ufosaliens.jpgParanoia, as I slither crawling across the floor blood still dripping from the injection site, the cocaine has my heart thumbing I can hear the beat pound my eardrums. I am convinced my front door is about to get kicked in, as I peek thru the windows, binoculars smudge free. My hands shake so bad I cant get a clear view, was that a guy just ducking down behind the bushes? I fucking knew it SHIT SHIT SHIT, I hide my stash in the basement airducts. Fuck why did I just screw my dope into the air ducts with a screwdriver, I want another shot. I told myself I was only going to take 3 shots and put the rest away, now I am closing in on the 25 shot mark. Should I score more? I want it sooo bad, just one more rush, I can deal with the imaginary police that are going to repel into my windows. I need to calm down, I need to score I only got a gram left, and the suns starting to crest this globe of insanity.

Sweat is dripping off me like spring rain shower, I am wearing nylon shorts, no shirt, all my needles are starting to dull. Its starting to take over 15 mins. to hit a vein. Coagulated chunks of blood float in the barrel. Was that just a car door slamming? Fuck I need some tranquilzers to stop me from shaking out comes a 3mL syringe I load up 20mg’s of Valium. Shattering the tops of the ampules with my teeth like a lunatic. Locked and loaded 4 bars of xanax go under the tongue and the plunger gets plunged. A slight wave a calmness hits me. I eat 8mgs of Klonopin just cause. my mouth is so dry the subligual xanax leaves a white stain on my lips, I dont care. I am in tweak land where the heart beats fast and loud, shhh your turning the pages of the magazine too loud ‘they’ will here you.

Man your losing it, just relax here sit down for a second stay away from the window, lets take some shots of Vodka my using friend counters. I slam back 4 or 5 shots, loving the burn. I can hear the vodka splashing around in my belly, empty as my head. We each split the last gram and do a huge shot, I know he has some more stashed, I steal his cotton and add it to my pile of pathetic sketched out cottons, still desperate for that one more throw me back in the chair, bellringing, HOLY SHIT shot that I will never get this run.

Pearlescent chucks of rocks rotates in my head, the occasional splash of primatic rainbow shine of the imaginary chunk. FUCK I hate coming down, I need more coke, I need a fucking clue.

God how I hate cocaine, the most vile illicit sustance of them all. Its plastic freebase fumes bounce of my window in some back-jack-patty-wack parking spot in the ghetto. Uhh that first hit of the morning I feel the puke churn, damn that was a good hit. I dont even let the pipe cool down before I drop a pea-sized yellow chunk of waxy crack onto the top of my pipe. It melts instantly into the brillo. Pipe held steady in my lips I have a lighter in each hand [the cheap see-thru plastic ones, with the metal guard broke off and the flame about 3 inches high]. Double barrel action jackson, I hit the glass tube with a vengence lips burning, I dont care. OH FUCK, this is another good one, my head starts ringing and the hussle and bussle of the city is slowly muted, ahhh. A monstrous cloud of thick heavy smoke pours out as I can physically see my heart beating out of my chest thru my emaciated frame. That is all I am a frame of a body, I am hollow on the inside and out. I dont care about anything except my next fix. Which on that particular day was 0.4 grams of Grade AAA white flakey heroin so god damn good. I just teased myself with a morning 0.5 grams of yellow ear wax looking crack. As I type this the craving of the early morning huge crack rush is craving in my brain, just one hit, I swear. Wake up dumbshit, I dont think I have loved and hated a drug as much as cocaine. Heroin I would have done just about anything for and I do hate it with a passion but not nearly as much as Mr. fucking insane whacked out comedown, ready to bang my head against the wall, to rid my body and mind of that feeling and mindset of the craving and sickening acts of desperation. The Cow is giving kerosene, kid cant read at seventeen. The words he knows are all obscene, but its all right. I will get by, I will get by, I will get by, I will survive. Shoe is on the hand that fits, thats all there really is to it. Whistle through your teeth and spit, but its all right.

On the single celled earth deep with in the organic tissue of the lush, windswept, jungle a tanned boy wearing just simple flower pollen streaking under his eyes, much in the way the one minded, fat, NFL watching, Hemi driving, beer guzzling freak would wear as he imitates his heros on the electronic projection screen. Stylized in pixels. red, blue, and green. Green the color of money, the tap root of evil. The evil that keeps the young father up late at night, sleepless trying to figure out a way to inform his wife that they are a few hundred thousand in the red, his body should be paralyzed in a paradoxical turgid sleep dreaming about incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between two visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensations of Omnipotent Father Eternal God.

Riding the fractal wave of time into the distance on the ancient trigonometric functions of cosine varibles accurate up to 6 decimal points. Etched in the clay cuniform tablet. Grayish, and stoney in its hue the timeworn universal language pulses thru the living non earth born elemental metal. As the cigar shaped ship hop-scotchs thru a heavy forest in upper Vermont, splintering giant evergreens like toothpicks. The spirits of the trees swim in a spiral motion crying in pain, regrouping to replenish there sap producing molecules in a universal conscious. Forming the thought in my brain that I must leave this microchip computer and wash the earth off my body and prepare to slide into a comfortable couch and watch some movie with somebody who better not have touched anything illict that means you Ms. Crocidile, my all seeing eye knows all remember you cant fool a junky. Or shall I say recovering addict addicted to khemikal contraption in the shape of orange stop signs and white ufo saucers. The enigma of skeletal almond shaped eye ‘watchers’ grows with the strength of a fall tropical storm bursting into a all out run-for-your-life hurricane. Spin away, spin in circles untill you collapse upon the ground a mass of human flesh that is motionsick. Knock knock knockin on heavens door.

Peace [of mind],