper folds and try to scraped off any specks of heroin, no such luck.  Instinctively I remember that I saved all of my cottons from the cocaine I shot last night.  I open up my wooden box, pausing just a moment to watch the sun glimmer off the opalesent inlay.  Where did I put those fucking things, I push my hand thru old needles, bottle cap cookers stained with residue, amber pill bottles, rolling papers, pot pipes, brillo, and glass stems.  My fingers are colored in a deep black ash color from brushing against a cooker as they strain to pick up a 1inch by 1inch zip-lok baggie deep under the paraphenalia.  Score…!

Inspecting the baggie there are 10 or so balled up pieces of cotton and a wire thin line of powder coating the enterior of the blue plastic.  I quickly use the cotton to mop up any left over coke, I dump the cottons into a big ‘ol spoon and fill up my needle till its pregnant with water [1mL].  I soak the cottons down and procede to mash the cotton with the back of my plunger.  Pushing the old cottons to the side of the spoon I drop a fresh piece in and suck up the liquid.  80 units, gets lined up into a vein in my wrist, careful not to balloon the vein I register and slowly push the plunger down.  My stomache flips as a familiar taste fills my mouth.  I pill the needle out and await my weak coke rush.  Zingggggggg… I am suddenly awake, slightly speedy, and aware that I am out of heroin.

I rinse out my needle and spray it out my window hoping to hit one of those red double decker tourist buses that drive by my apartment every fucking day announcing landmarks and historical sites.  I put my hands in my pockets and rummage around for cash, nada.  Fuck!  Its Tuesday, my Mothers weekly check doesnt arrive until Wend. starting to panic I lurch for the phone and quickly dial the Western Union 1-800 number thats engrained into my memory.  With the quick punch of a few buttons I am greeted with a robotic voice telling me that no funds have arrived for pick-up.  Double Fuck!!  I yell out to my roomate, MMMiikeee?!?!  A muffled response is barely audible thru the thick wooden doors.  I dont answer, instead I go over my options…

  1. I can call my Mother and get her to Western Union me some more dough, which means I can get real high
  2. I can bum a 20 spot off my roomate and get my sick off
  3. I can raid the change bowl for maybee 10 bucks
  4. I could go out and panhandle a quick few bucks                                                                                

 I opt for number 2 [the path of least resistance], I walk out my room and yell for my roomate again, not in his room, hrrmm, not in the studio painting, I notice the door to the roof is open.  I make my way up the old creaky wooden stairs and out onto the roof.  There is Mike sitting at the patio table reading the ‘Village Voice’.

"Anything good in there?" I ask

"Nope" is the reply

I breeze thru the small talk and land my punch.  You got 20 bucks I can borrow [a question I have probably repeated thousands of times].  I mentally cross my fingers and hope for the best.

"Whadda need it for?"

"Oh, I dont get my check from my parents till tommorow, and I owe the deli $10 bux plus I need a pack of smokes…."

"You sure its not for dope?"

God damn-it, always assuming I need drugs.  I moved to NYC to get away from the constant chatter of accusations of drug use, honestly would little ‘ol me need a hit or two of heroin to start my day, pleauze.

"Yea, I am sure"

"Theres a 20 on my desk, bring me back a Snapple will ya…?"

‘No problem" I grumble



– <![CDATA[ I hear the train conductor call out the next stop on the track as I kick my feet-up on the violet colored vinyl seats, I push my face to the window and watch all the things I have been missing… The clickty-clack of the train slowly corrupts my consciousness and hypnotizes me, slowly easing me into a light dream…

Shut your eyes and listen to the sound inside my head
close your eyes to the colors of the world
It all in your mind

The glint off her glasses display the reflection of a green cube, blurred and scattered neon. Bent cigarettes.
An ambiguous amber glow illuminates the smoke settled room
modern furniture in a decrepid building
Her face free of glasses, stray hairs shooting off in a thousand directions, backlit.

Red pumps flex a beautiful calf muscle as tacky rope lighting blinks as her breast rests on the brass railing of the bar.
silver snow-blurry vision-explosion of crashing icicles, obscured by raindrops.
You can see the pained expression hiding behind her forehead, residual resentment wells-up in her eyes. Such perfect innocent looking eyes round and image provoking of Doe a deer a female deer. Sirens wail and the traffic glides by unobtrusively pumping fumes into my intoxicated fractured being.

Jittery and brisk gestures [jerky] punctuate his desire for relief, Fidgeting with the slip-lock pill bottle top in his pockets, her eyes drift in a downward gaze.

I finish my pint of beer and open the door to the world.

Dusted snow spins in mini-whirl winds as I round the corner, the slick marble/granite of the banks exterior walls lets my hand slide with relatively no friction, I stop at the stoplight and glance at my feet.

Crudely stenciled on the sidewalk is the words ‘God is a Spark’, I notice the soft lime green color achieved from the spraypaint and instinctively think about fluffy green buds [lime-green].

I stare into the foreground and extend a hand pushing a finger into the elastic reality, it bends back like a rubber ball. I look over my shoulder.

You can tell the complexity of a crystal by the way she shines, a color scheme frozen in time.

Steel corrugated safety door punctuate the street view. Ribbed they hide the corner deli.

Handwoven Indian throw rugs dusted in a bone color sets the backdrop of the blossoming poppy, which soon swirls into the thought of some of the first psychedelic images woven into art, I could step on and take a magic carpet ride to the far-east, and unlock the secrets of the past, but what about the secrets of the present? Straw strewn into thread weaving the inner-workings of a back-washed brain, the golden thread.

Disheveled city forms around the aquatic wonderland, murky waters or murky winds? The pavement rolls out west, tranquility is needed as my view is blocked by thousands of tiny twigs [pick-up sticks] multi-colored.

Somewhere over the Rainbow and Oh What a Wonderful World plays over and over in my head in a high speed rushing quicker than my thoughts. I pull the emergency brake as I pull the cold glass pipe up to my lips and spark a hit of pot. I have a strange urge to tongue the piece of glass with my lips/tongue, making out with the bowl again huh?

Broken ceramic tiles
some off in the distance subway stop
scrawled with a 1inch Sharpy is the stylized word: Resin. Horn’s [of a beast] bookend each side of the graffiti tag

Slushy framed puddles ripple my faces
I grab onto the wrought iron railing thick with years upon years of paint.
Chipped color forms
Random squares different hue’s of red overlap to form more tints, a single drop of blood triggers lucid memories of a forgotten past…

A mobile of shaved and polished stoned spin in the artificial wind currents contradicting its actions in my mind

Her breast swells the swell of a healthy wave, as the waify girl arches back in delight, slow motion frames. Each frame is a different color [shimmering, bronzed, green] As the images play thru my head we laugh and smile underneath a bed of crumpled Autumn leafs. Her body moves at half pace, slow down your speed its too fast, suspended motion drips into my cortex. Hold my hand with your little fingers.

Tri-colored [red-blue-green]
Antiqued backwashed in a yellow’d white

Stolen by unknown shadows, grabbing my conscious and frozen body. My skull feels cracked, a disarrayed lightning bolt melts into the floor, my micro-fine crystalline hairs shatter in the heat of the thought.

green, red, blue lines of a coded CTA [Chicago Transit Authority] skip into my thoughts, as the clouds of smoke dispell and the landscape comes into view.

I am awoken to the conductors deep voice calling off ‘Harlem Avenue, Harlem Avenue’

I rub my eyes and dash of the train into the world of actuality.

– <![CDATA[

Its just another day in my boring dull life.  Currently I am stable on 4-12mg of Suboxone [buprenorphine], .5mg Risperdal, and 2-4mg of Ativan.  I made the switch from Klonapin to Ativan for no real reason other than to switching to a short-acting benzo.  The city streets are not tempting me lately as this early June heat have already made the asphalt sticky under foot.  A couple of my friends have went awol and dissapeared, one is squating in a house, one is panhandling and living in his car, and another has left the state, all this is pretty much on par for what usually happens.

Last week I volunteered for a local drug rehabilitation group in my area, it was nice getting out and actually helping.  There was a local street fair that we ran a booth selling shaved ice, we made alot of money for the group but I am sick of sugary syrups and plastic cups.  Actually I am tired of typing.

It has been 29 hoours since my last dose of benzodiazapines and I am starting to feel aching in my shoulder which brings me to… MEDICATION TIME… c-ya 


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Well yesterday was not the best day, I stopped over at a friends house knowing god damn well I shouldn’t be going over there.  I chalk up my stupidity from the 8 or 9 pints of beer I drank while watching the Chicago Cubs lose but anyways.  I haven’t seen this girl since I got out of local ‘Grey-Bar Hotel’ [small 3 week bit, but thats another post unto itself] and I knew she was still copping a habit.  Once I get there I know instantly I made a mistake, she starts begging for me to hook her up with some Buprenorphine as she wants to kick.  The girl who I will call ‘Faith’ throws on the table 3 bags of good dope, a $10 crack rock, and a fresh needle and asks coyly…
"Wanna trade…?"
I instantly start shaking and sweating [and being on a taper from my ‘normal’ benzo regimen didn’t help].  I excuse myself outside for a breath of fresh air and my head is assaulted by a thousand thoughts.  I have an upcoming court date that I might be tested on, and I was pretty sure that 3 or 4 days would be enough for the drugs to get out of my system.  I rationalized that since I am already on Bupe maintenance I could shoot a bag, smoke the rock, and shoot a bag to come down leaving me with a fresh bag to start off the morning.  Than I realize that I took bupe before I left for the bars and the antagonist properties of it would not allow me to get high so soon.  Than I though well maybee I can just shoot a double shot and get a little feeling of the rush or No I will smoke the rock and than do the double shot still leaving me with a bag tomorrow.  By tomorrow the bupe will be semi out of my system and I might be able to catch a buzz.  Than I caught myself…
What the fuck am I thinking, I am doing it to myself already and I have only been free of the needle for about a month.  I pulled a mental zipper up over those thoughts using a well positioned mental hand to shove them in there deep so the don’t pop out or get the zipper stuck.  I’ll deal with those thoughts later I think to myself.
I go back in and lie [knowing damn well she wont front-out all that gear for nothing] and tell her I don’t have enough medication for her only enough to cover myself.  I felt bad doing that but I needed to stay sober.  I said my quick goodbyes and was out the door faster than a lighting bolt flash.
Phew…  I wipe the sweat from my forehead close call