and isn’t it crazy how cocaine ate through my family
like vultures? the powder dances in both my grandfathers’
noses. mr. greene fell in love in Baltimore, st. paul’s and north;
back then, treating your nose was like memory;
now, the zombies tightrope the empty carcass of a city
i call second home like the second mother my father had
and hated. mr. woods disappeared and left behind only a picture
of him holding a sunrise upwards on a peddle bike. that freebase hit
and they were gone just like the unc’s in Lexington Market.
and isnt it crazy how Chris and i lock ourselves in the rib cage
of this townhome for hours, high and horny? isn’t it crazy, this poem
could be just a footnote in another book?