Saturday, July 31, 2010

Number One

Just a little incident I wanted to write about. From the perspective of a mom, I have to say my whole world has changed. My priorities are my son now, and that is THE most important thing. Now maybe I was just finally ready, or maybe I just know what not to do from before...and maybe, it could all slip away at any minute.
Now, I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea here because I am no where near slipping in any way...but seeing a mother who has fallen brought up a lot of feelings for me tonight. Let me indulge you...

I met this woman tonight when I was at a concert tonight with my son. She mentioned she also had a son, who was somewhere around the age of three, I think. She was miles and miles from home, and she seemed like she was somewhat buzzed. And I just wondered how a mother could be so far from her kid, to be out partying. I just cannot imagine leaving him for even one night right now, and I could not be just off somewhere following a band around.
Which I, by the way, have done. I toured around the country a couple of times with Phish, and I really loved Phish tour. I still look back on those years with a fondness. I have often wondered if it all started then, was it my years traveling around that got me started spinning? Or was it a collision course I was destined no matter what. It is no lie that addiction can be genetic. I really enjoyed the freedom of the road, and we had to be responsible because we were traveling. We never ate X if we were not staying in that city, or somewhere real close by. We did not get really drunk and out of control...but, was it the beginning still?

I will never know.

Back from the reflection, I see this mother, and I see all these other mothers I have known. I do not know this mother I saw tonight, and she may simply be on a much needed vacation, who am I to say. It was when I saw the faces of so many other mothers I have known looking back at me through memory. When I think of those mothers I once used with, I often wonder how close I could be to being that mother. I am thankful I met heroin before I ever met my kid...and when I finally met my child, holding his precious little body in my arms, I had said good bye to heroin years earlier. I am just so thankful that when I held my child for the first time, my life began to cement a new path. Forever. I knew a girl who left her six month old baby with its father for a couple of months while she ran off and used dope. She hardly talked about the baby. And I think about a friend forgetting to pick her son up from daycare. I think about mothers who use, and all the sordid details that can go along with it. Before I had my son, it never really struck me one way or the other.
Now that I have a son, I really wonder how a mother could leave her kid for weeks to party? I wonder how you could forget about picking up your kid. And I really wonder how someone could chose dope over their kid. That is coming from someone who understands addiction.
And that is coming from someone who really does understand what it is like to abandon everything you believe, and to forsake all that you love. I just cannot imagine doing that to my kid. I am thankful that I had him after I got that shit out of my system. If I had a kid before I started using, and I still started dabbling with that shit...there is no telling what could have happened. I worry, somewhere in the back of my mind...did some of these mothers start off just like me, and by the time their kid is five or six...could it all change? I don't think so.
I will never go back to that hell. This is just too much like a piece of heaven. Yeah sure, we all have our struggles, but when I look into that angel's eyes...I am reassured. He is my number one now.


I have got to write something, and for some reason I am steering away from onto description it is. As my insides are being ripped apart, calling for the dark, the prisoner cries. She demands that he fucking unchain her. I burden lifted, a weight is removed, and some of the pressure is relieved. That fucking pressure, building up over time and space. A space much further than the one he has goes much deeper than that. But, there is something more out there for me...

Begging. Scraping to get free, while the paint was peeling away, layer by layer. The paint was old and rusty, anyway...I gotta break free from all the fucking chains. Unchain me, and set me fucking free. Chained to to the closet of the bedroom door, repeatedly beating me down with words. Crumbling inside, churning and churning.

Yet, I feel sadness. I feel like a baby born again, unsure what to do. But then, I feel more like myself than I have ever felt. I think about all the things that those years had taken away, and my use was certainly not without cost...because the cost is greater than you have ever imagined before. I am in serious debt here, speaking metaphorically, of course. The struggle to get myself back, is not without cost. The cost, sometimes, is really fucking high.

Maybe I am wrong. I am not sure that I am a hundred percent right. How can we ever be sure of absolute truth? I am breaking from the inside, even though I am way to fucking cold to show it. But, I feel like i have just been pushed too far. I feel like it has just gotten too unbearable. I am broken, but I am not letting anyone break me again. There have been some things said, that just can never be taken back.

Shhhhhhh. Listen to those whispers on the wind. Listen to all those secrets, whispered by the trees and the skies. Shhhhhh...listen to all those whispers swirling round and round in my head. I feel the whispers behind me, and I feel the fucking looks boring a hole in my tiny little skull. Shhhhh...hear the whispers all around...

Interruption, and onto another thought.

Saturday, July 24, 2010


I remember a time I relapsed. I am thinking about this instance after reading about bruises from relapse on another blog. I think she said her bruises from the relapse were yellowing...
My mind flashes back to a time that seems so long ago. And yet, it really was not that long, I guess. As time seems to just fly by as I get older and older...sometimes looking back it like it was all just a dream...with soft lines and fuzzy edges.
I am smacked...back in time. I am back at that tiny little apartment on some random road in that shitty little town in Virginia. It was a really cool little apartment. And it was the beginning of the end, wasn't it? Or was it the end of the end? I am not really sure, as yellow bruises take me back to the bowels of those darknesses. Yet, they are light with a halo.
That narrow little two story apartment on the back of an older, somewhat Colonial house. It was a cute little street, in a small town that was inundated with college kids in this area. The bedroom upstairs was nice, and big with its hardwood floors. And the tiny little bathroom, that was the only bathroom in the house. It had slanted ceilings, which made it seem lots smaller than it really was.
Blood splatters all over that bathroom. The floor, and its tiny little tiles, blue and grey...maybe a little bit of white that is faded to yellow. Blood droplets on the little blue tiles, big and bold. Red, bright red, as it falls so slowly, I watch it in my desperate madness. The taste of blood excites me. Warm and metallic...and bittersweet because it is flooded with dope. Blood splatters on the ceiling, a perfect spray, painting the ceiling like something by Ralph Steadman in its natural and organic squirt from the bent tip of the week old needle. Blood splatters from the door, as I was holed up in there, lately.
Cocaine is a bitch. When you shoot it, you just keep wanting to shoot more, and more, and more. Always in the fucking bathroom...veins punctured and perforated...hiding like thieves, stealing away from the constant invasion. But, I am obsessive. Hit the vein, pull back...and SHIT...I will fuck with that shot until the fucking blood inside coagulates, and then I can't get it to fucking move at all. Point the tip to the ceiling...cringing at the thought of wasted dope. I usually try to just squirt it in my mouth, but sometimes the coagulated blood, turning the color of deep rust as we are speaking, thickening and thickening, is just too tough. becomes too dangerous to hold this clogged needle in my mouth...too much force is needed.

I wake up, days after the relapse began. Maybe months after the relapse began, and I think that was more accurate. Relapse, in those days, would begin slowly. Like I said, I think it was the end of the end. I could almost handle it then. At first, I would do pretty good...just using a little from time to time. I thought every time, this time I can do it. I believed I had finally figured out the secret formula. It worked, at first. It always works, at first. But, things are bound to escalate in this inevitable way of addiction.
Eventually, you come to...and something is a fucking mess. Then, the uphill battle begins again...and still months may creep by before you really get back into the arms of good grace. It is a slow and repetitive cycle, that I am thankful is finally broken.
I remember, waking up in the most comfortable bed I have ever owned, and my whole body was sore. The low, and slanted ceiling in here seemed to be caving in a little on my body in pain. I am in need...I am in desperate need. Need that is blinding, as I mechanically get out of bed, and go straight to the little bathroom. I am stepping over all kinds of shit, even though the bed is right next to the bathroom. Mechanical need, as I cook it up, and shoot up the last little bit I have for now. I am well...or shall I say, I am better.
Deep breath, as I look around. My stomach still battles a little with the need, but the rest of me has seemed to calm down. Getting quieter, and quieter, as the thoughts in my head seem to dull to a low, and slow lull. Hum, hum, humming. My tank top is still damp with beer, and my breath favors a little Jameson. I look down at my arms, still gripping the needle in my hand...
I see the image of a photograph. My hair is still damp from lying in the tub, kicking....I am still groggy from finally getting well and drifting into that deep, deep sleep. My arms, bruised all up and down. Yellowing in some spots, and dark and fresh in others. I am so spotted, it looks like a strange disease. I see the needle in the photograph dropping slowly from the girl figure's hands. Her long hair, wet and hiding her face, as she hangs it down in shame. The camera focused sharp on the needle dropping...the tip all shiny, seeming to have a tiny speck of blood dripping from it.
Blood splatters all over the bathroom. The ceiling, the door. The floor...drop, drop, droplets. I look around and clothes are piled up, wet and cold. I shiver...everything is wet. The tub is still full...I am reminded of my misery...kicking in the fucking bathtub. I shudder from hair so wet, all the way down to the bones. Water, all over the floor...It smells like mildew and death and dope.
I realize, I am broken and bruised. I am a perfect photograph of a fucking junky, and I see the perfect black and white image in my mind. I am the picturesque junky that shocks the world to see this place....
That was the end of the end. That was not the last time I used. And I did not kick that week. But, that was the last time I was addicted. That was not the last time I shot up, but that was the last time that I had a habit. After I kicked that habit, I dabbled around a little before the hammer finally came down. I shot a little dope here, banged a little coke there. I took and Oxycontin, and shot some more coke. I never used opiates for more than two days in a row, but I was shooting coke from time to time....drifting along...and if it had not been for the turn of events that happened next and changed my life, I could very well be in that cycle of addiction still.
It always ended the same. And it took me years to figure that out. I will say, that as time wore on my relapses became less frequent and each time they became shorter in duration...until the consequences of my addiction finally became too great, overwhelming me into a forced end. Jail. Two years probation. I was almost thirty five, for God's sake...and I was finally just done with it all. I wasn't going back to jail, and I stayed away from the shit. I got so far away from it, and back to who I was once was...I got back to writing, and I started to dream again. I wasn't just getting by anymore...I was taking it all back, with a vengeance.
And then, my son came along. Those changes within me were slow at first, and it wasn't until he was actually here that that drive from deep inside really started kicking in. That sense that it isn't just me anymore, and there is a lot more at stake...there is a lot more to drive motivate me. My life have changed in inexplicable ways.
The path is still rocky, and at times I feel I am just stumbling along. I am not going to say that I don't think about it from time to time because I would be lying to say that I don't. And I am not going to say that I never think about using, because the thought will sometimes cross my mind. But, I know now that I do not really want to. I look at the face of my son, and I look into the face of my past, hearing all the ghosts that haunt me whispering...and then...I look into the future. And I finally see something there. And I am writing there. I am making a living with my words, for my son...for myself. And it feels good. Way better than getting high ever did.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Slam It

Who says I can't do it?
Say it out loud.
Who says I ain't got the fucking guts?

I have seen it done before.
Just stand up and do it.
I have been fascinated before...
And now, it is becoming
An obsession.

The rush, the rush...
It has always been
The rush...

I have been after.

Stand up, and face the crowd...
With the truths
Of my soul.
Deep and dark
This habits of the darkened
Corners of the Quarter.

Stand up, and face these desires...
And curiosity.
I know
I could
Be buried

I want the rush...
I want to know what it feels like
My truth bared raw
On the end of a needle
On the corner of a poem
At the back of a stage.
Bare it all
These veins of mine,
Bulge, bulge, and bulging...
Begging for the sweet scent.
Take the bitter with the sweet...

Burning smoke
Rises from the spoon
"I dare you to get up...
And bare it all."
I look at my skin
So smooth and even,
Tiny little hairs,
Soft and fine.

The inside of my elbow
Smooth and translucent white
Of the vampiric inhabitant of the night.
I see the veins...
A tinge of blue running long and lean...
I see a vein from my heart,
Just dying to bleed out loud.
Flow from my mouth
To the mike...
Like you flow from my hand
To the mother fucking paper.
Slam it.
Blood flows through my veins
And tainted
And red...
Pure in its additives...
This shit could fucking kill you.

Tap, tap, tap
The plastic syringe,
Shiny needle pointed upward,
Tie it off...
Tap, tap, tap...
Smooth skin...
Slicing like warm butter...
Pull back...
And flow.

Damn, flowing everywhere
Red flower bursts like a poppy
A line streaks up
Thin and hard...
Red flows back into the warm brown liquid.
Of my brain.
Slam It.
Slam It.
Slam It....

And ahhhhhhhhhh...

Sweet Relief.

Tweaking...Slam It

Paranoia sets in...
Like a blanket,
And shielding my mind.

The tires are squeaky

Ghosts rising up
To talk to the tweakers.
In voices
And sounds
The silence...
That was there

In a rush
Railroad tracks
A train barreling down
Chankety chanketey
A whistle
Screaming through your head
All your limbs
Go numb
As your brain screams
In pleasure
All neurons firing at once
And the train
Screeches from the station
Warm rush
Face flushed
Brain is wailing...
Brain is wailing....
It all runs together
As the warmth rushes
Over your head
And between your legs
Screech, screech, screech...
An alarm goes off
Over and over again
The alarm has been set off
All the neurons
On fire.

Blank, blank, blank
As you just listen to the screaming
And melt into the euphoria
If you get it just right
It takes your breath away...

Then, the rush wears off,
As quick as it started.
And tweak, tweak, tweak...
Things begin to leap
Out of the cabinets
I am surrounded
By ghosts
Real and imagined,
Seeping out to whisper...

Their truths.

Their secrets.

Their lies.

And my head is rushing off again
Thoughts racing round and round
New thoughts, jagged...
A montage
Of ghosts
And future.
And imagined.

The road is crooked,
And I am panting.
Dry mouth,
Getting dry...dry...drier
By the fucking minute.
Staring straight ahead.
Afraid to look
To either side...
Tweak, tweak, tweaking...

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Fiction Story...Moving to New Orleans

We moved around a lot when I was a kid. People often ask if my parents were in the military when they find out I lived in ten different places before I was eight. My response is always, “No, they were hippies.”
My wandering hippie parents could not seem to settle down, and we moved at least once a year. As I got older and learned the ways of the world, I realized it was more about my father’s attitude than mere hippie rootlessness. My father’s ego and irresponsibility often resulted in his termination from a job. He was, however, intelligent and crafty enough to quickly land a job somewhere far, far away where his reputation did not precede him.
My mother eventually got tired of my father’s drama. She packed up a few belongings, and she took my brother and me away. As my mother tells the story, we “ran for our lives.” I do not remember it being quite like that. I only recall packing up the old, diesel Volvo that emitted a cloud of smoke and hitting the road.
We drove forever. It was summertime, and it got hotter and hotter with every mile. When we stopped for food or bathroom breaks, my skin felt damp from the humidity. It was harder to breathe in this air, and the moisture seemed to pushing down on my lungs. Eventually, the land flattened out and we entered the great state of Louisiana.
There is not really much to see in Louisiana until you get to the very bottom where New Orleans spreads out for the world to admire. Coming across the bridge on the I-10, the bright lights of the city beckon with their flickering glow. Out of the wilderness, a city comes to life.
The first thing I noticed coming into the city were the cemeteries that sprawl out on either side of the interstate. They looked like strange little cities to me, and I imagined these little “houses” to be inhabited by midgets. New Orleans is so far above sea level that all the graves are tombs above the ground. Otherwise when it rained, bodies would be brought up out of the ground. These tombs are lined up all nice and neat along the little paved roads that wind throughout the cemetery. From the interstate, the cemetery looks like a city in itself.
Billboards lined the interstate, advertising for restaurants and clubs by screaming at tourists to notice them. I noticed the stark contrast of these colorful signs against the blue sky. The sky here looked very different than the sky I had known in North Carolina. It seemed bigger here with large, puffy clouds that were so white. I watched numerous figures emerge from those clouds that hung quietly against the bluest sky I have ever seen.
The interstate curls around and through the city as new fades to old. I notice brightly colored houses decaying with age underneath large, shady trees that hang over small streets. Balconies speckle the street on either side with a large patch of grass running between each side of the road. They call that grass the middle ground, my mother told me. On the left side of the interstate, the houses are grand mansions and on the right they are smaller and dilapidated. Crumbling ruins in a neighborhood they call the Treme.
When we pulled into the Quarter, I was amazed by the depths of the city. Layers of buildings adorned with both balconies and lush greenery overlooked skinny streets bustling with people. Neon lights and blaring music tantalized my eyes and ears. My mouth fell open watching all the activity as people moved back and forth. The scene reminded my of pulling back a rotten board somewhere in North Carolina to reveal a colony of rolly polly bugs clamoring all over each other.
My mother had purchased a bar on the lower end of Decatur Street. The apartment above would come to be my home for the next few years. Previously, we always had a yard in the suburbs so living in the thick of the French Quarter was intimidating at first. There were always people and cars just moving around below our apartment.
My brother and I shared a room in that tiny little apartment above the bar. The bar was open 24 hours, and it was often overflowing with all kinds of strange characters. There were vagabond hippies, tattooed bikers, several local nut jobs, and plenty of retired drunks. My brother and I were rarely allowed to go in the bar, but we often peered in from the doors in the courtyard. We witnessed a lot of things that were too mature for our young, country eyes.
The apartment was tiny and old with a balcony overlooking Decatur Street. If I stood on my tippy toes, I could see the Mighty Mississippi just on the other side of the buildings across the street. On a quiet afternoon, you could hear the horns blowing from the barges to warn of their arrival. The train would whistle through the city as well, as it came to the docks for its cargo. The Elysian Fields dock was just on the other side of the market, and at night I could occasionally hear engines idling in the dark. Their slow and steady hum would shake the ground with a deep, gravelly voice.
All the floors were hardwood well worn with the paths of a thousand different feet. My mother claimed this apartment had been grand many years ago when it was used as a tourist’s rental. The hardwoods were no longer stained sleek and slick, but the wood appeared raw and beaten down. The boards were no longer level and their planks jutted up in random places, possibly warped by the intense heat of the Crescent City. The old nails were no longer flush and their rough edges stuck up through the wood. You had to be careful walking around barefoot because when you stepped on one of those raised nails it would really hurt!
My room was painted in this deep Mardi Gras purple. The paint was chipping in spots, revealing layers and layers of various bright colors. The paint probably buckled from the heat, splitting and flaking down the walls and onto the floor. I used to wonder how deeply the walls were buried under all the paint. The gold trim around the floor boards was also cracking to reveal old and rotting wood. At first, I did not even realize my room was painted in Mardi Gras colors. Then, I did not even know what Mardi Gras was. Now every time I see a strand of shiny Mardi Gras beads, I am reminded of this little bedroom in the Quarter.
When we first moved in, the walls of our room were adorned with cheap Mardi Gras masks. Their white faces and nonexistent eyes stared down at you while you slept. The constant whirr of the ceiling fan would rustle the green, gold, and purple ribbons hanging from those masks. It sounded like something was rustling through the room. My brother was so afraid of those fake smiles looking down into his dreams that he could barely sleep. My mother eventually took down these stupid masks, and my brother was finally able to relax.
My bedroom window opened to look down on the bustle of Decatur Street. In the evenings, I would open my window and take it all in. Smells of seafood and garlic would rise from Fiorella’s across the street, making me wish my mother would cook something other than baked chicken. I watched drunks cussing on the street, lovers walking hand in hand, and adults running down the street with a drink sloshing in a go cup. The roar of motorcycles would often come raging down Decatur Street to rest directly under my window while their owners would come into the bar for a drink. On Saturdays, the street would sometimes be lined with shiny and expensive motorcycles belonging to the regular patrons.
It was always loud in that apartment. Laughter would rise up from the bar, drowning out the constant murmur of the jukebox. Bass would rattle the books on my shelf. On Sunday nights, my mother hired a jazz band to play. I would lie in bed straining to make out the trumpet or the saxophone over din of laughter and drinking. I would imagine my mother sitting at the bar like a maƮtre with a glass of wine. I now know she was probably more occupied filling up the ice, stocking more beer and liquor, or wrestling out of control drunks onto the street.
Our room was sparsely furnished with whatever had been left in the apartment before we showed up. My brother and I each had a twin bed on opposite sides of the room. My mother had taken us to Kmart the day after we moved in for new sheets and comforters. The ones that had been left behind smelled like mildew and urine. My bed was adorned with a bright pink and green Strawberry Shortcake comforter complete with a giant strawberry shaped pillow. My brother had chosen Spiderman. It did not occur to me that these comforters offered a bright clash to both each other and the awful purple walls.
On my side of the room was a bookcase that displayed all my most prized possessions, which consisted mostly of books. The bookshelf was painted in a peeling gold with saggy shelves. A dog eared copy of “Little House on the Prairie” lay tucked in with the rest of the books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Harriet the Spy was stained and worn from reading over and over again. All the Ramona books by Beverly Cleary lie scattered throughout my collection. On top of the bookcase was my clock radio with its blaring alarm that would jolt my brother and me out of bed way too early. Beside the radio, were two AA coins I found in my grandmother’s wallet after she died. The coins were etched with cryptic markings that lead me to believe my grandma had been a member of some secret society like the freemasons. Back then, I did not understand the weight of these coins. I only knew my grandmother had carried them with her wherever she went. Little did I know that I also carried her disease in my genetic code.
The light in my room came mostly from sunlight streaming in through the uncurtained window. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling fan that gave an orange glow at night. The fan was always on to combat the stifling heat of New Orleans. Sometimes I would lie awake at night listening to the alternating whirr and squeak of the fan, while I imagined what might be going on in the bar below.
It was only a few years that we lived in the Quarter before we packed up and moved to South Carolina. The city changes you. Once you get city blood flowing through your veins, it is impossible to get her out of your mind. Although it was years before I went back to New Orleans, I thought of her often. The sounds of the city used to keep me up at night, but in South Carolina I found the silence to be deafening. To this day, I sleep much more soundly amidst the sounds of traffic and city life.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

I know I have not been posting as much lately. I am very busy with school these days. I just started back in college after dropping out ten years ago. I will have my degree in Mass Media Communication, and a minor in Journalism in less than a year. I just finished the first summer session, which I am proud to say I made A's in both my classes. (Spanish and Intro to Fiction Writing) I left school with a 2.3 GPA, so I need to get a lot of A's if I want to get into graduate school, which is my goal. I want to write. I want to write for a whatever capacity I can.
It feels fucking wonderful to be back in school...

A Poem Called Shobar...Another Slam Piece

Darkened interior
Against the bright sun
It is hot...
And muggy.
I am dripping with sweat
As I walk inside.

It smells like ancient wisdom
And old pussy
Covered in dust,
And heartache.
The ancient stage
Looks like
Something from a movie
With mirrors
So old and worn
That sometimes
I can barely see
My reflection
In the dimmest light.
The pole
In the middle
Is ancient, too.
With years of grime
Caked up
At hands length
Feeling rough and bumpy
Leaving my hands
With bits of funk
From a thousand dirty strippers
The wood...
All around
Is old
And soft
Bending to the touch
Making indentions
With the pressure
Of nervous fingers.

The dressing room
Reeks of feet
And perfume
And weed.
Her floors are dirty
And wet with mildew and mold
Her walls are covered
With works of graffiti
The bright lights in here
Each and every flaw
That the rest of the darkness
Attempts to hide.

The clamour of girls
Talking, laughing
Putting on hair,
Make up,
And clothes
Rises in the smoke filled space
My heart
Is light
And buoyant
With prospects
Of the evening.

My pockets are
As full as my brain...
Flooded with heroin-
And warmth.
Several girls look up at me
Awaiting my arrival
They look at the depths of my eyes
And see...
They, too
Will soon be coming home.

Dressed and ready
Happy and high
I sit at the also ancient bar
Drifting back and forth
A couple
Of shots of Jameson.

Urges and Desire...A Slam Piece

Desires and needs
Dripping from my mouth
Like rabid drool
Foaming and frothing.
Obsession and necessity
Dripping like blood
And warm
And thick
Drip, drip, dripping
From my veins
Free flowing onto the page
I dip my pen in...
Releasing my blood
In splatters
All over the page.
Dripping into my brain
Its fucking killing me
This desperate need...
This desperate desire...
Like a god-damned phoenix
From the fucking ashes

Invading my mind
This fucking disease
Invading my body
Like the troopers of the storm
The deluge
Slowly rising
Until all sides are full
And my cup
Is almost...
At the seams
This invasion of desire.

Can I resist?
I try to hold back
As the tide rises
And the water just keeps
Getting higher
Smashing inward,
Building and building...
My mind circles
Round and round
Upon itself

The dam has fucking burst
And all is let loose
And high.
And pleasure
Melts into my bones.
The wait is fucking over.

Hold tight
The ride...
Has just begun.

Saturday, July 10, 2010


Ruby red,
Warm and inviting

Warm in
My mouth

Warm, red...
In my mouth...
Moments before
I get high....

I remember
Days of confusion
And mental rain.
Drenched in Vodka
Somewhere in Rhode Island.
I barely
Even remember
My mom visited.

Drenched in cheap
And drowning
In those
Waters still.
Listening to
The Killers.
I see him still
With a cane
And sunglasses
In the house.

And crack and vodka
Did I mention
Trazedone and Codeine
Seroquel and Lorazepam
And lots and lots
Of fucking stress.

It was
The beginning
Of the end.
No, you silly girl
The beginning
Of the end
A long, long time

A fishing line
Strung up
Strung out
Lots of events
Like dirty laundry
In my
Too many

In my head
Trying to keep
My head
Above water.

All the while
I spin and weave
These tales
That are
Just dying to escape.
Really is
Than fiction.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Correction on Cops...

I have to say something about Cops again today. And I would like to dedicate this one to Spark Plug, who did not, however scare me by stopping by. I had something happen to me today that involved the cops. I have to give the cops a pat on the back.
I got home today with my son. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when we pulled up in the shady driveway of our little duplex on a busy road. I was, as usual, fighting with my child's father when we pulled up in the steamy little Honda. The baby was fussy in the back. As we get out, gathering garbage and the baby, I notice something in the yard that looks like one of our blankets. It was a deep red thing laying in the yard. I asked Bobby about it, and walked over with Lucien to see what it was. I was still gathering things from the car when Bobby asks me to hold Lucien. He tells me not to go inside because that is one of the red drapes that were out on the porch. He is going in first to see what's up.
I walk around to the front of the duplex, that is about fifteen feet from a four lane road. A man is walking off my porch, and immediately turns left down the stairs as the storm door swings closed. I scream for Bobby because this man just walked out of our house! We never use the front door. It is just to close to the busy road, and we do not really even want Lucien to know it is a door that we go out of. It always remains locked, with three of which can only open from the inside.
As I walk up on the porch, Bobby approaches the man as he tries to casually walk away. The door is open about an inch, and I know this man has been inside. He tries to tell Bobby that he is the cousin of our neighbor that we share the duplex with. He claims he is here doing some kind of work, and he goes so far as to roll the guy's garbage can back to his house. Meanwhile, I have gone inside and realized the bathroom window was up. My computer was sitting in its bag, safe and sound.
I walked back out the front. I am yelling at Bobby to make sure he has called the police because this mother fucker has been in our house! He already has them on the phone, and he is giving them the address as he turns back towards the house to get a log. The guy starts to walk away, he slowly tries to make his way across the street. Bobby is trying to corner him with the stick, corralling him to one side as the cop car drives up with his lights on. The cop stops right in the intersection, and jumps out acknowledging the man by his first name.
"Mr. McCullough, " the cop bellows in a northern accent that sounds funny this far south. He immediately puts the man in handcuffs, and takes him to the backseat of a cop car. They did not waste their time with a bunch of fucking questions, and they just apprehended the fucking guy. They were on the scene in a matter of seconds, a minute at the most. And they caught the fucking guy before he could get away.
They found nothing on him, and there was nothing missing. A tragedy was averted. If my computer had been stolen, I would have been fucked with this class I am taking in the summer session. I would have lost a lot of valuable writing, that my mother has, by the way, been telling me I needed to back up. But, they caught the fucking guy. And he has done this before, and he will do this again...but not while he is in fucking jail.
Now, I know first hand how much jail sucks. But, I did deserve to be there...and it changed my life. Unfortunately, most people are not as lucky as I was. This mother fucker who was walking out of my mother fucking house, empty handed or not...needs to do some mother fucking time. Crimes against innocent people I will not tolerate...
Back to the cops. These guys were so nice. And efficient. Within minutes, there were three more cars there. The initial cop that caught the guy and would be hauling him off to jail any moment asked us a few questions and then introduced us to the others. He left to transport the prisoner. The rest of the guys were really nice, and they took a detailed statement while Lucien ran all through the house that was now spotted with detectives. They smiled at Lucien and patted him on the head, never getting frustrated when he tried to get one cop's papers.
Withing minutes of them taking the suspect away, fingerprints were being taken. There were several guys, obviously of different rank giving both orders and advice, each one saying hello to us. By the time the interview was done, all the evidence was collected...and the cops were on their way in less than 45 minutes. They were all really nice, and it was really comforting to know that men like this take criminals off our streets. I am very impressed with these cops today. I must say...they did not scare me for one moment...and in fact, it was a comfort to have them there.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Who would have ever thought I would have been the sober one who makes sure everything is clean and orderly....

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Thursday, July 1, 2010

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The roots of a tree I knew quite well as as a child.

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my sleeping angel that has made my life wonderful...

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No More

Guilt, guilt
Piling up on me.
Go ahead...
Call me a
Fucking junky again.
Do not mention
I have
Been clean
For years.
Go ahead...
Call me a junky
Bring it up
Every chance
You have.

Is that all
You got on me?
Is that all
You can say?

Fuck you
You fucking fuck.
There is only
So much
I can take
So go ahead...
Accuse me
Of something
I did not do.
Call me something
I no longer am.

Go ahead...
Am going ahead
My life.

Miserable Today

I hate this fucking shit. I cannot take it much longer. I am about to crack. If you say one more hateful, nasty thing...I may just have to fucking kill you. Can't you see you are killing me? Can't you see how unhappy I am? Can't you see that you are ruining it all...or maybe its just me.


Fucking miserable.
Of all the shit.
I cannot
Take it anymore.

I hate you
And the way
You make me feel.
You are so mean
And grouchy.
Seems like you
Are always
Fucking pissed.
And I don't even
Care anymore.

Of always bending
Of being afraid
Of being alone
And misunderstood.

I should get
A little leeway
Especially today...
But, I forgot
Is more important
Than you.
At least
To yourself.

Breaking down...
And breaking up...
That's just all
I can do.


Funny little story that came to mind tonight. I am not sure why this one came to mind tonight, but it made me smile in a time of tears. I thought it was appropriate to go ahead and tell this one. It made me smile, but it also makes me kind of sad. It makes me sad sometimes to realize that some pieces of my past are as long gone as my addictions. We have to rid ourselves of so many things to come out clean on the other side. There are some things that I miss dearly...

Liam and i were on the way to our wedding. We were coming to Virginia from New Orleans. It was going to be a long trip and a long ride. We had plenty of dope, some methadone, and some really great weed. His suit was hung neatly in the back seat, along side of our clothes for the rehearsal dinner.
We left New Orleans in the evening. I cannot really remember why we left so late. It was probably because we were waiting on dope, but in my hazy memory I cannot be too sure. We kept sniffing dope at every possible interval. We stopped at a diner, filled up on food and did a nice line of heroin after we ate. Liam had to stop and rest for a couple of hours. We pulled over, and we both fell asleep in the car for a couple of hours.
When we woke up, the sun was starting to come up. We got out the dope, and chopped up a couple of lines. We both were in need at this point, and our stomachs were beginning to churn. We got back on the road. As Liam was driving, I was packing up the bowl. Then I passed it to Liam, and he fired it up.
I took the second hit. I needed a hit to stave off the slight feeling of nausea that had set in while I was sleeping. I took a big hit, letting the smoke fill my lungs. As I exhaled, the nausea got much worse. Liam later said that he looked over, and I turned a ghostly pale. He was like, "Uh-oh...."
I could barely get the window down as we were speeding down the interstate. I rolled it down, and did not have enough time to really stick my head out before the chunks of vomit were ejected violently from my body. I heard a splat, and an substance that resembled oatmeal was spreading across the back passenger window. The whole side of the car was covered in this thick mess, and the wind smeared it everywhere.
I turn around to look. I am shocked by this disgusting mess when I notice that the back window is down about an inch. I look at our clothes that are hanging in that window. Of course, my puke came right back in that inch crack, and our clothes were now splattered with vomit. It was not that funny at the time, but we laughed about it for many years later.

I miss those good old days. Those days before the fall tore it all apart. I miss the way it used to be. I miss the closeness we had. I sit here in this miserable relationship that I know is doomed as we are hurling closer and closer to hatred. I am completely misunderstood as I walk on eggshells. I am choking here...and I miss that special closeness that Liam and I shared. For what it is worth, I just don't think anyone will ever understand me like that again. I miss him, and it breaks my heart that after all this time...he still cannot be my friend.