Here’s the completed outpouring of my emotions that will never really be complete. This is dedicated to Philip, Whitney, Lou , ALL the addicts in Kings Park, in Jamaica, Queens, who I transported methadone to (in a paper bag) when I was six years old. To all the addicts at the Sutphin Boulevard methadone clinic who gave me their best gangsta heroin lean and smile when I went there, as a little girl, with my sister to get her “medicine”. To my sister Lorraine who is no longer with us, and to my brothers who are still using, and really, to all of us addicts of an American system of abuse and misuse. This is for you/ us/ them.”
Horse of A Different Color by Gabriella Callender
When we are not injecting heroin
Then we are snorting cocaine
When we are not snorting cocaine
Then, we are smoking crack, or Crystal meth
When we are not smoking crack or Crystal meth
Then, we are popping pills
When we are not popping pills
Then, we are drinking alcohol
When we are not drinking alcohol
Then, we are eating sugar
When we are not eating sugar
Then, we are glued to our mobile device, computer screen or television
When we are not glued to our mobile device, computer screen or television
We are sleeping.
Talking to each other should not be a result of a coke induced all night get together.
There should be rehab centers for people who are addicted to disassociation, compartmentalization and straight up lies.
This country is in a methadone haze of disconnect, a fix, trying to fix a fix that can never be fixed.
Not with no fix, anyway.
To the pusher called American Capitalism, I see you.
I see that stolen eagle feather perched in the side of your red, white and blue velvet pimp hat.
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Loud, fake polyester threads hidden underneath your fiber of skin.
There are no more places for you to hide.
The dust is everywhere
Your processed white powder has been cooked, smoked, inhaled and injected across all of America the not so very beautiful.
The land of the ME and the home of the slave.