Month: June 2013

Streetwalkers at night and children by day.

Streetwalkers at night and children by day. Daddy’s little girl looks up at a beautiful boy with heroin-fueled eyes hoping there is room for her in his cocaine damaged heart. He likes to watch her touch herself from across the room as he drinks his gin. Her friend smokes a cigarette next to her and she gives her a drag. He knows he could have them at the same time. The bums know them and it makes them feel like junkie queens. The girls are so used to being grabbed and kissed by these homeless men that they don’t mind the smell of the urine on their jeans and missing teeth. Every one knows these types of girls. The ones that have too much fun and misunderstood Lolita because they watched it too young. They stop at their usually pizza spot to make their payment for a bundle of dope. The girls take turns getting the advantages from what most girls are dumb enough to do for free. He is waiting in the bathroom, so her friend waits outside.  When she comes out, she tells her, “I hate those types guys.” But, they both know it’s a lie. Every girl loves how it feels inside. Her friend jokes, ” We do what we need to survive.”

They run to the McDonald bathroom to cook their medicine and inject it in their veins.  She is 30 and has been on dope since 14.  Her best friend is new and only 18.  She is the only person she can’t really lie to, so she tells her the truth. She says, “You don’t want to end up like me. This is obviously a problem. I let one of my friends die right next to me last week, just so I could have their bags and money…. (Sighs)…you don’t want to spend your life getting high for free. Its exhausting…I only do…cause its the only time…I don’t feel him on me.” Her friend just stares at her for a while, then roll up her shelve and shoots another bag. Even though she means it and love her friend there is a sense of relief. She loves her so much, so selfishly that she would rather have her never leave. She knows that they will both die one day, so why not together? Like Juliet and Juliet.

They walk around the Lower East Side, wide eyed, time suspended.  They live on a 711 diet paid by panhandled coins. These girls flash smiles at the crusty boys that steal them beer from the corner store in hopes of fucking on the sidewalk. They do, but only out of numbness and boredom. It’s not what they want, but it’s a taste of real life. She is used to it, but her friend isn’t. She cries about it because she is still waiting for a man to come ad force her to trade in her needles for pearls. But, She loves the feeling of the dirty skin and whiskey breath of the bums that chase her and the hotel rooms that the suits buy her. She loves being what they want and being able to pick and choose. She loves to hear about how she tastes.

Eventually, they will make it to the other side of respectable life or they will be buried alive.   People say you can’t stay out all night for the rest of your life. Her best friend was sent away. She stood on the platform, watching metro north pull away. She swept like a baby cause she knew she was never coming back.  If her friend survives rehab, she won’t be the same. She sits at the bar that they used to meet at in hopes of seeing her face. But, she won’t.  She does not recognize a single face. The junkie crowd is gone. Not even the boy that stole her can be found. He was the only one who didn’t tolerant her track marks, but found them beautiful. He didn’t want to save her or change her. He could have made her happy. Him, her and Mr. brownstone could have been so happy.  But, he is gone. The entire crack squad is gone. They probably all OD’d. She is sad, but not really surprised. It’s the junkies’ fate.

The more I think about it, I can’t believe that was me.


Journal entry, I wrote on a McDonalds bag on st marks in summer 2012

We are walking in the city on a Friday night and getting high so we don’t have to be alone. We don’t have any money but when you have a pussy you can make it work. I go out 6 times a night. Every time I shoot a bag, a part of me dies, resurrects, and survives. My friends are “bad” men but they don’t mind my seedy past. They love me with all their drug-fueled heart. Who else is gonna put up with my junkie ways. Plus they are the only ones I’ve ever had.  The junkies, homeless, hippies, punks, gypies, out casted, rejected, hopeless, dirty, undesired people are my people. All I ever wanted was love, happiness and freedom. I found even more in these people.  Dope is the only thing that does not make me feel like I’m fucking crazy. Others say it makes me crazy.  That my friends are crazy. But friends are perfect. Especially my best friend. But they don’t listen when I tell them with a joint hanging from my lips, ” When you grow up you’ll see that nothing was as good or bad as it appears to be. Trust me, you don’t want to end up like me. Spending half of your life on your knees or asleep. You can’t depend on the kindness of strangers cause one day you won’t be young and beautiful any more and you will realize it was never kindness, but opportunists.” I turn to my best friend and look her straight in the eyes and say, ” You don’t wanna end up like me, fucking to get high for free.” Only 18, but she laughs, “that’s already me.” Still, I go with her to the McDonalds bathroom mark is in the stall waiting for us and he locks the door. We trade needs and he leaves. She cries, “Lets not cop like that again.” I lie, “yeah, I hate those kind of guys.” We shoot each other up and float back out in the street. We spend the next 2 days running around LES looking for life. Smoking cigarettes, stealing dollar beers, puking on the sidewalk and begging for change. Just by looking at us, you know we have so much fun. I don’t wanna say goodbye. But I know some day there will  be  the day, where   I lay  my  head down  on this cardboard and never wake up.

The Ezra Pound session

If a nation’s literature declines, the nation atrophies and decays.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.38 AM

The real trouble with war (modern war) is that it gives no one a chance to kill the right people.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.27 AM #2

A man of genius has a right to any mode of expression.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.27 AM

Either move or be moved.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.28 AM #3

Genius… is the capacity to see ten things where the ordinary man sees one.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.28 AM

Man is an over-complicated organism. If he is doomed to extinction he will die out for want of simplicity.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.32 AM #3

A slave is one who waits for someone to come and free him.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.34 AM

The curse of me and my nation is that we always think things can be bettered by immediate action of some sort, any sort rather than no sort.

Photo on 6-19-13 at 12.33 AM