Coping

My first drag of Crystal Meth smoke
provoked and awoke my inner oaf,
teenage folly led me to exercise what I loathed
about myself: as my mind delved
into being a Meth-head,
precursor to the method,
because it wasn’t enough for me,
to know something conceptually,
it had to be experienced.
I sought a quick way out my pain, I was lost and delirious;
a  slave,
surely this fate could’ve been avoided,
like my father in a grave,
I didn’t spend my last day with him,
I was too busy getting saved.
This was before I lost my way, and incinerated my faith.
On that night,
I overdosed in the living room as I heard my sister sob,
 asking my little brother, If of my life; they would be robbed,
as step dad slapped me hard across the face,
just to keep me awake,
while he tried to remain calm.
Every time i closed my eyes,
He would violently shake,
me like a rag doll,
i couldn’t feel nothing at all,
his voice was so distant and far, I could barely hear him call:
“C’mon wake up buddy,
If you go to sleep you’ll become a lifeless body”.
I couldn’t make eye contact, my eyelids felt so heavy.
I could see my father in the distance,
right hand outstretched, he was calling to me.
I felt the whole universe imploding  with each shallow breath,
my life force moved closer to the eternal moment of death.
I survived,
only to have no discrepancy about how my dependency
caused me to feind drastically, dragging me through street alleys,
causing me to search for pennies, literally:
I walked for miles down Crenshaw Blvd at 3 am,
tasting the Methamphetamine on my phlegm when i coughed,
exposed to the world, while my soul’s in a coffin,
I spoke to myself with head down, eyes scanning,
“i just need some change to buy a hit, I’ll feel better by morning”
This was how i processed my father’s loss, this was me in mourning.
I just wanted to relive heaven by Inhaling the residue from that speed dime,
this was how I spent "me time",
if i could go back,
I’d rewind, re-mind myself that by design, my health would decline,
never mind that i would die.
But that was the point: I didn’t want to live:
A boy’s world without his hero, is the place where the villains win.
So at 16, I gave up on life prematurely,
altered my brain's chemistry to forgo my destiny.
This beast of burden became part of my identity.
I am,
Forever on rehab,
forever an addict,
sobriety is a daily feat,
an ongoing delicate balance.

The Old Man Poet

I gave an old poet 5 dollars on the blue line today

Gave him 5 dollars worth of hope

5 dollars worth of dope

5 dollars that went towards a slow needle

Over a fast noosed rope.

I gave him 5 dollars worth of smoke inhalation

That eases his suicidal contemplation

Inhaling that comforting and tingling sensation

That ease his addictive yearn, eliminates concern,

Makes the cold disappear and the fear seem unknown,

No longer his own, as his eyes roll over and glaze,

This ecstasy is but a moment of escape from his trap maze,

For he is a RAT!!

Scum bum who stinks like old piss and dry cum,

His appearance screams of poverty and SLUMS.

But he don’t care. His mind escapes hell por un tiempo,

As his soul struggles to free itself from his corrupted temple.

While we, his audience, witness the whole spectacle.

And When it’s done, we’re too afraid to applaud,

Not for his sake but for our own thin facades.

But I skip ahead, like a guillotine that cannot be reset,

Right before this poet began to proclaim

He scanned the train car to see what his chances were,

Of sparring with us for some spare change so I,

Being a poet myself, gave him a 5.

5 misely dollars for this learn-ed street scholar,

As I studied his face and wondered:

If the pen is mightier than the sword,

why didn’t he pen a story where his life’s successes happen?

He could have done that with a worn out Bic.

Maybe its cuz the same company makes permanent Matchsticks

and he chose a Bic lighter to heat up his spoon,

while any clean needle from the clinic will do,

as he chases dragons that slay him with every stab to his blue line veins.

Blue line blues, blue line pains, blue line tragedy

like the guy that threw himself in front of the blue line train

I rode the other day. But that story is written for another day cuz,

This one’s about an old poet who spoke easy, like the open mic.

His voice was hoarse

from a damaged wind pipe,

Which feels to him as if his soul has a hole,

from a gunshot wound from the botched robbery in 82’

that robbed him of his name and his dreams

replaced them with the ambition a glass pipe seams

together with broken promises, love lost, his existence forgotten.

When devils will the blackest sins put on,

they fool you into believing that the dusk is but the dawn.

He is, but a pawn, that lives on a hit by hit basis,

this is the life of this base head, wasted; his talent almost is.

I say almost but his life is all least,

He’s a frontal lobe lobotomy away from being a beast,

he’s pouring out his heart: he’s a genuine artiste.

The Pain of his words echo with each sound that is released,

While the other passengers act as if he don’t even exist.

They just want him to quit his spit, cease his piece,

 leave in peace, where the fuck is the MTA police?

I bet with a rapper’s Jesus Piece over his neck,

he wouldn’t find the lord close to his heart

cuz he’s the one who left.

Now… the only difference between this poet and I

Is that he crapped out of life one too many times

After he last rolled dices, he got the whole shit pie

We just get served slices, Justice can be bought,

But he can’t afford inflated prices.

He gave up slowly when he decided not to fight it;

He recited passages about his life and how he got blindsided

But it wasn’t Poe’s Raven, or even Michael Oher,

although he was born from a whore

For every hugged she almost gave him,

Her crack pipe needed her more.

He spoke about not knowing his real dad

And going off to war to provide for his mom

But he didn’t cuz he came back fucked up from Vietnam.

He carried his life on his back, in a pack, that was dark blue or black

Like his lungs from the tar

Or his heart from the scars

That don’t heal with meds for pain

His hair was graying

While his teeth decaying but the words he was saying,

still had life in ‘em

while his tattered veins coursed poisonous venom

and his mangled brain fought to stay active with’em

I meant to only give him a dollar cuz shit… I’m broke too.

But fuck it, I went ahead and gave him my only 5 instead

As he nodded his head, while

“God Bless You” he quietly said, as he passed me by

I could almost hear his inner child cry.

In that moment I felt my own pain subside

And I thanked the highest source for the gift of being alive.

I purchased a memory that night with the only 5 I owned

I counted my blessings, got off on 5^th and spring

 as I wondered bout this poet and where else he had been

and whether or not he had a home.

I gave an old poet 5 dollars on the blue line today.

I gave 5 misely dollars to a speak easy scholar.

Breathe easy brother. There is hope in the tomorrow.