I know what I'm doing..

Who knew that it had to be THAT spliced and specific? She looked up from the blue and red wires from the Dodge Stratus she was trying to hotwire with some sad excuse for a running partner; surveyed the parking lot, all was well and she continued to fuck with the unfuckable. How did she get here she wondered?’ living this same scene every day, in the same way, with the same fucks every day. It pained her to admit this way of life was not working out due to her options being less than desirable on all counts, domestic and otherwise. The plunger, the needle, the bleach, the veins, the corners, the cottons, the aaahhh that followed every direct hit, coalesced into a bravery that only junk could provide, the nap, the weekend getaway that had somehow had turned into a full time expedition of every minute of every day. She knew she didn’t want this for any longer than it faded, but then the next day…….the fucking next day that would make her very form waiver in a metaphysical uncertainty that junk would be sure to answer all of her questions, but first she needed to plunge this promise deep into that vein, not that one….. that one doesn’t work anymore. She came back briefly to hear the engine turn over and see nameless #1 scoot with a haste into the passenger side door that she wish he would’ve displayed when they were on Houston earlier robbing that poor blonde with the ridiculous shoes. Nevertheless, to 110th in Spanish Harlem to dump this sack of shit, the car was going as well. Best chop shop in 5 boroughs, they had always worked with her on shit; and judging from that infinite and all too familiar chill, she was right on time. That invisible ball grabber shot that pistol in the air and she and nameless #1 headed uptown. Sitting on the Number 2 train to pick up, a urine soaked Puerto Rican jerked off two seats down and glanced at her as he finished up and came on the felt coat of the old woman sitting to his left. Poor fossil had no idea, maybe she was going to visit her grandkids and they would ask about the humanistic glob on her coat and her daughter would have to lie and later contemplate how to have yet another conversation with her Mother about the home due to things of this nature running more ramped than she would like to admit; funny how guilt covers all manner of sins, even when they quite possibly could be valid ones; guilt and sins collectively, sharing a universal conscious, that happens more often than you want to admit you know. . This masturbating Puerto Rican was just one of many city drones sent out by a supposed force to inspire her to get clean, find a better way of life, the thing was that she just didn’t give a shit and welcomed an early death, if it would have her, it had three times to be exact but had not clung to her nearly enough and led her back to the cold white sterile room and angry faces that held her insurance less charity care papers in their back pockets, yellow ones that she made paper airplanes out of and flew into no particular area of A squat. There were a lot of them, not just from her, but from everyone. She got back on the clock and made her way out of the train, into some unsuspecting Wall St’s pocket, which ultimately produced nothing but an expensive pack of French cigarettes and an inscribed zippo, which if held sentimental value wouldn’t be in this fucktard’s pocket in the first place and then finally on the final stretch to the spot, an apartment on the 8th floor of lost building that used to serve as something for certain someones but not anymore, it was a rent controlled memory of things that may or may have not happened to begin with, right now that nausea didn’t leave much room for contemplation on the matter. Longest goddamn elevator in the world, every motherfucker getting on and off except her and her seemingly publicly wanted aborted mission for junk, for the cure that would make it hush in the same way your black 2nd grade teacher made the class when they became unruly. The door, the door, where was that little day of the dead hooker with the pink hair that sat on the floor next the “door?!” Fuck, there it was, a practical fist pound typical of pigs proper, merited that exact response. I hollered it was me and the door flung open and welcomed me in like a lost Dyfus child reunited with a sick parent; not entirely off really…I slam, glided the money across the kitchen table and in return I was slid a bundle. Sweet Jesus fucking Christ, here we are…. I sat down: spoon out, cotton in, needle flick consistent until the point of entry and let’s get real….aaahhhhh…..thank you Mommy for the gift of rundown, runaway, run run run…… Walking in the rain down a black doorway ridden Soho makes for shit times when you’re passing a meeting, fuck it. They knew and so did I, but spare me your empathetic look shrouded in dismay and key tag propaganda, I was there too you know. Just gonna take a load off for a little while, I’ll be back around in the Spring and you’ll see. Me and you and lemonade and plans, plans for miles. That place in Maine, that place over there and down here and that place you…..yeah, wait till Spring baby and I’m back on that shit, back on the shit in a non-transient way but a cultivating life way, living not surviving, I promise, just this last $20 and I’ll make it back from Babylon, make it back to that pile of shit, well, you know what I mean. Plans baby, plans. I miss you in the rain and the early morning when your eyes are at their peak, you never thought so but I see you. Really see you. You won’t see me, fuck ….I don’t want you to. All in good time, baby, all in good time.