[insert name]
These are the lyrics of a hit,
number 1 with a bullet,
pinned to the top of the charts.
This poem is not
a "suspicious" hoodie,
has not snatched any cigarillos,
is not in an illegal chokehold,
(although it may have
a toy gun tucked
in its waistband),
this poem was shot
on video
in the back.
This poem may
play its music too loudly,
or contradict
the police report.
But this poem
will convene
no grand jury
to return No True Bill.
This poem checks out,
so the only charges
will be on a credit card
for funeral services.
These words
possible because
while facedown
on the concrete
of the righthand lane
at 10:37 AM
on April 15th, 1987
at 19067 Greenbelt Road
my sternum
could bear the weight
of the knee between
my shoulder blades,
and the .38 revolver
eyeing the back of my head
had a 15 lb. trigger pull
and not the 8 lb pull
of a Glock 9mm.
Possible because
I did not
bet on black
while playing Roulette
by Cop.
This poem
was not written
because angry,
this poem
was not written
because "Self-Defense".
This poem
was not written.
Because my hand
is two
behind my back
cramped
from having
to write
and wright
and rite
this poem.
It’s not true that
my eyes are red
as a bag of Skittles,
if this page is dotted
it is only Arizona
Iced Tea
that was spilled.
This poem mentions
no names,
not Amadou Diallo,
Sean Bell,
James Byrd Jr.
or [insert name]
This poem pertains to no crime,
it comes natural
contains many enwreathed flowers
but no trees
with branches strong enough
to bear the weight
of a black man or woman
or boy or girl,
no rope (to be at the end of),
or even a simple slipknot.
But it does loop;
like a wandering moose,
a homeward goose,
or a four hundred year old
ruse.
