“I am recognizable now as a part

         of the man who made me.”

               —T.C. Tolbert

I used to be a bad crack

dealer, cause I was such a good

dealer. I’d give deals & credit 

I couldn’t afford—

                                               burned time & time again.

playing a small part in black market supply & demand

as a kid on the corner with a dumb phone, the Nokia 

Tron snake chasing the pebble, unable to cross itself. 

we, the suckers born by minutes, 

               divided in despair,

                         theirs—mine, theirs

               swinging over me

                         like Dave’s cold body.

I was Wall Street smart,           doubling my investment 

in penny stocks. if it ain’t me,      they’ll get it from somewhere,

might as well be me. we’d say             in cracked mirrors. benefiting

from their brokenness                         perpetuating my own. I wasn’t 

getting rich. just surviving           when being a middleman made cents:

I knew where to get Coke,             learned how to cook it & knew

who’d buy it. simple.                                it kept me from having to grow up.

we knew      the War       on              Drugs was drag—a slogan, free 

gov’ment cheese on a trap.    a          D.A.R.E to mock us. kill a few black 

                      birds with specific neighborhood stones.