In 1986 as I slept on the streets of NYC, in my pocket, a 5 shot 38, it's name "Bandit". Armed with 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. Sam on Crack 32 Years later, is my collection of those poems, complimented by personal addiction memoirs and cartoons and personal photographs. A true story of drug addiction, street life, prison, murder, pain and survival. It is written with graphic content, honesty, pain and explicit detail.
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. From this I graduate to cocaine, street life and prison.
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 have 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.
At the time of this writing I am 62 years old and remain drug alcohol and nicotine free 32 years. I am a published writer and business owner and I have written another book about neuroscience, psychology, quantum physics and the subconscious mind. It's title, User Manual for Your Mind.
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.
By Samuel Arcelay
