There’s a guy I know that sold me a bag a meth a long way back…even took a torch and fashioned me a glass make shift pipe… His own tweeker creative genius coming out… He was so serious and dedicated in the construction of that thing. I Hadn’t seen him since that bad mistake making night but I recently just ran Into him. Seen I was working, driving, and seemingly thriving..” Where u at nowadays? ” guy asked… “We should chill!” “Blow a couple.” Hmmm… What do I tell this guy I wondered… Part of me because of my situation wanted to break rank and run off into the wilderness again.. Why not??? Life sucks and I got money and I’m grown so???… Then my son’s voice from the other night at a bemidji visitation center popped In my head. I had asked him as I sat holding him… ” u happy son? “…yeah he said.. “Why boy? ” I asked again. “Because I’m with my daddy.”…covid shut that center down. I don’t have any contact with him. His mother hates me and probably wants me to hit that pipe and go to hell but, No!… Unh uh.. PACK AINT GOING! I refuse to be the type.. To just lay down and die… Another day sober people… The power of No! Here I come jr…ur warrior father!… One day at a time.

Published by Pack Redfeather

I am a walking contradiction of traditions some say. An African American and Native American Muslim poet with a personal life history as violently turbulent as a Storm. A visionary from the bottom of life’s social barrel striving to share the hope found in the light of faith through sometimes dark but real poetry. I’m a former member of the Bloods street gang, former serial bank robber, and both federal/state prison convict. I live on my mother’s tribal reservation of the Leech Lake band of Ojibwe in Minnesota.

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