McCrack: Why Drug Dealers Would Be Better Off Working at McDonalds

My hateful pal & fellow Urban Twister, Bryan Stewart, recently came out about his crack addiction (I assume the addiction is virtual.) on facebook, prompting a conversation about the realities of the drug trade. David Simon and his crew showed us plenty of those realities with Homicide, The Corner, & The Wire, but many of the misconceptions about how lucrative the drug trade is still linger. The truth is, unless you can survive the streets long enough without getting killed or arrested as a foot soldier, you’d be better of working at McDonalds...

(Read the whole story on From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist.)

Villalba

 A poem about my childhood memories of the little town my folx are from in Puerto Rico:

Villalba

A shallow, little thing—
the river behind abuelita’s
house, barely deep
enough to wade in,
to slam our clothes
clean against the rocks.

Except when the hurricanes
came, we would have to
gather the chicken & geese
and stow them in the basement
praying that the great brown surge
carrying cows & cars with
equal ease would not
devour our fowl, anyway.

"¿How far does it go?"
I asked mi hermano—
"Don’t know, but I hear
that upstream
the catfish get so big
you can wrestle them
out of the water—"
and so we set out,
on a day free
of hurricanes, to find that place
where the river began.

¿How far had we walked
before we realized our folly
as the current grew stronger,
a Lucha Libre wrestler shoving
us around, knocking us down
refusing us a glance under
his golden mask?

¿And the catfish?
Just as we believed, we saw
one navigating the current
more easily than we could,
its whiskers as long as it was.

I pounced, thinking, perhaps
I can have at least this
one pleasure; rocks
in my hands,
nothing more.

Chosen

Howdy folx. I'm feeling a bit broody today, which sometimes makes for decent poetry. Here's what came out. Let me know what you think.

Chosen

I love you,

said the Universe

as she pummeled me

into the Earth,

ripped my corpse

out of the dirt

only to throw me

against weathered mountains.

I have chosen you,

She says as I slide

into cool rivers,

chosen you to show

humanity its foolish folly

its varicose vanity

its egregious ego.

I rest upon a riverbank

feeling no pain

because I am pain,

& I remember

being a child

being beaten

by my mother

beyond submission

beyond comprehension.

Afterwards

she would always hold me

in her arms, cradle me,

rock me softly,

& tell me tenderly,

I’m sorry. I do this

because I love you.

You can’t fail.

You are hope.

You are chosen.