And Again

[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.