The Crackhead

It didn't happen in a Crack-house

nor with the flick of a lighter

I called him a Crackhead

-I had no choice

It's been 28 years since Crack hit the streets

when I called my friend a Crackhead

I doubt he knew about freebasing, snowballing

or burning it on a spoon

or how it could melt in lemonade

But the notion alone of being called a crackhead made his body shake

His young hands shiver with fear and anger

I suppose his reputation, pride joy of being

Made Public and Private

I saw it -almost- yet unbelieving

like a crack of a whip he went into a funk

His eyes burned crimson

Like after an overdose of Ginseng

His back appeared to breathe

In the vein of a Dragon lizard

or an angered little boy

He was in a state of fusion but it felt like fission

He was in a state of turmoil as a mother-in-law

having a dark vision

And then as his hands gripped my throat -but we were friends, weren't we?

It could have been a toss of a coin to guess who would crack-up first?

As my breath shortened I felt the Crack get longer!

Deeper and more perilous

with no return in sight.

My memory floated back obscurely to l984, living on the streets of Harlem

Where my landlord, running his cold-wash-only laundromat, sold single cigarettes

And Crackheads selling little bags on my stoop

I laughed in the dim as I approached the threshold

The dealers jived me with light chuckles

looks were exchanged

and I pushed the door open with a screech.