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dream stream
#WritcoPoemChallenge
My life is an open book,
That led me through every nook,
And every corner of discovery,
Of life's long journeyThe Dreamer by Lex Parise
The head was almost obscured by the big black bee stung hands; but if one looked closely one could make out the panic ridden face of a soon to be deceased....chicken.The sound that started to echo from its flapping beak was not a shrill scream but a soul-searching screech,that started low and started to build, until it startled me awake on the sudden turn at 77th street subway station where poultry became real.I blinked twice.... once.. rubbed ....and then muffled a sickness yawn...across from my now semi focused eyes was the most out-of-place ...blue-eyed blond haired boy , his hippie coiffure straying lazily down one side of his almost laughingly gorgeous face.The humorous almost macabre part of this angelic visage is that in three short years he'd be in prison for the murder of a young mother ....he would take a lamp; when surprised suddenly during a b and e and bash her brains to a sickening silent halt but for now he was my partner ...one of two.....he was Peter... My eyes were sick- flowing tears with a mixture of a need and unspoken sadness. My blond associate became clear ...he was giving me the headtilt to the right ,a non-verbal way of saying "look at this".I looked... it was an old man scratching his nose rubbing his face in a half nod which embodied a lifetime of so many disappointments..I smiled. I understood what he meant... it was that hope that we too would be soon in that glorious condition .That tragic dichotomy:
Of why have you forsaken me?..and do this in memory of me. The clatter clash of the broken and bruised subway car almost knocked our junkie Jesus to the floor and woke us to the here and now .......I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to relax my legs and stop the incessant banging of my knees....my uncle thought this was the secret to keeping thin... in fact it was one of the features of a unstoppable anxiety that had been with me since early on in my life. The waiting, the going, the getting was the way of the modern Burroughs.... when we looked back in future years... going would be romanticized, waiting would be pushed far back into our memories and the getting would be the silent enemy never defeated.
The hallway was plaster filled poverty.Smelling of dinner,supper and dirt.It made it clean.The young lords the Spanish answer to the black Panthers had a store front next door.
We started up the worn out steps made quieter by the early morning ,we needed and the third floor was holding out the hand of bliss ;as long as your hand had the money ...I shouted Peter.. the money ...he seemed lost in a story of my design ....what ?he awoke .I have it in my hand ...ok gimme. Peter knocked..... a short pudgy woman dealer answered.We copped 35 capsules(first and last time ever had capsule dope).Took 3 apiece for our own private cookers. I hid 19 in my sock while the rest we stuck in a hole in the wall...Peter and I calmly took our works from their respective receptacles...The eye dropper with a pacifier attached to it ,with a rubber band to give it whoosh....I tore a piece of a dollar bill a small strand and handed to peter and did one for myself ..I placed it in my mouth, wet it and wound it on the tip of the glass dropper ,this "collar" would keep the needle secure......that done I placed the hypo down gently on my pants leg and started to empty the 5 capsules into my spoon ;while peter used his old bottle cap with wire handle, it was a matter of preference...Even though our Spanish lady would not allow us to get off in her apt;she had supplied us with a glass of water ,generosity knows no bounds.My spoon full. I carefully sucked up the water into the dropper....and squirted it slowly into my white blacken covered spoon.....I raised the mixture with a surgeons care, lit a bic and slowly cooked my concoction....the white became a lite Brown water.....picking up the dropper I sucked the liquid up using a tiny piece of cotton to collect all the germs,all the disease,all the hepatitis,all the dreams,loves and innocence;The small dirty white ball protected us from it all.After a flicking of the finished product to remove any death-dealing bubbles I slid the piece of dulled steel into my belt wrapped arm .I was waiting for the bubble looking at the glass tube, for a bubble of blood a delicious bubble of blood ; So I would know that I had a hit and then I could slowly squeeze the pacifier and shoot the brown liquid and wait for the warmth of the drug the all-encompassing warmth of "the"drug...because nothing could replace the feeling of no more worries no more problems no more dirt no more lost loves no more shattered dreams no more dead grandfathers no more .....
....we booted the liquid a half a dozen times sending the blood back into the arm to maybe capture a glimpse of the initial rush...but eventually we pulled the dropper from our scarred pit and hastily sanitized it with 2 or 3 squirts of water...... It was time to go and I went to retrieve the other caps from the wall but they had fallen behind ..I shouted at the wall.FUCK...I knocked at the door ...Our dope fell behind the wall ....sorry nuthin I can do.. you have to go ,too much in hallway ...go now ..I protested...I need to get the ...No she screamed..you have to go now...Peter said c'mon lets get out of here.....We scurried sleepily down the steps at the almost bottom we were greeted with....
Whose got duh dope.? .....A machete wielding Spanish take off artist said with an angry sing-song accent and a anger intensified by a craving and a little jealousy at theses white boys copping and getting high without him........the brown handle cutter that was raised in one motion to Peter's throat....again with a mo
My life is an open book,
That led me through every nook,
And every corner of discovery,
Of life's long journeyThe Dreamer by Lex Parise
The head was almost obscured by the big black bee stung hands; but if one looked closely one could make out the panic ridden face of a soon to be deceased....chicken.The sound that started to echo from its flapping beak was not a shrill scream but a soul-searching screech,that started low and started to build, until it startled me awake on the sudden turn at 77th street subway station where poultry became real.I blinked twice.... once.. rubbed ....and then muffled a sickness yawn...across from my now semi focused eyes was the most out-of-place ...blue-eyed blond haired boy , his hippie coiffure straying lazily down one side of his almost laughingly gorgeous face.The humorous almost macabre part of this angelic visage is that in three short years he'd be in prison for the murder of a young mother ....he would take a lamp; when surprised suddenly during a b and e and bash her brains to a sickening silent halt but for now he was my partner ...one of two.....he was Peter... My eyes were sick- flowing tears with a mixture of a need and unspoken sadness. My blond associate became clear ...he was giving me the headtilt to the right ,a non-verbal way of saying "look at this".I looked... it was an old man scratching his nose rubbing his face in a half nod which embodied a lifetime of so many disappointments..I smiled. I understood what he meant... it was that hope that we too would be soon in that glorious condition .That tragic dichotomy:
Of why have you forsaken me?..and do this in memory of me. The clatter clash of the broken and bruised subway car almost knocked our junkie Jesus to the floor and woke us to the here and now .......I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to relax my legs and stop the incessant banging of my knees....my uncle thought this was the secret to keeping thin... in fact it was one of the features of a unstoppable anxiety that had been with me since early on in my life. The waiting, the going, the getting was the way of the modern Burroughs.... when we looked back in future years... going would be romanticized, waiting would be pushed far back into our memories and the getting would be the silent enemy never defeated.
The hallway was plaster filled poverty.Smelling of dinner,supper and dirt.It made it clean.The young lords the Spanish answer to the black Panthers had a store front next door.
We started up the worn out steps made quieter by the early morning ,we needed and the third floor was holding out the hand of bliss ;as long as your hand had the money ...I shouted Peter.. the money ...he seemed lost in a story of my design ....what ?he awoke .I have it in my hand ...ok gimme. Peter knocked..... a short pudgy woman dealer answered.We copped 35 capsules(first and last time ever had capsule dope).Took 3 apiece for our own private cookers. I hid 19 in my sock while the rest we stuck in a hole in the wall...Peter and I calmly took our works from their respective receptacles...The eye dropper with a pacifier attached to it ,with a rubber band to give it whoosh....I tore a piece of a dollar bill a small strand and handed to peter and did one for myself ..I placed it in my mouth, wet it and wound it on the tip of the glass dropper ,this "collar" would keep the needle secure......that done I placed the hypo down gently on my pants leg and started to empty the 5 capsules into my spoon ;while peter used his old bottle cap with wire handle, it was a matter of preference...Even though our Spanish lady would not allow us to get off in her apt;she had supplied us with a glass of water ,generosity knows no bounds.My spoon full. I carefully sucked up the water into the dropper....and squirted it slowly into my white blacken covered spoon.....I raised the mixture with a surgeons care, lit a bic and slowly cooked my concoction....the white became a lite Brown water.....picking up the dropper I sucked the liquid up using a tiny piece of cotton to collect all the germs,all the disease,all the hepatitis,all the dreams,loves and innocence;The small dirty white ball protected us from it all.After a flicking of the finished product to remove any death-dealing bubbles I slid the piece of dulled steel into my belt wrapped arm .I was waiting for the bubble looking at the glass tube, for a bubble of blood a delicious bubble of blood ; So I would know that I had a hit and then I could slowly squeeze the pacifier and shoot the brown liquid and wait for the warmth of the drug the all-encompassing warmth of "the"drug...because nothing could replace the feeling of no more worries no more problems no more dirt no more lost loves no more shattered dreams no more dead grandfathers no more .....
....we booted the liquid a half a dozen times sending the blood back into the arm to maybe capture a glimpse of the initial rush...but eventually we pulled the dropper from our scarred pit and hastily sanitized it with 2 or 3 squirts of water...... It was time to go and I went to retrieve the other caps from the wall but they had fallen behind ..I shouted at the wall.FUCK...I knocked at the door ...Our dope fell behind the wall ....sorry nuthin I can do.. you have to go ,too much in hallway ...go now ..I protested...I need to get the ...No she screamed..you have to go now...Peter said c'mon lets get out of here.....We scurried sleepily down the steps at the almost bottom we were greeted with....
Whose got duh dope.? .....A machete wielding Spanish take off artist said with an angry sing-song accent and a anger intensified by a craving and a little jealousy at theses white boys copping and getting high without him........the brown handle cutter that was raised in one motion to Peter's throat....again with a mo
