Two New Poems: The Police Brutality Piece & The Murderers We Know

POLICE BRUTALITY PIECE

This wretched earth threatens to consume us all

Blood everywhere. It’s what this place is made of.

Pin sized pieces of metal fly

Colliding

First with flesh

The organ

Exit, then concrete

“You shot me”

The anthem of our times

Up tour neck in bodies

These flags are shrouds

This place. . . is occupied

This place is a cemetery

The death march goes on and I stand molding clay soldiers hoping that one day they will no only clog the machine but stop it all together.

Here be monsters grabbing at life

Forcing us to look at one another

Male and Female

Gay and straight

White and Black

All binaries

All material realities

A negro mother stands over her son’s bullet ridden body and screams “who’s next?”

And a white face replies “not I”

Our lives have become blood sport

“you shot me!”

There ain’t nothing but pain here

Ain’t nothing but rage here

Ain’t no sign of Obama’s change here

“You shot me!”

8 times in the back

4 times in the neck and torso

1 time in the throat

19 times as I raised my hands above my head

“You shot me!!!”

A cry barely heard over the clanking of dinner forks on white porcelain plates in identical square houses, surrounded by perfectly cut blades of green, guarded by white picket fences erected by the state because here safety means fear.

Genocide is commonplace

And all good specially armed men return home at the end of a long day

Far away from cries of disdain, discontent and Black Boys hollering “YOU SHOT ME!”

 THE MURDERERS WE KNOW

Red stains greet me in the morning light

I lay still, trapped in his scent

Weighed down by his lingering presence

As blessed as the sun were these stains

Brilliant beautiful stains

As offensive as the truth

As frightening as the night

They remind me that I am still alive

And it is true, that from this day on, I may never be myself again fully

But at least this morning, in this moment, I am alive

He lay sprawled out next to me

Arms ever stretched

Wanting, snoring

His sounds remind me of the hours spent on top of me

Destroying pieces of my boyhood with each thrust

Taking them for himself and his righteous hunger

Truly, the people closest to us are murderers.

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