Crack Cocaine, is a series of poems / memoirs about addiction to crack, cocaine, heroin, alcohol, street life and prison. The journey begins at age 12 with dropping out of school and being committed and confined to a mental institution for one year. The NYS Psychiatric Institute, due to violent behavior. Yes, I am certified psychiatric. I escaped twice. It progresses into street life, marijuana, and alcohol. At age 13, I am introduced to heroin injections, alcohol, and theft.

Eventually I become a heroin addict and criminal. On my 16th birthday I wake up in a cell on Rikers Island, the worst jail in NYC. At age 18, I am sentenced to 5 years in maximum security prison. I beat someone with a bat. Upon release from Sing Sing Prison, I return to street life, heroin, cocaine, and alcohol. I meet Joey who introduced me to crack cocaine. I become a Crack Head, then homeless and sleep on the street for two years. I become degraded, experience violence, murder, and cocaine psychosis. I have been shot at, chased with knives, brutally beaten, while terrorized by a vicious dog. The guy that beat me up, Tito, he's dead. Shot 3 times in the chest with a 45. I piss on his grave. Fuck him.

More than once, I overdosed, was found unconscious. I've been wakened in the night by a stray dog who sniffed me as I slept in garbage. "Fuck the world, I'm bullet proof" was my trademark. I have a Master's Degree in Deception, a PHD in Stealing, a Doctorate in seeing a Hurt Look on my mother's face. I lied I cheated I robbed I stole. I woke up in the morning with no drugs no money, never did I say, "Today I won't get high". I made money and drugs appear out of nowhere. If I had nothing to eat all day and was hungry, and made $20, I bought a bag of chips a quarter water, 50 Cents, total, and spent $19.50 on Crack, a loose Newport, a pint of Night Train wine.

In 1986 as I slept on the streets of NYC, in my pocket, a 5 shot 38, a crack pipe, a pen, and paper. I wrote a book of poetry about crack, heroin murder and crime. I wrote poetry about the things I saw. It is titled, Crack Street Victim Lane. I have held on to it dearly. In this book is the cover of it, one of the yellow wrinkled pages in my illustrations. Crack Street Victim Lane, Sam on Crack, Crack Cocaine, is my collection of those poems, complimented by personal addiction memoirs and cartoons. A true story written in graphic content, explicit detail.

Joey
They found his body in a garbage bag.
He played a game, it was not tag.
Joey always had a smile,
but being sneaky was his style.
What a shame the way he died,
inside my mind, I hear his cries.
Because of crack, Joey told you lies
owed people money, Joey died.
This was murder, not a joke.
They tortured him, they made him choke.
They hit him with a bat as they held his back.
Inside that place we both smoked crack.
With cigarette butts, they burned him up.
With a garbage bag they covered him up.
He sat in that chair and he was afraid,
$200 he did not pay.
They hit him in the head with a baseball bat.
Joey got killed because of crack.
They found his body in a garbage bag.
He played a game, it was not tag.
Joey always had a smile,
but being sneaky was his style.
By Samuel Arcelay