I could care less about the pimp

Waking up after another nasty crack binge. At least I woke up..as in I didn't continue smoking through the day. I hate crack. It's probably the worst drug on the planet. It really doesn't even make you feel good. In fact it makes me feel like poo. Thankfully I had some chiva to come down with..but I won't be smoking that shit again.

I've had this pimp calling me for about 3 weeks. Your typical "baby baby baby..stick with me and I'll have you in a townhouse" type of pimp. Usually I baby baby baby him right back since for a while he was my sole connection into opiates around here. He's always screamin' about this $400,000 house he has, the cars in his garage, the hot bitches in his bed...all this said from his $20 a night hotel room. Yeah ok whatever..can you just get me some heroin please?

Yesterday I go to meet him. Everything was normal except in my gut I felt something wasn't right. So I said to him "look bay you about to run off with my money?" Oh of course not, business as usual. I wasn't buying it ..so I gave him a $20 and told him to come back with something and if it was cool I'd give him the rest. 3 mins later he comes back with the chiva. I started digging in my pocket to get the rest of the $20's..in which he proceeded to grab my fist and pry the $20's from them. haha. Seriously? Suck a dick bitch.

I'm no noob as I've been an addict for over 15 years. I've also never been robbed or riped off..for maybe 10 or $ 20 but never  a fist full of $20's. All I could really do is shake my head and sign over the sickness that would surely be coming by night fall. I could care less about the money..I could care less about the pimp..I just didn't want to be sick.

Heroin is not an open air market type of drug here..in fact it's taken me months to find anything stronger than lortabs 10's. I remember him using my phone several days prior to this..before he went to meet the connect. So I dialed up the number and talked to the man on the other end. He knew who I was.. like I've said before..heroin is not a widely used drug here so I guess the few people who do have it..use it..sell it..whatever..know what's up. Needless to say I did not spend a sweaty night curled up like a baby vomiting everywhere.

It's better this way. He would only sell me two papers yesterday so now I must repeat the process all over. He's out today!! How do drug dealers run out? It's a 6 hour round trip, he tell's me, to re up and he'd be home later. ugh. I really should move to Baltimore or new jersey.

text messages from a man named red dragon

Last night I dreamed the United States was under attack. It started with fire bombs raining down on crowded streets. I was walking.. looking for milk..it had all gone bad. I was receiving text messages from a man named red dragon, he called me love..very sweet but I can't place him.

I was shoved around by a brown skin man in a button down and trousers. He was followed by a woman in a dress suit. They grabbed me by force and interrogated me about my drug use. I tried reasoning..but my mouth failed me and I confessed that I was a junkie..heroin..cocaine..xanax. They grabbed my thigh and gave me a shot. A vaccine against drugs..every drug. I cried..and afterwords I was very very pissed as I rubbed the bumps on my thigh.

I found opana IR and shoved tons in my pockets..unable to get high..I found a day care center where I ate Ritz crackers with cheese in a can. Acid rain fell on all the people in the street but I was apparently vaccinated against it as well. I walked the river banks..wondering why my mother had taken the van keys with her.

I suppose my dream could have no meaning..or was brought on by the recent death of osama. As well..it could be stress because I still haven't found heroin in a 3 hour radius. My trip to New Orleans last week proved more frustrating than rewarding as I proceeded to shoot 5 bags with little effect. In Dallas..I was sold heroin mixed with Tylenol PM..and in Shreveport.. I was given 10 lortab 10 which only made me slightly sleepy and highly annoyed.

As I write this..I'm afraid of the day I do find heroin again..and of the day I embrace my impending sobriety as well. At war with myself..searching to embrace my enemy..kill my ally..sabotage my defense. It's a sad day. I'm so close..the thing that heals me..it also destroys me.

Terminal Shoes

Outside earlier, smoking..reflecting, I noticed the soles of my shoes. These shoes have walked a million miles. They've seen the innards of crack houses and heroin hideouts. They've witnessed acts of violence...and thousands of drug deals. They've enetered police cars and jails alike. They've walked the streets at night...out run dirty tricks and caught up with leaving dealers. These were the shoes I wore when I took the greyhound out of albuquerque..holding 2 $20 ballons of heroin. These shoes were the shoes I had on when that same bus deposited me in shreveport. By then..void of the heroin..carrying my sick and weak body inside the terminal.

Terminal.

 These shoes stepped over the body Vincent found on Estancia and Central. After some inspection we noted it to be BJ and quickly called 911. It was too late. Much Much too late. These shoes paced back and forth..back and forth..back and forth..while BJ's wife cried..begging Vincent for a piece of black. I cried for BJ..no one else would. He wasn't my friend..he never broke off when I was sick..and once stole a radio from the bus I lived in. I cried because no one else would. He was another dead body on another dead day...one less vein to feed on an early Albuquerque morning. My shoes walked away from his death...and carried me further into my own.

These shoes walked my love into the hearing that sentenced him to 10 years for a robbery he may or may not have committed..that part is still unclear. Beautiful Boy. He bought these shoes for me after I lost my others. It was shoes or heroin. I chose heroin. He chose shoes and chinese food. He drew a heart with a black sharpie marker on the nike check. It's long since been erased by the elements. I'm tempted to redraw it..but it wouldn't be the same.

Like stitches disolving in a wound

So I just moved to shreveport louisiana, from the black tar capital of the planet. Well maybe not the planet but I could score heroin 24/7 on any corner in my hood. Now I'm in crack central and meth city. I've managed to keep myself well the past 3 weeks on poppy seed tea and HIGH HIGH doses of loperamide.  If I'm not careful I'll cross the line into sobriety..that thick curvy line..like stitching disolving in a wound.  I can't have that.

Heroin is my warm blanket.. just out of the dryer. It's my life. I have, by no means, taken the easy way out, as friends and family have suggested. It's not an easy life. However, true success is waking up in the morning and going to bed at night..and in between doing what makes YOU happy. Heroin makes me happy. I digress.

I've traveled through america and many places over seas, with great success in staying well. Like Rachel Ray searching for good food in new places, so have I been in my search for heroin. That is until I landed myself In shreveport louisiana. I've gone through countless gallons of gas, driven through every ghetto and suburb, talked to every person on every corner that made its self available to me.

There's a methadone clinic here. Score? I visited the clinic a couple times. Talking to the people walking out of the clinic. Every person I talked to said they were using the clinic for pain pill addiction. Lortabs.. percocets...codeine. Seriously? Where's the dilaudid? The opana? The Oxycontin? The Heroin for Fucks sake? Can it be? A entire methadone clinic set up to combat lortab addiction? It's more like the clinic is servin up clients who would otherwise be without. I've never seen the likes of this. All my real live soldier cats..where you at?

I suppose from an outsiders view this might be considered a blessing. It's not. It's a thorn in my side...a cup of sand for my dehydration. I want to feel the warm blanket draped over my shoulder...the train wreck to the back of my knee's. I want to go home...that familiar place in front of the fire. Curl up with my love for a nod. I want to curse this stupid city and it's stupid crack cocaine.
So what's next? Sobriety is chasing me down..ready to throw me under the bus. I can feel it's grip around my throat. I can't breathe and I'm running out of places to hide. I don't want an opiate replacement..I want heroin. 

Dallas is 4 hours away....New Orleans 5 hours..Houston 6 hours..Chicago 13 hours.. Miami 17 hours...Baltimore 19 hours.......to what lengths?