Crackhead Chronicles

Mar 31, 2014 at 00:06 o\clock

The Road

by: Azuzu

There is a place not far from here, anywhere, everywhere, somewhere, and nowhere which has a very dark road. 
This place is a very lonely place, and the road that exists in that horrible place is one of pain and suffering.  
This dark road is littered with the shards of broken promises, shattered dreams and dashed hopes.
The road is paved with the tears of those that travel its expanse. 
On that road walks a man. A man who is alive but really dead, while his back is ramrod
straight his spirit is bent and misshapened. 
Outwardly he looks happy but in reality he is pathetically sad.
He is or was a good man. 
This man is besieged by demons or maybe himself.
Demons harass, nibble and mark this man with their claws, he is bloodied, but he trudges slowly forward. 
This man's journey started off innocently enough, but its course and purpose have changed during the years. 
The road has taken him through many valleys. Some were beautiful while others were barren, desolate, and ugly, just like his soul. 
The man delingently walks the road like a robot. He cannot help himself. He is being pushed by the demons that heckle and beguile him. 
The man looks ahead and sees that his journey is almost at an end. 
The road abruptly ends onto a precipice. 
He approaches the end of the road and looks over its edge. It is very high. 
The wind whips up from the bottom of the precipice and along with it; it brings the sad wailing sounds of hopelessness and abandonment. 
It is an erie siren song that is heard by all, ignored by many, and danced to by the few. 
It is but a butterfly's whisper on the ears.   
The man stands on the edge and  knows that all he needs to do now is take one more step. 
Just ..more..little..step.  

Feb 7, 2006 at 17:56 o\clock


by: Azuzu

Addiction implies that a drug dependency has developed to such an extent that it has serious detrimental effects on the user (referred to as an addict). They may be chronically intoxicated, have great difficulty stopping the drug use, and be determined to obtain the drug by almost any means. The term addiction is inextricably linked to society's reaction to the user, and so medical experts try to avoid using it, preferring dependence instead.

Addict is a drug user whose use causes them serious physical, social or psychological problems. As it is a much-abused term, many people prefer to talk of problem drug users instead.


I’ve been in Philly six months and I’ve never been in this bad a shape before. I’m down from 235 lbs. to 160 lbs. I have a fucked-up job in a factory, working six days a week for minimum wage.

I get paid on Friday and as I’m walking home I start saying to myself, “I’m not going to get high today”, “I’m not going to get high today”. Sadly by the time I get to my roach infested shabby-ass rented room, I have a bundle of Crack and a 40oz bottle of cheap beer. I’m no longer living for me but living only for the disease.

I really hate this life.

I hate how weak I am against this thing. It seems as if I have absolutely no will power. I hate working 60 hours plus a week, getting paid on Friday, only to be flat broke on Monday. I hate those instant noodles that are the only thing I can afford to eat for the rest of the week. I hate not knowing what to do about it.


It’s summer in the Badlands (North Philadelphia) and there are plenty of things to do. Summer in the city means that there will be allot of scantily dressed beautiful women to see and talk to, but instead, I’m locked up in my room smoking this shit, alone. This thing has become my woman, my wife, my bitch and my life.


It’s three in the morning and I’m out of Crack. I’m looking at the last 18 dollars to my name. I want to buy twenty dollars worth but I’m short two dollars, since I’ve been buying from the same guy all night, I’m expecting that he will let me sly for the rest.



I hit the dark trash strewn and mostly cruel streets of the “Badlands” and started to make my way to the “drug spot”. Along the way the only people I see are the crack-whores (calling to me, looking to trick) and all the “geeking” drug users who are out trying to do the same as me (get one more hit). The only vehicular traffic out at this time are the “John’s” out “trolling” for pussy and the “not so undercover Police”. Mind you I’ve just smoked four hundred dollars worth of rock, so I’m pretty “skitzed”.


Skitzed or skitzing- The state of paranoia induced by smoking Cocaine. The levels vary from the individual’s amount of use and length of use. Some smokers are so paranoid after use that they will not step out doors. It is also known as “geeking”. You will see one walking down the street, eyes wide and round, jerkingly looking around not unlike a chicken. Other terms include: Geek Monster, Cluck head, Clucker and Skeezer. Usually the last one “Skeezer” is reserved for crack-whores.  



I crossed a popular (drug) park and went to the corner. My dealer was there peddling his poison. I approached him and ask for a twenty. He handed it to me and took my money. He counted it and asked for the two dollars. I told him I was short and he refused the sell. He reached and snatched the twenty of Crack back. I exclaimed “What the fuck!” “I just spent my whole fucking check with you and you can’t let me go for two fucking dollars!?” He sneered at me and said “I don’t take shorts!” “Get the fuck out of here before I smoke you (shoot you). “You fucking Crackhead!”




He hit home with that insult. I was enraged, broke and wanting more. This motherfucker’s insults were the last straw. He made concrete all the things (in my mind) that I was trying to deny. I was a “fucking crackhead”. All these months I had been trying to repress and deny what deep down I knew to be true; I had let this drug turn me into a loser. This drug had me all to its self, alone and isolated. I used to be a proud man. No one would ever talk to me like this asshole and get to keep their teeth. Even with his insult fresh on my face, I tried one more time (how terribly pathetic) only to be told to “Get the fuck out of here!”


I went across the street, beyond his line of vision and watched him while I decided what to do. It wasn’t long before I made up my mind. I decided to take what I wanted. I was going to show this motherfucker who the fuck he was messing with. I hid myself, with the word “crackhead” still resonating in my mind.


With mounting rage, I watched him as he continued to conduct his business. I saw where he had his drugs hidden. I deduced that he was armed. I did not see what his weapon was but his swagger and “ghetto” bravado implied as much. He continued to berate all those that came to buy Crack from him. He was excessively insulting and very arrogant.


It was time for me to get a weapon. I found a loose brick and hid myself in the shadows. As luck would have it, he started to close shop (after about an hour) and proceeded to come towards my direction. Thankfully the city is very negligent in its up-keep of parks located in the ghetto, so I had plenty of cover and concealment. I was crouched by a tree and overgrown bushes by the very sidewalk he was walking on. I was seething, drowning in machismo and hurt pride. As he came abreast to the tree, I lunged out, brick in hand, swinging for his head. I struck him between ear and jaw with a bone crunching “thwack!” The blow carried so much power (or either the brick was so old) that the brick broke in two. To my great satisfaction he immediately and noiselessly slumped to the ground. I straddled him and repeatedly punched him in his face. This was totally unnecessary. He was bleeding from various cuts to the facial area and very much unconscious. As I stood over him, striking him, I remember insanely screaming at him “I’m a man!” ” I’m a man!” (Spraying spittle on his face) “I’m a motherfucking man!”



Man? Is this really the actions of a MAN? Do MEN waylay unsuspecting drug dealers/ victims in the dark? It was so easy for me to fall into bloodlust. How easy it was to do violence. It was as if all my frustrations, feelings of hopelessness and degradation focused to a pinpoint and then let loose on this very unfortunate human being. I will not lie. It felt good. I felt as if I was finally in control. I was in charge! Being at the bottom for as long as I had been, I was finally (if not momentarily) on top.

Sadly, I was never so “out of control” as in that *moment. I had become an… ANIMAL!



“It” (the animal) stood over **him and rummaged thru his pockets. “It” relieved him of his “golf ball” sized ball of Crack. “It” also took all his money and as an added bonus “It” found a nine-millimeter handgun stuffed in his waistband. “It” checked to see he was still alive and then ran (hugging the shadows) all the way home. “It” was careful to take as many alleyways as possible (in case “It” was being followed). I was extremely saddened and ashamed; there was no escaping or denial of the fact that “It” was I.  




Rock bottom was where I finally arrived. My mind was a whirlpool of jumbled and irrational thoughts. My conscious was trying to be heard but I kept repressing the ugly and awful realization of what I had just done. The idea that I was insane never crossed my drug-saturated mind. I rationalized that it was okay to knock this motherfucker unconscious just as maybe a Police Officer might rationalize beating me down because I’m a crack head. A plagued individual better off removed from society.



I finally reached my hovel of a room, rushed in, locked the doors and spent the next forty-five minutes furtively looking out the windows. All the while praying “foxhole prayers” that the Police or the compadres of my stretched out drug dealing friend did not show up at my doorstep. Feeling like shit, I sat at the foot of my bed.


I looked at the ball of Crack Cocaine; all those righteous and moral thoughts were quickly pushed back into the farthest recesses of my mind. I started to feel ashamed and guilty. These two feelings are what fuel the disease. Now all I felt was the obsession to feel nothing. This was my release valve. I did not want to feel or face the fact of the animalistic levels I had sunk to. All I wanted to do right then was to FEEL GOOD. To lose myself into oblivion, just go numb. Fuck it all to hell. Fuck him, fuck me, and fuck everything else. I needed a blast.


I sat up and pulled the coffee table nearer. I grabbed my pipe and started to smoke. Right next to the ball of Crack laid the semi-automatic handgun. These were my spoils. Was I the victor? These two things so closely related to death, they went well together. One guaranteed a slow ends to the means (hopefully); the other an explosive exit out of his madness.


One thing I knew for sure

I needed help.


 *He later bragged (thru his broken jaw) to his friends that he repelled an attempted robbery by many individuals. Since he was so insulting to all that came to buy, he was at a lost to identify who could have attacked him.


**I say “that moment” because there will be “other times”, which I will disclose in future postings

Nov 5, 2005 at 17:07 o\clock

One Day at a Time

by: Azuzu


I seem to be running races through my mind

Trying to slow it down and focus on the recovery I’m trying to find


Surrendering to God, begging him to show me a way

To take me in his hands and learn “Just For Today”


With “Slick” whispering in my ear

“Just one more, one more”, is all I hear

Listening to him is my biggest fear


Is this the world that did this to me?

Or is this me that did this to me?


What do I do to get help?

Who do I see to help myself?


How do I change when I don’t know where to begin?

This is a battle; how the fuck do I win?


Find a higher power!


So I close my eyes and begin to nod

There is a new voice I begin to hear

It’s the voice of God


“Don’t worry son, I’ll help you through this”

That was the answer and my biggest wish


Then things became clearer and I started seeing

And the next thing I knew I was going to meetings


My mind began to slow down

Then my frown turned upside down


The answers became clear and “Recovery” I started to find

It was as simple as this 


take it one day at a time!


Oct 11, 2005 at 17:13 o\clock

Omega or Alpha?

by: Azuzu

It started out as a normal day but, by the time midnight arrived, things had changed dramatically.

Today would be the day. I was truly done. I would put an end to my anguish. I would rid myself of the pain, the humiliation, the shame, the guilt, but most importantly, I would rid myself I had just spent the whole night smoking crack; I was determined to stop the madness once and for all. Crack was my Devil. It had won. I would fight no longer. Today I would give it my soul.

Dawn was just breaking and I found myself on a bridge overlooking a small canal.  I looked into its sereneness and just let myself get lost in its lucid ever-flowing waters. I tried not to think, I had been doing too much of that lately. The musical chattering of the early morning birds brought me out of my revelry to marvel at their songs of summer. I looked around and admired the simple beauty of the flowers, trees and water fauna. I was alone. The sun was just starting to rise and the air was sweet with the scents of the new day. The weather was comfortable and I knew that today was going to be a very beautiful and momentous day. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and house keys. I gave them to the waters, for I knew that I would need them no longer.

I left the bridge and walked down the street to an abandoned apartment building (I had passed on my way up to the bridge). The front door was hanging on one hinge and I easily pushed my way in. I walked around the clutter and trash to the rear of the building, into what I assumed to be the rear apartment. I entered and stood in what was at one time the living room. I was facing a huge opening in the rear wall, which once sported a huge picture window. The window was gone and all that was left was a square gaping hole overlooking the unattended herbaceous yard. The yard ended at the banks of the canal and even though it was in extreme stages of neglect, it was still pleasant to look at.

I had been planning this for months. I had been saving whatever few dollars I could get, preparing for this moment. For you see, in my pockets I had what I hoped to be a lethal dose of Crack. My heart was already beating at an accelerated rate due to my all-nighter.

I had heard tell of Crack smokers who had put too much Crack in their pipes and died of self-induced cardiac arrest. Their hearts had finally given out from too much coke and abuse. This was the affect I was trying to achieve.

I stood in the middle of the room, the rays of the rising sun (that were streaming in through the window opening) pleasantly warming my face. I positioned myself in the center of that patch of sunlight. I carefully over-loaded my pipe and began to smoke. The first thing I felt was that my chest started to constrict my lungs; it felt as if I were in the grips of a powerful bear hug. I involuntarily gasped. I did not panic. I just accepted it. In fact I embraced it. My heart was furiously beating against my ribcage. I thought it would explode at any second. I just stood there, not able to breathe. I lost all feeling to my extremities, my body just relaxed. I watched as my pipe slipped from my fingers only to tumble end over end towards the floor. The pipe hit the dirty floor and exploded into many thousands shards of glass. The whole affect was stroboscopic and surreal.     Everything was in slow motion. I felt absolutely no pain. I could not hear anything other than the pounding of my heart. I saw the room skew crazily and realized that my legs had given way. Plumes of dust exploded up from the floor as my body slumped on to the floor planks. The dust swirled and danced in many intricate and complicated designs. It seemed as they were taking advantage of the spotlight given them by the sunshine. I remember thinking that the whole thing looked very pretty.

My life did not flash before my eyes. I saw no tunnel with loved ones at the end beckoning to me or telling me to get the fuck back. But what I do remember was being engulfed with a feeling that I had not experienced in a long time. A feeling that had eluded me for many years. That feeling was…joy.

I closed my eyes and …felt no more.

I was sitting in a marbled courtyard, which was in front of a four-columned Roman styled building. The building was also totally constructed of marble. The courtyard had many round tables and semi-circular benches, which were all occupied by many people, but I overheard no conversations. I was sitting there when this Man/Being approached me, sat at my table and smiled at me. I find it very difficult to describe this Being; all I can say is that I felt nothing but benevolence and concern (for me) emanating from him.   In his hands he was carrying a small mahogany colored box. The box was approximately four inches wide by six inches long. It was bordered all along its edging in gold. On the lid it had some kind of golden seal in the shape of a triangle.

He sat across from me and slid the box towards me. I sat there and looked at him but did not take the box. I looked into his eyes and saw urgency in them. He wanted me to take the box without hesitation. I did not want it but I thought about it and finally reached out to take it. My fingers had just barely grazed the box when I felt this evil presence rushing up behind me. I looked at my companion who without speaking somehow conveyed to me that there was danger afoot. I went to grab the box only to have it snatched out of my hand by the evil presence I felt (a second Being) who then ran towards the building with it.

My companion jumped up and imploringly looked at me before he started to chase the second Being. I got up and followed them both. We got to the building and the second Being (the one who took the box) turned around stopped and looked at us as we approached at a run.

This Being looked exactly as the first. They could have been twins! The only differences between the two were the feelings that I somehow could pick up from them. They looked the same but I could tell them apart with absolutely no problem. They were the same physically but as different as night and day, light and dark, good and evil.

I followed them into the building and finally caught up to them in a great hall. There, they were involved in a great struggle. I just stood there and watched, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. At this point the Darker Being started to get the upper hand on the Lighter Being.

The Lighter Being beseechingly looked at me. I knew he needed my help. I also got the feeling that whatever was in the box, it was about me and very important. But I still was not totally committed to enter into this fight. The Darker Being pushed the Lighter Being down and started to pummel him without restraint. I could never stand by, while someone was in trouble, so no matter what I felt, I jumped into the fight. As it turned out, (due to the strength and savageness of this Being) I found myself in the biggest fight of my life.

I tackled the Darker Being, managed to get my hands on his throat while yelling at the Lighter Being to get the box. The Lighter Being grabbed the box, backed off and smiled at me. He got up and then simply disappeared. Just like that!

I was now fighting the Darker Being by myself. I remember thinking “Man, this is the craziest dream!”

Whoa! Dream!? If I’m dreaming, then that must mean I’m not dea.. 

I opened my eyes to the gloom of late afternoon. Immediately the stink of trash and mildew assaulted my sense of smell. I started crying as I realized that I was still with the living. I cried like I never cried before, torrents and torrents of bitter tears. In the middle of this crying jag, I now started to laugh. It was the craziest thing. I realized, the irony of it all. I could not even do away with myself without fucking that up too.


There I lay. I tried to get up but my arms and legs would not respond. I was drenched in sweat from head to toe. Finally, after a couple of hours I managed to get on my feet and make it outside. I slowly and methodically started to make my way to a hospital, just two short blocks away. That was the longest walk of my life. My lungs felt as if they were not entirely ready to work. I could breathe for a few steps and the next couple would be taken completely without the benefit of breathing.


I walked into Emergency and sat down at the nearest chair available. The Nurse whose job it was to triage patients took one look at me and immediately came to my side carrying her stethoscope. She took my pulse, listened to my heart and the next thing I knew I was being whisked away to the back where a medical team immediately started to work on me. I was injected with something and given an IV. They brought in a heart monitor and once attached, I thought it to be malfunctioning. It would beep, beep and then stop for a very long time, only to sound off again with a staccato of irregular patterns of sounds. It sounded like a drunken tap dancer.


I just lay there as they shouted out things in medical-ese, not hearing, nor caring. The Doctors and Nurses were frantically moving about, attaching this, that and whatever to me. Finally, all but one person left. They had done their job. I felt somewhat guilty for the taking of their time like that. A nurse stayed behind, pulled up a chair and watched over me. She looked about my age and after a while she got up, approached my bed, put a hand on my shoulder, looked into my eyes and said “Sleep. I’m here. Everything’s going to be alright” That simple act of compassion overwhelmed me, causing the flow of tears to reappear. I felt alone, so very alone!  I did not care if she saw. The Nurse just cooed to me as if I were a child, while giving me assurances of hope. She sensed my pain. It was just what I needed to get myself somewhat together. What a mess.


Paramedics arrived with a gurney to transport me to the Psychiatric Hospital. I was beyond caring what happens to me. This was where my choices in life had finally lead me. To the Looney Bin! How very sad. I just laid there while they picked me up, put me on the gurney and wheeled me out the door. While en-route to my new destination, my mind floated back to my dream.

I could not shake the feeling that there was some message there. What did it mean?  Should I write it off as some sort of psychotic hallucination or was I being let know that maybe, I should not haggle my soul out so precariously.

Either way, today was truly a very, very, momentous day.



Jul 15, 2005 at 00:15 o\clock

My Lovely Delilah

by: Azuzu

How pretty you were. If there was a stereotype for Puerto Rican queens, you were it. Your lovely black locks, beautiful olive skin, almond eyes, ever-ready smile and musical laughter. Unbeknownst to you, I fell for you at first sight.



I remember when I first saw you. We were at a party (of a mutual friend) and your beauty caught my eye. Oh, how exotic and beautiful you looked on that hot summer night. The sound of Puerto Rican music (playing in the background), you and your smile just lighting the place up. You were the center of attraction, the prettiest girl there. The fact that you were the most naive girl there did not escape me either. I saw that and I took advantage. I wanted you and had to have you. You had on a flower printed dress that was almost too short and a real flower in your hair. I was amazed on how you pulled off a look like that.



It was your personality, magnetic, gregarious and most sensual that made you the star of that party. All the men there wanted to talk to you. They all wanted you but only I would have you.



I remember all of the dancing and drinking we did.



I remember smoking weed (marijuana) with you.



I remember how sexy you looked.



I remember seducing you.



I remember taking you to a room apart from the party.



I remember your first time (making love), as you gave yourself to me.



I remember how sweet you tasted, how beautiful you looked to me in all your nakedness,



I remember how lovingly you looked at me



and then...


 I remember turning you on to crack.




My lovely Delilah, what have I done to you?




I also remember me leaving our city on my motorcycle in an attempt get my life together.

I left with the promise of returning to you.


I was running from addiction and self. You see, I started to see someone in the mirror that

I did not like. I thought that by simply leaving I could get my life back. I did not realize that I was also taking the problem with me, namely myself.



While I was away, you continued to be my girl.



I guess just like all of us, you replayed in your mind the euphoric love making we engaged in. Of all the sensations of that night only one was available to you in a glass vial. The one sensation I showed you. You started to experiment. You liked it, unwittingly you now had started the clock on what would be your "end of days."



My lovely Delilah, what have I done to you?



After two years I returned, started to look for you in the old neighborhood only to hear disturbing things about you. I hoped that what they were saying about you was wrong. It was not, I soon saw you selling your self on the strip. You no longer looked as I remembered you. Your face was somewhat skeletish. Your hair was greasy looking and your clothes were simply draped on your now bony body. You were no longer my girl. You now belonged to the streets and "Crack".



My lovely Delilah, what have I done to you?



I watched you from the shadows, crushed and very sorry for you. I knew I did this to you. Had I never introduced you to this hell, you would still be here, alive. My lovely Delilah, can you ever forgive me, because I cannot.



 I remain in Hell, I will suffer here in this life and most assuredly in the hereafter.

They say that only the good die young. If that is true, then I am immortal.


My Lovely most precious Delilah.



I still see your pretty smile and hear your melodious laugh, at night, in my dreams. I awake late at night and sometimes I cry. I cry for you and all of those poor souls marionetted by this lifestyle.

I cry for myself because you trusted me!

Delilah, know that I will always remember and love you.



Oh my Lovely Delilah, what have I done?



Delilah contracted AIDS and passed, while I was away (again) running from myself.

I bear her cross, a cross that I can barely carry. I ruined a beautiful person. I unwittingly gave her to the night.

I wish I could take it all back













Jun 29, 2005 at 18:27 o\clock

There are no Superheroes

by: Azuzu

This account of my life. I promise that all this is true. My purpose in this disclosure is in the hopes that whoever reads this will not commit the same mistakes, that no child out there has his life altered for the worse or destroyed as mine was.

I was born in 1959 to non English speaking parents. My biological father did not last till my first birthday. I remember living with my grandmother for a couple of years prior to coming to the U.S. My mother showed up one day and off to the states we went. I remember it being me and her for a little bit, until she brought home her new love. My life sort of changed after that. I remember that my disciplining was swift and stern. I started to get the feeling that I was a mistake and that I was not wanted in this new marriage.

Lord knows I tried my best. I got excellent grades, was an avid reader and participated in a lot of after schools activities. I collected comic’s books as most kids did in that day. I was very fond of the Superheroes I read about. One day I donned a towel around my neck (while my mother rested from her third shift job) and climbed a cupboard causing it to tilt and fall on me with a crashing boom. My mother awoke, rushed in, surveyed the situation, pulled me out from under the cupboard and cannery, and immediately started to beat me.

Through out my childhood I received many more beatings. Some were severe, some were not, some drew blood some did not, but I always waited for the Superheroes to come crashing through the door or walls to save me, they never came. No one rescued me

Still with childish enthusiasm and hope, I tried my best to be loved or lovable. In school I became an over-achiever. I was skipped from grades to better challenge me academically. It was all useless. There was no satisfying them.

I continued to suffer through beatings for the simplest of things. I was constantly told that I was shit and that I was nothing. I suffered through all of the abuses imaginable. When I say all the abuses I mean ALL.

My innocence was taken from me. I started to believe what I was being told. I did not and do not hate the people that did this to me. I learned to hate but it was a hate that was directed inwards. I so wanted to please them. Unfortunately I was wrong. There was no pleasing them other than just disappearing from their lives and the new family that had made for themselves.

I ran away at the age of fifteen. I just took up with a bunch of other kids who were misfits (or unwanted). We would steal to survive. Finally after a year and I guess, because the neighbors were seeing me downtown running wild and it was embarrassing to my parents, I was brought back. Too late, the damage was done. I was out of control. Nobody loved me and I was already headed to destruction. I ran away and have not stopped running since. Where were my heroes? Why did none of them save me?

I have been told all my adult life that I am too cold. (Humph! I wonder why?) That I am uncaring. Well, let me tell you this. I took all the CPR and first aid classes I could. I have been in the right place at the right time and was lucky enough to have been able to save some lives. I have been known to run into burning buildings, applied the Heimlich on numerous occasions and wrestled a gun away from a would-be killer. I have box loads of awards and commendations. I‘ve had more than the average share of “15 minutes” I made myself into a hero for those I helped. Yes, I’m cold and I learned to hate intensely. Can anyone guess who do I hate the most? I’m a textbook example. I can’t help who I was made to be. My life was ruined even before it started.

So I run from my ugly reality. I am Joe Crackhead. I seek no pity. My purpose is to be heard while hopefully educating some ill equipped parent(s) out there who do not have a kind word for their child. Addicts are made NOT born. What you do today will bear fruit tomorrow. Please make sure that you are preparing a child for a beautiful life. Do not destroy theirs because you think yours is not up to par. Sure I’m somewhat bitter, but not bitter enough to deny my mother forgiveness. Today I helped her unpack and arrange her living room. After all she is a lot older now and needs a little help now and then. I can forgive her but there are others that will have to make their peace with their maker. My life as I see it has been forfeit, “se la vie”.

Know this; nurturing is essential in a child’s life. Without it a child grows up detached, without empathy or morality. Remember, until your little tykes grow up, you are God to them. Love and treat them well, in turn they will love you and live their life to the healthiest and fullest. Let them think for as long as childhood allows that there is a Santa Claus, Easter Bunny and of course, Superheroes. Let them be happy for what you have given them instead of cursing you for what you take away.

Jun 29, 2005 at 18:23 o\clock

House of Pain

by: Azuzu

There have been songs written about many kinds of houses but I never heard any songs written about the House of Pain. It was not until I drifted into Tucson Arizona that these particular houses were made known to me. I want you to know that these houses exist everywhere in the United States and abroad. I will now tell you of my first experience in the "House of Pain".  

Once I arrived to Tucson Arizona, I was sitting in a bar by the Town Square. There I met this fellow from whom I obtained the necessary information as to where to buy and smoke my drug. Once the transaction was completed, my new guide led me through the desert hot streets of Tucson to an apartment house on a corner not far from the center of town. This three-story apartment house looked no different than any other. I noticed that there was some activity
on the top unit. I was led through a crowd of people on the stairs and entered the apartment

There I was introduced to a bi-racial couple, He was tall, had that "crack" thinness, and was a nice enough fellow, his wife was a blue eyed, blond, who was very pretty. I was led into the living room where I could sit and smoke my drug. In the living room, there were people all ready there smoking. The apartment was ordinary enough, furnitured as any other but the curious thing was that on the wall behind the couch (at eye level) someone had taken a spray paint can and scrawled (in red) on the wall "House of pain".

I was very curious but reserved comment for after I finished what I came there for. As I spent time there I noticed many coming in and out. It is customary that when entering a house like this, that you give the proprietor a part of what you have bought, a fee so to speak.
After that is done, you are good to stay as long as you have some. So there I sat and used while watching the going on's in the apartment. The man of the house consumed and shared what was given to him (by all those who came) with his wife and when he was through and they had no more, his wife began to trick (prostitute) with those men who wanted sex.

I sat there and watched him , his facial expressions, and his demeanor. I wondered what he was feeling to see and hear what was going on in his own bedroom (with his own wife).
How unbearable it must be to hear the savage creaking of springs, and the moans of pleasure emanating from their bedroom. To be conscious of the fact that this was not going to be the first nor last man. To know that his wife would open her legs many more times tonight, tomorrow and so on. I tried to put myself in his place and wonder what I would do in his place, but failed miserably. I just could not even begin to consider the thought.

I wondered what a powerful drug this is that could take something (like marriage) and pervert it to an abomination. I saw extreme sadness, shame and hopelessness in both their eyes. I saw that they hated the whole situation but loved the drug. They were in the grips of one of the most powerful addictions out there. What a conundrum. All our lives were twisted! The people already there (some of them) would pawn their watches, jewelry, etc to get more drugs. Nothing is sacred.
Everything and everybody is for sale.

What a terrible and sad thing. The power of this particular addiction is awe inspiring. No one is beyond its manipulations. I now knew what the pain was. I now knew how this was the "House Of Pain". I will bet all, that in your town or city, there is one too.

These houses are not sung about. I've heard of the House of the Rising Sun, Hotel California but, no one sings about the House of Pain. People, come here and spend all in a matter of hours, rent, bills, car payments, it does not matter. It is all spent! In these houses people lose themselves, their lives, dreams go up in smoke and souls are lost, because everybody knows that in these most assuredly WILL dance with the Devil.

Jun 29, 2005 at 18:20 o\clock

Philadelhia Experience

by: Azuzu


June 4 thru 7, 2005
I consider myself somewhat intelligent but I have been known to do some pretty boneheaded things as described in these postings. I am about to tell you about one more of these times.

I went to Philadelphia with a girlfriend who was here from England, I wanted to show her a good time and whatever night life the City of Brotherly Love had to offer. What I got was an experience I would like to soon forget. Subsequently sometime during that visit to Philly I was detained by the Philadelphia Police on an old bench warrant.. I will begin my story from after the 12 hours or so I was at the Police District. We left the Police district headed towards CFCF detention center. There were three of us, initially it was just me and another fellow but we stopped at a hospital and picked up an individual from the hospitals psychiatric unit. The ride in itself would have been a short one but the Police officers stopped at a convenience store and (I guess) picked up some snacks or cigarettes for themselves. I don’t know if this was in compliance with transport procedure but who’s in a rush to go to prison?

When we got to the prison we swung around the back to face two enormous steel grey garage doors. One Officer got out, made contact with those within and one of the doors slowly began to rise. Once inside we were led through a steel door into a very sterile looking area. Everything was the color of concrete or a bluish white. In one side of the room there was an enclosed glass area with a female corrections officer. Her enclosure was not unlike those enclosures in gasoline stations where cash payments are made at night. We were instructed by two male Corrections Officers to line up and remove all personal belongings from our person and to hand them over to the Female officer behind the glass. We also took off our shoes and had them searched. Soon after wards, two inmates dressed in blue showed up to pass out what was referred to as “Cold Paks”. These Paks consisted of four slices of either white or wheat bread, two slices of a meat that looked like a cross between ham and bologna, two slices of yellow cheese and one slightly rotten apple. To drink we were given a small carton of Ice tea. There we waited for other detainees to be brought in from other Police stations. Once every body was searched and given food we were moved through another steel door to a very large “L” shaped area.

The long side of the “L” was lined on both sides with cells varying from approx 12 x 14 feet to other somewhat smaller cells. The cells had tempered glass windows on both sides of the metal door which sported a vertical rectangular slat of glass in the middle. On the lower part of the “L” , one side had holding cells while directly across those cells the showers (3 of them) were located. The “L” ended into what I gathered to be the nurse’s station. All the cells had two metal benches opposite each other for sitting and a toilet and sink separated by a 3 foot privacy wall at the far end. The larger of the cells could comfortably hold maybe 8 to 10 men.
Up until this point the guards were stoic and “to the point” which was all right by me since I had enough things to try to work out, such as bail and correcting the bench warrant that was in part to blame for my being there.

We were put into a cell and left there to wait. After a while, more detainees were put in our cell, bringing the number of people in the cell to 21. This amount of men in that particular cell made it hard to breathe and raised the temperature considerably. My cell mates were of all colors and crimes, there were guys in there with charges that ranged from simple possession of drugs to murder in the first degree. Since everyone is innocent until proven guilty, here we all were in the same cell getting ready to suffer our little ordeal together.

Before I go any further I will now take time to introduce our players in this sick little story. I will be calling them by the names given them by my fellow cell mates, but if I had to point them out to the authorities I would gladly do so. Lets start with female corrections officer “I’m-so-fine”, she was dubbed this because of how she continuously flirted with a Sargent there. The origins of the rest of the names I will not go into because they are self explanatory. There was Major Barney Rubble, Sargent ShineMyBoots, Officer MonkeyMan, Officer Thuglife, Officer Weirdlook, Officer I’ma Mason and pair of Officers known as the “Stupid Brother’s”

I will start describing these incidents in chronological order. I can not really state what time they happened in because of the absence of clocks in that area and the refusal of guards to tell us what time it was. We watched as other inmates were brought in and put into two other cells. The number of inmates per cell ranged between 18 to 23. In our cell, we were forced to stand or sit. There was no sleeping room any where. We were subjected to this for what seemed hours. It was so hot and the air in there was so stale that some inmates removed thier shirts. Everybody was sweating profusely in what is an air conditioned facility. We started to yell to the guards to open the cell door and let in some fresh air for it got rank and extremely unbearable rather quickly. Here is where the games began.

Officer ThugLife came and opened the cell door only to have Officer MonkeyMan come by 5 minutes later (with a malicious grin) and violently shut the cell door in our faces. This caused quite a raucous and everybody started beating on the door yelling for the Officers to let us get some more air. After a couple of minutes Officer ThugLife showed up and pointed to a tall fellow and told him that he had made bail. The inmate started to smile and sat down to wait for his release. Hours passed and nothing happened. This fellow started to get impatient and started to yell for the guards. He banged on the door and kept on yelling “Hey! I made bail! Let me out so I can call my people! Officer I’ma Mason came and yelled at the inmate to “Shut the Fuck up or he was going to get his ass beat”, at this the inmate said “Fuck YOU! I made bail! Of course this was not true. Officer ThugLife was just playing games. So Officers I’ma Mason, Officer ThugLife and Officer MonkeyMan opened the cell and removed him , relieved him of his clothing and threw him naked into “Siberia” (the coldest cell there). They were trying to make a point. They were in control and they were the gods here. They were power thrusting and ego tripping. We all took the opportunity presented to us to gulp down as much fresh air as possible before Officer MonkeyMan came back and slammed the door on us. Hours passed and we tried to sleep as we jostled for the best position. We lost one of our cell mates to an asthma attack, one more detainee removed by the scruff of his neck. Tempers now started to flair and some of us managed to mediate and calm things down. The most annoying thing about all this is that we all could clearly see empty cells right across from us, there was no reason for us to be packed in this way. Sleep was hard to come by because the other inmates in the other cells who were suffering our same situation started to yell only to attract and elicit threats of violence from our keepers. They too lost one of thier numbers to an asthma attack. Now that tempers were at a maximum, they started changing us from cell to cell. We would be moved, would settle down, only to be moved again, why? No reason. We were all down in a cell at the end of the“L” when we heard a chorus of “Fuck you, fuck you, yoooou biaaatchs!!! These were the officers Stupid Brothers laughing and chanting this in unison (they did this throughout thier shift and thought it “oh, so very funny”). Some minutes passed and I asked to use the rest room and was let out, on my way back I saw Sargent ShinyBoots getting his boots shined by an inmate dressed in blue (one of the guards called the inmate a “dumbass” and said his boots were next, the inmate responded with a imbecilic grin) . Officers Stupid Brothers were leaning back on thier chairs, one was eating a Hoagie while the other was snoozing. Officer ThugLife was leaning on the counter talking to Officer I’m-so-Fine, I then informed both officers that I was wearing contacts and had poison ivy. I would like to see a nurse and possibly have these issues resolved (especially for my contacts, don’t want pink eye, do we?) Officer ThugLife looked at Officer I’m-so-Fine, smiled and said to me“Handle your business!” “Get back to your cell! At this time Officer Weirdlook appeared behind me and escorted me to my cell.

Of all the abuses of authority, threats and name calling experienced by me by far the most disturbing was the sight of an inmate who apparently sustained a gunshot wound to the thigh, sometime during his intake, he was left without a wheel chair. This inmate was observed by me crawling to the bathroom, dragging his body behind him while these Philadelphia Correction Officers just stood around, hands on hips, watching him, joking amongst themselves. “Fuck you, fuck you! You biaaaaatchs! (the Stupid brothers again)

We were pretty much resigned to our hopeless situation until we spied a white shirt (a ranking officer) coming our way.
It was Major Barney Rubble, all 5 feet of him. We started to yell,” Hey!, Please help us we can’t breathe in here, help us! He never veered from his course, he just gave us a “royal wave” and said “I will send someone,” needless to say no one ever came. Now came the time to take showers and receive that “traffic cone orange” jumpsuit. At the showers an inmate was made to take a shower after another inmate (who was bleeding from a wound received while attempting to elude Police custody) had left the showers bloody. We tried to communicate the dangers of AIDS but, we were ignored and told that the next shift would handle whatever problems we had.

The next shift! Everything would be taken care in the next shift! Seems like anything as simple as a spoon to eat with, would be handled by the next shift. Three of us were given linen and finally after a day and a half we were lead out of “Intake”. We were now headed to “Restriction” for the next 15 to 30 days before being let out in “population”.

We went through another steel door and lead along hallway that inclined upwards. The hallway ended onto an enclosed area that had a glass enclosed room in the middle. Around this room were steel doors (flanked by huge glass windows) that lead into large pods. This area was configured like a huge wheel with the hub being the glass enclosed room. The outer wedges were the pods were inmates were kept. Each pod would hold up to approximately 80 or 90 men. There were four pods. In each pod besides the inmates there were two Corrections Officers who would sit at the beginning of the wedge.

All the cells were at the outer edge of the wedge leaving the middle as open area (TV area). The cells held 2 to 3 men, some held 4 men. Prior to being taken to our pods we were handed bed linen, towels and a hygiene kit. We entered our pod and were directed to our cells. Once in my cell I started to make my cot. Lord knows after so many days without sleep I was ready. I unfolded my bed sheets only to see that they were blood splattered. The blood was still red and not that dark rust color that would indicate the stains to be old. I immediately left my cell and approached the two corrections officer at thier station. A female, male team. I showed them the sheets and asked for new ones. “We are about to end our shift.” “Talk to the next shift” I looked at them and stated the obvious. “Your shift does not end until 40 minutes from now” “Can I have replacement sheets, please?” The female officer looked at me and with emphasis said “I said our shift is overrr” Ask the next shift”. I decided to do as I was told, so I waited.

The next shift came on and as soon as they were settled I approached them with my bloody sheets. I explained to them my situation and they answered, “Why did you not take care of this with the last shift?” “It was thier job not ours.” “We can not do anything for you.” Humph! I just had about enough of my so-called “keepers”. Dinner was served and I was looking forward to a hot meal when I noticed that I had no cup, spoon or fork. I ask one of the inmates where I could get tableware and was told to see the officers. I again approached my jailers and asked for said items only to be told that the shift prior to thier was responsible for eating utensils and that I had to do the best I could.
I ate with my fingers.

Finally I made bail and was released. I was taken to the front to pick up whatever monies I had only to be disrespected one last time. All that were released that day were told to stand behind a yellow line while the female corrections officer (who by the way was a “shockingly blonde” heavyset woman with more gold jewelry on than Mr T himself.) Sorted out our monies, all the while calling us all kinds of “dumb motherfuckers”.

Hey, I know jail is jail, I did not expect “Club Med” but neither did I expect ineptness, extreme dereliction and to be disrespected, almost at every attempt of interaction I made with these so called professionals in uniform. When addressed I answer , “yes sir (Mam)”. Hey, I’m in jail, with much weight on my mind, do you think I need the added bullshit? So...forgive me if I’m wrong but, I expect that respect should be answered with respect.
I remember months ago watching a disturbing surveillance clip from the Philadelphia Federal prison of a female officer being savagely beaten. I cringed and wondered how those inmates could do such a thing?
Sadly I now have an idea as to what could have initiated such action. Taking into account my short stay and the number of officers I observed as compared to the total, I would strongly suggest that someone look into the going ons in the Philly prison system.

The funny thing is that I have trained with correction officers in my past, these were officers who commanded respect with thier bearing not thier swagger and I know better. I know that the Penal System should try to seek a balance between reform and retribution, punishment and brutality, humanity and maximum security, definitely NOT the hooliganism and indifference practiced by those so called “Philadelphia Correction Officers” I came in contact with. Their goal should be to discharge “better” men, not “bitter” men


May 28, 2005 at 12:26 o\clock

His DumbAss and her Raggedy Panties

by: Azuzu

Baton Rouge Louisiana was in itself an interesting experience. The climate is mild, somewhat rainy but good enough, if you are homeless. The people there are very friendly and food for the homeless is readily available. Their state bird should be the Mosquito, but who am I to question these things. Their state moto is “Sportsman Paradise” because of all the different types of available hunting.

Louisiana is a state that believes in its right for citizens to bear arms. So if in Crack City the weapon of choice was the knife here, the gun reigns supreme. Now when we talk about knife fights, that usually means you will get cut or stabbed and then (hopefully) make with a hasty retreat, while on the other hand, with a gun the odds are greater that you will end “pushing up daisies”
Louisiana is a beautiful place but if you don’t play your cards straight you will definitely find yourself maimed or six feet under as you will see.

Now the crack here is sold in little plastic or glass vials. The length of the vial dictates how much you are spending (the bigger the vial the more crack you get). The cocaine is still in it’s the rock form. You get Crack but, not as much for your dollar as in Crack City,USA.

Here in this town your concern is not only what you get, but can you walk away (alive)?
The likelihood for violence is very high. This is due the paranoid state of those who both use and sell crack. So as any town I’ve ever been to, “when in Rome do as the Romans do”. I immediately went to the pawn shop and made it so that I too had a handgun. I bought a “Norenco” nine millimeter, a Chinese handgun that was thin in its girth so as to facilitate its concealabilty.
I am now ready to buy and smoke my drug of choice with a fifty – fifty chance of survival. As any one who makes a living with a firearm will tell you, it’s not always “how good you are” but “how fast are you?” I know it sounds like the “Ole West” but believe me; it is the difference between life and death here in “Sportsman Paradise.”

This particular “reality” was made “crystal clear” to me when on one hot and humid Louisiana night, I observed a gentleman stop his car by a corner phone booth. He was finely dressed; he had on a very nice and somewhat expensive suit. If I remember correctly, I think it was on a Friday. In the shadows unobserved by this man was a neighborhood thug, who now started to creep up on him while he was on the phone. As the gentleman turned his back to place his call he was assaulted by the thug who thrust a 38 derringer into his face. I was across the street so I could barely hear the interchange between the two but I imagined that the thug then asked him for his wallet. The gentleman made as if to go for his wallet but quickly (to the shock and horror of the proposed stick up man) pulled out a large automatic handgun and proceeded to empty his clip into the would–be thief. The thug was shot in the face and upper torso. He was dead before he hit the ground. The victim panicked and quickly jumped into his car and with a loud and smokey squealing of tires, sped away. The gunshots attracted those of the neighborhood who came out and started to rummage through the pockets of the dead man. They left untouched the 38 derringer which lay by his side. It was common knowledge to those who knew this man that the derringer did not work, what a waste of human life. At least his torment and sufferance were finally over. The shooter turned himself over to the Police two days later only to be found justified in the killing.

Crack addicts lived all over Baton Rouge, some in their own homes and others in abandoned houses that were referred to as “abondonimiums.” It was in one such house that I met this young beautiful girl who offered to smoke and do “whatever” with me but only if I went to her house. I followed this shapely woman through the dark streets until we came up to what seemed to be a housing project. There were people of dubious character milling about all over the place. I could see the tell-tale flicker of lighters in the shadows which let me know that some of them were smoking crack while others were trying to sell it. I continued to follow my shapely guide through a narrow walkway and finally through a courtyard which lead us to the front door of her apartment.

Once in the apartment she turned around and removed her top exposing her breast, she got on her knees, pulled my member out of my pants and started to slowly blow me. While she was sucking me in the living room, I lit up and let the rush of the Crack engulf me. The immediate rush of the drug and the wetness of her mouth around the shaft of my dick were the makings for an exquisite sensation. She got up turned her back to me and slowly pulled her jeans off. She then bent over and ever so slowly started to pull off her panties. It was then that I noticed that even though her panties were clean, they were ragged and full of holes; I could see her pussy lips through some of the larger holes. I don’t know how other men feel about this, but to me there is something very sad about a woman with ragged panties, but then again I’m not here to play “Panty Police”. I just came here to fuck, smoke and get a nut. She turned to me and stated that we would be more comfortable in her bedroom and asked me to follow her. She led me to her bedside and instructed me to lie down on her bed. I noticed her blankets piled up in a heap by the corner of the bed and grabbed them to make more room. To my surprise, there were two kids asleep huddled together under the blankets.

This situation I recognized immediately. When addicts find themselves in situations that are beyond their control they start to make allowances, they tell themselves that some things are all right. You repeat this often enough and you start to believe it. Repeat your Mantra often enough and the unacceptable is now acceptable. Once I noticed the children, all sexual desire was extinguished. I guess it was an attack of whatever morals I had left. I then looked more closely at this young lady’s living conditions. The apartment was sparsely furnished, the mattresses were on the floor, and there were empty packs of “instant noodles” (the crack addict’s main staple) strewn about the area... The squalor was now very obvious to me. There she was, ragged, holy panties and all, on her knees with her back to me, ass high in the air, waiting for me.

To her it was perfectly all right to get fucked next to her sleeping babies, just as long as we were quiet. I wondered how many times she said that to herself before she really believed that. That’s how insidious this drug addiction is, it will ply you with lies just as long as you succumb to it. You will be seduced with promises of good times and sex. This was and still is not my style. I gave her ten dollars, instructed her to buy a pair of new panties and vacated the premises post haste. I would satisfy my animal lusts elsewhere’s.

“Never say never” is a saying that I heard often enough in these circles, this was a perfect example of that. I’m sure that when this young lady first started to get high, she never imagined herself with ragged panties and with her ass up in the air, trying to get “one more hit”. Nor do I think that my thug friend thought he’d end up lying on his back, on a concrete sidewalk with his life’s blood spilling onto the gutter.

Unfortunately what we wish and what ultimately becomes our reality are two different things. Take these two poor souls, add mine and the many more out there who suffer on a daily basis and what you get is Hell on Earth. You have no idea what anguish, pain, frustration, and hopelessness feels like through the life of an addict. The misfits, the unwanted and unwashed. We are the invisible people you pass on the street. You see us but then again, you don’t. Not your problem you say? Hmm, do you really think so?

Some of you might say “You chose to do drugs so you deserve what you get or you have made your situation what it is”. I will tell you all that addicts are MADE! We were addicts long before we used for the first time. I was made into what I am. YOU! out there could at this very moment be making your very own addict. A future “Sidewalk Soldier”, a “Concrete Commando”. One more lost soul to be added to the Devil’s coffers.

May 26, 2005 at 23:30 o\clock

Crack City USA

by: Azuzu

Downtown Los Angeles by day looks like any other bustling metropolis. Merchants conducting business, people moving about laughing, eating, shopping with the Police ensuring security for all.

The Los Angeles Welfare Dept has a plan in place that when a homeless applicant is approved for assistance, they are placed in a Hotel (which is paid for 30 days) These Hotels are located throughout the LA downtown area known as “Skid Row”. I always thought that Skid Row was a street or boulevard; I was very surprised to find out that Skid Row is actually 50 city square blocks. Imagine all these homeless people peppered throughout this area.

Homelessness is caused by many things, economics, mental health issues or in some cases drug and/or alcohol abuse. There are cases where all three factors are present. Unfortunately, what I saw the most of were the crack cocaine users.

Imagine 50 square city blocks populated by crack addicts. On the first of the month, Welfare would distribute its assistance checks to all its recipients. I believe the amount was $300.00 some odd dollars. In LA the cheapest you can purchase crack is for $3.00.This amount would get you a thin wafer about the size of your thumbnail.
We will now take all these variables, add nightfall to the equation and you are now ready for a tour of Crack City USA.

Night has fallen and all the merchant shops are closed. The Police presence is gone and will be rarely seen until daybreak, there are no longer shoppers moving about. The people you do see are a far cry from the type seen during daylight hours. The atmosphere change is palpable; instinctively your guard comes up. The people you now see are hard to make out for they purposely keep to the shadows and never seem alone. Every once and awhile you catch a glint off metal, you realize that most of the people you see are carrying knives. Your night vision is interrupted by the intermittent flicker of lighter flames (like those of fireflies) in dark shadowy areas throughout your line of sight.

The Knife for some reason is the preferred weapon in this area. I bought a Marine Corps K-bar as soon as I got here because I too noticed that in one way or another, everyone was armed.
I thought these addicts animals, but I also had to come to grip with the fact that I was there too. I was also aware that I would not let myself be played with. God have mercy on the soul of whoever tried to hurt or steal from me. I would go down but, it would be fighting.
I thought myself different from all the rest, but yet, here I was. What was the difference? Did I think myself better because I could be a little more articulate? Here I was! Was I better because my clothes were cleaner? Here I was! Stupid me, I had to ask myself if I think them trash, then I too must be trash, because here I was, manipulated and controlled by the same substance. I found myself willing to cut whomever down for a piece of crack cocaine, just like everybody else here. My mind set is one of “I don’t give a damn”. I’m ashamed and humiliated by the depths I have sunk to. I find myself despairing,
maybe on these streets I can find what I am too much of a coward to do myself.

The difference between night and day is this, at night, those who have outlived their Welfare hotel stay now live in cardboard boxes in front of those very same business’s I mentioned earlier. They pull these boxes from who knows where and furnish them with blankets and candles. You can stand on any corner and look down the street only to see these cardboard condominiums lined up for as far as the eye can see. For heat they burn the trash contained within the city’s trash receptacles. It’s not uncommon to see men or women emerge from these flimsy shelters to relieve themselves on the curb in front of said dwellings. Pride is one of the first things to go. These people live to smoke crack cocaine, their numbers are so many that the City of Los Angeles has provided them with a Porta-Potty on every other corner. In essence the city has given them mini crack houses and copulation closets to keep them from brazenly doing it on the street (or so they had hoped)

This community’s economy is jumped started monthly by the Welfare check monies that are spent on crack and “strawberries” (west coast crack whores) by those that occupy the numerous hotels in the area. The rest make their living by any means possible, the goal is to smoke and keep smoking. There are a few religious organizations and rich “Bleeding Hearts’ that feel compelled by moral conviction or “show” to come down and give money away. They piss in the wind, so to speak.

Here in this City I saw many things, stabbings, inhumanities, and unspeakable horrors. The whole feel and look of this place at night was like what one would imagine a post nuclear holocaustic society to be. Everything was so surreal. It reminded me of a Mad Max movie. Everyone, living at their lowest most animalistic level.

Here God is Crack and Crack is God

I saw a “strawberry” pushed out a second floor window only to hit the ground, bounce up, spit some crack onto her hand and ask “anybody got a pipe?” (never mind her collar bone was protruding out her shoulder). She is now known as “Yo-yo”. Would you consider that insane?
Most People are so far removed from the reality of this world. Professionals study these things, they write their conclusions, get kudos from colleagues, get more grant monies but in the end, no one does diddily-squat. Putting people in jail/prison is not the answer either. The only time this social decay will be taken seriously is when this problem is in your face, with a knife at your throat, and you are being relieved of your purse/wallet.

May 26, 2005 at 23:18 o\clock

Better Than Sex!

by: Azuzu

I‘ve read many a report about illegal drug use and abuse but I have never read anything about how it feels to use and be under the influence. I am going to attempt to elaborate but I doubt that I’ll have enough of a grasp of the English language to totally describe the event. I will try my best to take you there.

Keep in mind that I have never talked with no one who actually enjoys his or her addiction. I will explain this as I feel it. Imagine yourself out conducting whatever business you have when either through set back or simply feeling celebratory, you find yourself walking down all too familiar steps. You are on your way to buy your drug. As you walk, your stomach becomes tied up in knots. Just the anticipation of getting high has your bowels tied up and your palms sweaty. You are extremely aware of your surroundings. Your senses are in heightened alert, as you do not want to get arrested and thusly ruining your anticipated sensual experience.

Sensual! That’s what it’s all about, a feeling related to sex. The allure of Crack Cocaine is sexual. I recall watching women take that little white rock, put it in a glass pipe, light it and inhale only to see them shiver. I have then put my hand in between their thighs to find that their panties are soaked and their vaginal lips swollen. I’ve seen them orgasm on that first inhale.

As for me, depending on the quality of the cocaine I find my self-getting erect. Sex, under the influence is a drawn out and sensory affair. Imagine the pleasure center of the human brain releasing everything at once, all this in a matter of seconds. There could be nothing more addictive than that. People like myself, the abused, the non-confident, and the ill nurtured emotionally are the victims. People die everyday behind sex, wars have been fought over sex. Imagine the power to command such a feeling at will.

We are all tactile beings, ruled by what we want to feel or how we wish to feel. Addicts like myself condemn ourselves to hell every time we want to feel. We chase this feeling even though we destroy our selves in the process. We pursue outside of ourselves what we lack within.

I have tried to simplify in this short writing a very complicated thing- Addiction.
I am no doctor, psychologist or scientist, unfortunately I am a chemist and my body is my lab.

May 26, 2005 at 23:12 o\clock


by: Azuzu

I advocate, condone or suggest nothing with this writing. This is a record of my pain. I am simply exposing my sickness and how I feel.

euthanasia >noun the painless killing of a patient suffering from an incurable disease or in an irreversible coma.
-ORIGIN from Greek eu 'well' + thanatos 'death'.

It is time to go

Is it wrong to end an utterly useless existence? I am besieged with the thought and desire to end my sufferings on this planet. There is none to say what exactly is right or wrong, who out there dictates how much a Human Being should suffer? I am plagued with a disease that I no longer wish to bear; I have existed for nearly half a century and can bear no more. No longer do I joy at things, no longer do I relish awakenings, just by making these feelings known, am I somehow disturbed or unbalanced? Is that the monocle for the truly honest?

I am devoid of any feelings. I am empty, how lonely is Lonely? I am without God, understanding or compassion. There is no empathizing me. I’m down to writing these pathetic lines of dribble, an attempt to pen my pain to page. I am trying to reach a medium where I am able to feel at ease, I wonder which is the worse, to be around for the pleasure of Family (even though the suffering is great) or to end the suffering at the cost of causing the Family pain.
Interesting dilemma. Failure on top of failure, living in places not my own. How degrading to burden not only oneself but to do so to others too. These are the components that put ease and sense into the thought (plan). Any intelligent human being would arrive to the same conclusion.

It is time to go.

How often I long for the winds of travel. I desire new roads underfoot and Orion to light my way. I gather that the lack of responsibility and the promise of adventure were the lure that beckoned. Younger were my eyes and great was my enthusiasm. Now I long for those times. I know not when things changed but change they did. I no longer thrill as I did, my life is fun filled no longer. I suffer more than I would like to admit. My legacy has changed to one of sorrow and self-pity. What have I become? Have I become what I was destined to be or have I twisted that what was to be to what is? Either way I now seek release from this situation. I must think that I was made for better than this, I think that this must be penance for crimes committed and left unpaid.

How different was my life in the past? My joys were simple but magnificent. I have seen and experienced beautiful things. I must believe that all that was not for naught. How I desire the feel of desert winds on my skin or the spectacle of lights shown to me in desert storms. I will never forget the power and fury of a tsunami. Why does peace elude me so? Is it because I try to be as I am not? Am I donning the trappings of something that I am not meant to be? Am I living a lie? I tire of all these questions, for not knowing the answers grants me only pain. Pain, is my constant companion, besides Failure. I must leave. I must once again go where I am free.

I thought myself happy once; I tried the bonds of matrimony but tired soon afterwards. Failure. I tried the steady job thing but failure presented itself also. Failure pursues me; it has become a constant in my life. I know that seeking the past is folly, but I wonder if continuing as before, can I find happiness?

What is wanted of me? Where is this leading? When will it end? How will this end?

I know that I have become a burden to my loved ones. I do not want it to be so, what should I do? I readily see the disappointment in their eyes, and it pains me so. I feel really less than. Why does it have to be this way? I hurt in such a lonely way. If there were a God, would he be a merciful God and take my breath away as I slept? Please let it be so. I am ashamed of what I have become. There are myriad thoughts as to what I can do but all these are permanent. I really hate being weak or a whiner (qualities, I abhor in an individual). I suppose that if I were strong I’d handled this long ago. The question would be “what” or “how?” So here I am, a prisoner of my own fears and shortcomings.

Not for too much longer…………………

I have no fear of death; Lord knows I have drilled often enough. All that is left is the choosing of the time and place of my departure. I feel nothing else, but I feel no remorse at maybe condemning my soul for an eternity. Time will erase all memory of my deeds or person. I will probably be spoken of in lament or pity, but in the end, I hope to be free.

My time draws near, Christmas has passed and the New Year approaches
Soon…. I will make my decision

I hate myself

My time draws near. I wonder how it will be? I know not when but I do know how. I will lie down to sleep and leave this reality. I wonder if while in dream state will this world dissolve and another concrete itself, or simply, will I just be damned? Who cares? I am slowly being left with nothing. I am now losing the material (for I lost Hope long ago). I am heading on a one-way trip. There is no coming back. This situation is Irrevocable, unstoppable—a one way trip..

I have been journalizing my thoughts for months; these writings are a record of my thoughts during a 3-month period. It is obvious that I have been in a downward spiral for sometime now. I have lost all that is essential for self-preservation.

Families tend to personalize an act such as this, they mourn and lament the cruelty of the person committing said act; they see the act itself as injurious or in some cases hateful to them.
They do not take in account how much pain and suffering would it take for a rational person to commit such an act in the first place. They lose sight that what the person is doing is freeing themselves. Some of us deserve to try to get back as much (dignity) as possible. I have lost control of my life. It satisfies me to be in control my death. The very thought pleases me immensely.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,Forever and for ever.
Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be For ever and for ever.
But here will sigh thine alder tree
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.
A thousand suns will stream on thee
,A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be
,Forever and forever.