Pblocura Nights (Nights Of Craziness) : Meeting The White-Lady/B/P Poem by Oscar Velazquez

Met a crazy white-lady, she
cast wicked incantations in our mentes
promised
instant dreams
wondrous illusionary a.m’s
to homeboys and me.

Her name…was cocaine
She came, stealth-like on stale-nights
when homies and I…use’ta
sit in a garage—kickin’ back
like laundromat-insomniacs
enjoying, “Open-24-hr” warmth.
We sat, crammed up among junk
drinking, tradin’ tales of locura nights past
young-suicidal-winos loving…all that’s bad.
She arrived, equipped to revive
our drunk’n…driftin’ minds
delivered in powder
Induced through holes
in rolled-up dollars

credit cards cut rocks
(emptied from dime bags onto cd-cases…scattered)

slice ‘em
dice ‘em
real nice...‘m—flyin’!

Met a crazy white-lady, she
came whisking by—high
above on wooden broomsticks.
shooting up nose-holes
flicking chemical switches
snappin’ eyes wide open
boom! Shot, eyes red
stagnant blood—stopped.
Inside brain’s remains she’d dance
forebodingly
sprinkling snow, besieging me
keeping me
stuck—sandwiched in white walls

Till’ I’d…creep…crawl
quick, out half-open garage doors

homeboys right behind me
a bald-headed, white-Nike-wearing army
shadows on black-asphalt grew tall
marching, fiercely
Under krylon-grey
spray painted clouds
strollin’ down
desolate alleys
unafraid
feeling brave-mob-rage
fists clenched
chins up, challenging
anybody
down to get down
hoping
for a chance to defend our
brown...down
ghetto-superman
manhood.

Met a crazy white-lady, she
made a real loco out of me.