DOSE:

0.8 g

smoked

Cocaine

(powder / crystals)

BODY WEIGHT:

100 lb

Crack, crack, buying crack, wanting crack, laughing out great bursts of cracksmoke, holding in the hits of crack, letting the disconnected sockets and bleak breakers surge in swoops of smoke fresh from my lungs, I loved each gust of crack curling in cold clouds within the chamber of my chest, tiny white slivers and pebbles of crack, the numb gutter weight of crack, hovering holy in heavings and the heavy hot sky, laughing at us for wanting such dull stars, crack crowding the slits in the sidewalk, a piece of crack for every hole in my heart. Breathe in a swoon, exhale a sob, as the liquid crystal cremation made feathers out of your promises. Butane brings out the best; glass glowing hot as haloes, the delicate crackings and pristine pops of cooking crack and the delirious first virginal puff of cracksmoke, white as our wanting, crack to cool down my hot rags of lungs, scrape out the clinging mockeries that made my soul an echo-chamber for all the voices that burned through night air to sink into the pits of my ears. The golden wink of copper wire, our faithful filters. 'They made me cut my hair and get a job/ pain is age, I am 1000 right now, so old;' you see how it went -- regularly throwing heaps of love onto bonfires, letting the sun sink illuminated phantom trackmarks into the stretch of forearm, iron chains for post-adolescent aches we were unprepared for -- the incredible press of purity's decline

Crack, I fell in love with you, with your filthy voidness.

Certain logistical facts have been altered, on the off chance a cop will stumble across this Erowid account and come bust those crack dealers who were always treated us with respect and easy kindness even though we were obviously outsiders, radiaingtly white, green, young and inexperienced honky kids in Camden, driving the shittest car in the worldin a decrepit neighborhood, the kind that always makes me want to write poems about the wretched tricks God played on men.

It only ever took 20 minutes to pick up crack -- a quick run down a highway, that special exit I can't pass anymore without cringing, and desiring. They were always there, waiting on Hyacinth St., hands perpetually in pockets, faces impssibley young, bare brown incision lines of chest hinted at as their wifebeaters fluttered. They always had dimebags, hidden either in their gums, or in a secret box concealed in trashy woods strangled between rowhomes. An exit, a left, and you were on Hyacinth Street. We used to go about twice a week, buy the rock, buy a crackpipe for a dollar at 711 or shady Mid Eastern run convencience stores, the copper filters at the dollar store. They were right across the street from each other. If you had twelve bucks and a car you could smoke crack any hour of the day.

This is how it was, how we came to fall in love with such filthy fragmented opaque flames:

Wistful waverings of whitehot afternoon, sultry silhouettes stark. They smelled us as we wafted in on the freeway currents; we stank subtly of guttings, of peroxide holes, imperfectly constructed skeleton savior dreams. They lounged in the loud luster of blank sun that baked the bricks and asphalt and the tangled vermillion agony of lonely trees, wild ivy and long grass reeking green in thick stripes between slumping townhouses, whose walls had absorbed a stricken procession of foster faces, deadbeat halfsmiles. They saw you, smelled all the cultivated bruises pouring out of your watchful face, then they would sink into the trash-tinselled trees, the leaves would close curtly behind them; or they would spit quickly, deftly into their pale palms; the ritual of bringing forth small pale rocks, cradled in skinlike red or blue or brown plastic, sometimes yellow plastic, never clear plastic. The wrinkle-wrung faces of grandmothers would shift over our plastic ivory-plated faces through the open spaces of our rolled-down windows; we'd shrink away sweating in shame. The grandmothers held the shadows between their teeth; they were the granmas of the boys with their hands perpetually in their pockets, the boys who brought us over with specific whistles, mystic motions to let us know. To let us know.

Crack, crack, buying crack, wanting crack, laughing out great bursts of cracksmoke, holding in the hits of crack, letting the disconnected sockets and bleak breakers surge in swoops of smoke fresh from my lungs, I loved each gust of crack curling in cold clouds within the chamber of my chest, tiny white slivers and pebbles of crack, the numb gutter weight of crack, hovering holy in heavings and the heavy hot sky, laughing at us for wanting such dull stars, crack crowding the slits in the sidewalk, a piece of crack for every hole in my heart. Breathe in a swoon, exhale a sob, as the liquid crystal cremation made feathers out of your promises. Butane brings out the best; glass glowing hot as haloes, the delicate crackings and pristine pops of cooking crack and the delirious first virginal puff of cracksmoke, white as our wanting, crack to cool down my hot rags of lungs, scrape out the clinging mockeries that made my soul an echo-chamber for all the voices that burned through night air to sink into the pits of my ears. The golden wink of copper wire, our faithful filters. 'They made me cut my hair and get a job/ pain is age, I am 1000 right now, so old;' you see how it went -- regularly throwing heaps of love onto bonfires, letting the sun sink illuminated phantom trackmarks into the stretch of forearm, iron chains for post-adolescent aches we were unprepared for -- the incredible press of purity's decline.

They draped themselves over porches and leaned coolly against streetlights and tree trunks, lines of sweat glazing the brown achings of their faces. We would flash fingers at them, one or two or four or six; the bills already in slender folds, pressed into the underside of our hands, undercover in pockets, against the shake of leg. The freeway bleeds into Hyacinth St., where white is the color of wanting, Corona leaving clouds in their mouths, we smoked more cigarettes than they ever did, and hid in the smoke. When rain came to christen their concrete stretches they stood under dark umbrellas, measuring the vibrations of the avenue with their eyes. Sometimes blunts dangled from the corners of their sunstuffed lips, smelter-smiles of smoke-slidings curling up into the curd of clouds. bleached through with aluminum streamers of August sunshed, held together with bricks, a fellahin swapshop of human souls that called out in magnetic offerings, called all of us there, to sweat shards in a filthy fever exchange. Tiny white fragments through thin, colored plastic. Fractional fadings of the lean street would come to infect some pulsing place buried in the gristle spectrums of our intellect; we would be drawn from the exhaust and imploded smoothness of our own streets, into the car and onto the slick run of the highway.

Then because we were long we'd drive around the nieghborhood, the nieghboring townships, taking turns steerin for whoever wsas sucking the glass dick'; we made endless circles around suburban developments, passing the crackpipe back and forth bteween us, simply becuase we had no other place to go.

Crack: I belive crack to be an insiduous drug. If evil could have a physical form, crack would be it. The bliss when you suck in a good hit and hold it in is indescribable -- bliss, joy, euphoria, cool numb ecstasy sweeping through your body; it begins in your lungs and radiates outwards, filling you fully with an absolution, a swooning poisoned sweetness, uncomplicatedand delicious.

The high lasts about 5 minutes. If that. It's the best feeling you ever felt, followed immediately by the worst you've every felt -- it's impossible to describe a comedown from crack. Suddenly the world is void, empty, hopeless, depressing and gray beyond words; everyone annoys you, you hate yourself and everything, and after you've smoked all your stash, you begin to ghostbust -- see pebbles, pieces of lint, that you think is crack. It never is.

I've spent hours of my life holding crackpipes up to lamps to see if there is any residue left to smoke. I sold most of my movies for crack -- everytime I go to look for a good movie I see they're all gone, and I say 'What the hell!' then I remember I sold them all that month I was into crack . . .

I've spent evenings alone with my crackpipe in supermarket parking lots; I've smoked so much my face and hands and feet have gone numb and my body shaked uncontrollably and my heart was deafening in my ears

However, I do not regreat a single moment of my involvement in the crack life for a while; I learned many things, and I feel proud that I was able to smoke crack more than 20 times and was able to stop fully.

Exp Year: 2002	ExpID: 20120
Gender: Female
Age at time of experience: Not Given
Published: Oct 4, 2005	Views: 102,256
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Cocaine (13) : Unknown Context (20), Addiction & Habituation (10), Health Problems (27), Difficult Experiences (5), Retrospective / Summary (11)