Wrong House - a poem for Breonna Taylor

Wrong House

Her name is Breonna Taylor, for the event of her murder

can never change that she existed. Asleep in bed,

door knocked in with battering ram, splinter of wood

charged about house like shotgun blast. Startled

into waking. Intruders pressing forward, legally

issued firearm discharged as advocated to protect

from home invasion. Invaders happen to be cops,

neither announcing, nor knocking, because judge

said they didn’t need to. In darkness cop and criminal

interchangeable, by light of day appears case to,

for many, for some, for enough.

Cops said, with a shrug, Oops

wrong house.

Her name is Breonna Taylor, born of a sin of being Black

which is no sin, but saddled as though it was, as citizenry

ignore that they don’t see color, are blinded to it, but racism

has eyes, and full spectrum of color. Hard truth,

to admit personal responsibility is out of your hands.

Cops said as much, as they opened fire, shooting,

at least, Eight Times, into Miss Taylors body. Covered,

secure in blankets, but blankets only protect children

from imaginary dangers, pretend violence, not violence

that finds Black bodies dispensable, as young men

executed for grown men crimes, and men executed

for no crime at all, other than being born Black. And Breonna

forgotten because she’s Black, no photograph to jar

citizenry into action, to plaster, and demand action.

Cops said, Oops, wrong house,

as if it cemented validation for executing a human

being.

Her name is Breonna Taylor, and it isn’t just the cops,

it’s the Us & Media fear mongering for years that our neighbors

over on Martin Luther King Boulevard, in Martin Luther King

schools, in the Ghettos, in the Heights, as if the Dream

was finished and now they could just go about demonizing,

offering stricter reactions, to similar offenses of White neighbors.

And we, pretending our attitudes weren’t racist, you and I,

in these non-black communities, worried about Gangs, and Crime,

listening to persistent attitudes put upon, using poor

biased, racist social science to determine Black wanted

to be with Black, and that this was a Black problem, and by connection,

by default, by process of elimination that they wanted

to be eliminated too. Cops said, Oops

wrong house, tossing up hands as though

that was it, but we citizens, scared that Black bodies would

encroach upon our neighborhood lawns, okayed

decimation of schools, of communities, and huddled

Black bodies together, and deprived them of services,

of social, of schooling, of funding, and blamed Them,

because we were scared crime was coming to our schools.

Her name was Breonna Taylor. Worked in an emergency room,

helping people, despite skin colors, despite anything

other than the knowledge that inside we bled the same,

but its not enough to know that. In the name

of protecting Our children, we kept Black bodies

where they belonged, and acknowledged growing

crime statistics, and blamed it on being Black, instead of blaming

it on disadvantages over centuries, attitudes over centuries,

that not only came externally, but felt internally,

as we pretended to listen. And the cops kept saying,

Oops, Oops, Oops. Like Children.

Breonna Taylor is not an oops, she is not an accident,

George Floyd is not an oops, he is not an accident,

he was a Black man trying to make it, to cash the check

King asked be cashed, that he demanded America

make good on, and he executed too. Black Lives Matter,

it is time to stop throwing up hands in defense

and speaking, I’m not racist, as though

America got here on an Oops, the trajectory

has been constant, and by the numbers,

by the cold face of history,

and we keep saying Oops.

America is racist, it is time to stop

sugar coating blood stains of history,

crystallized white powder that absorbs the blood

of a violent nation.

A Moment of Beauty - a nonfiction moment

This is about my beautiful girlfriend. Who recently finished graduate studies at the University of Michigan. I understood at 32 finishing undergraduate studies would be seen as a long-past congratulating accomplishments for me. People who knew me did congratulate me of course but...

Katie, she had worked continuously. She was intensely focused on her schooling, while also participating in dance, and other extracurriculars. And she had just finished a graduate program, finally, years to get there and now finally graduated. The promise of Biostatistics as a sure-fire way to get a good job. She was applying like wildfire everywhere. Her peers getting jobs. And then COVID-19 hit. A hiring freeze went out everywhere. She was constantly asked how the job search was coming. Both of us were in the early depressive phases. But she continued to try. Fake job opportunities popped up and she tried to be optimistic at the initial offers but they never panned out.

On this day in June she had a preliminary job screening interview with a real company. And she was back in her pure old spirits again, gesticulating around with her arms, fully of pure joy and happiness at her American promise that an education could get her somewhere, and it was a level of happiness, and optimism I hadn't seen her show for months. Literally I was moved to tears, recognizing the jubilation she felt at finally getting back on track to the promise education had promised. That her years of hard work, which involved an international internship, was actually producing results.

I watched her from March to June, apply for work continuously, far more than I had. Searching out both local, and national, and international opportunities. Only to be met with silence. What a moment to witness as she shared news of a promising opportunity. There was no promise she would get it, but there was finally a voice at all that shouting she had been doing, that many of us have experienced on job hunts, but that was now amplified because of a global pandemic that had shut the most powerful nations down.

How overwhelmingly proud I am of her. Her spirit weighed down but never deterred, and to see it jump out fully as it did in that moment. Made me so proud, and humble. As she wiped tears from my face, I apologized for crying, and she said its okay, but I reminded her that I hadn't her seen her that optimistic in months. A world of heaviness upon her shoulders, a moment of levity in this long string of hardship. What a joy to witness that.

I'm proud of you Katie, you inspire me to always be better.

Love you forever.

'The Chasm of -Isms - a poem

I'm fairly certain when bread was broken,
people did not feel the need to share. Bread
purchased in good-faith off store shelves,
packaged my manned-machinery, baked
by traditional means, from a recipe of grandmother
but now served at table for silver-platter guest.

Machine shop powered my people
mechanical, machinations, operations
guided by hands of workers, dirty,
disheveled, paid half time, dirtied,
sweat pouring, but ultimate deceleration
of independence said don't share it,
don't spread it, don't pay them enough,
nor invest back into nation. Your dime earned.

Good books do not spit out condemnation
for children born to people, who weren't born
to people, who weren't born to people who
were willing to devote much time because systems
set up to charge too much interest, to predatory
attack under educated, or draw up district lines,
so that all obstacles were setup to discourage
participation in wealth games. Some had to push
through, but good books never said poor were poor
they deserved it, or that races wanted to stay
put because they liked it. That was mankind
who said so, and mankind alone.

As grandmother baked the bread, mother
did too, and daughter saw how, and system
was continued from one turn to another
and little worlds turned, rotated as they should,
on a globe, axis-spun. Nowhere does it say
to demonize, for the dreams of one father,
are typically the same for their children,
dreams that children get to be one step further,
to accomplish what they couldn't.

How faulty to determine judgement
when great eyes can see it all, sovereign
pupils spying peoples as all they do,
noticing temptations, tribulations,
and power of hateful people to cause
painful action upon those we love.

How faulty to ignore goodhearted
hearts, entwined, for prideful boasting,
embarrassment, caused eruption to spark
feverish, demonize the future that two hearts
already see with hand in hand in hand,
of future most glorious of children laughing,
sons and daughters and dreaming up next
steps for planet earth.

From wall street, down to main street,
from town square, to farmed field,
on foot, in air, on wheels, engines of
progress propelling time forward,
and consequences of unspoken evil still
spiraling out loud, why shouldn't good people
speak up, raise alarm, and why should
naysayers feign shock at outrage, when every generation
has cried out,
Let My People Go.

I Wonder if You Know - a poem

I wonder if you know the things your daughters have to deal with,
toeing a line, where they are seen beneath everyone, and growing around
a plethora of men foaming at the mouth. Unfortunately, many times,
this is not the information you will hear from them, but that their partners,
lovers, others, will have heard about, have been entrusted with. While I am
judged I wonder if you know the types who clawed their way at her ankles,
scratching, and using her. I wonder if you know that or if you choose
not to see it, or if you only see that I don't sing national anthems, or where
a crucifix around my neck. For snakes are abound, and my soul is good,
it's had some bumps and learning curves, but my admiration and respect
is infinite, and my love deep. If you want to cast me as a villain, you have
my permission to do so. But you're ignoring so much that I have brought,
that she needs, and I'm sorry you seem to only mind she tow the line.

What Is It All For - a poem

A place behind our house
had a million trails, exaggerated
of course the number was far smaller
but to imagination of childhood wonder
infinite travels were permissible
through winding's of tower redwood,
that were actually pine, but allowed
to be mighty and strong, in mind,
if mind would permit.

Strongest mind belonged to children
able to bring in everything from infinity
across time and space, safe and sound
in wonderment in shape of innocence
and the world was mighty and full of possibility
for little did young know the mighty
roar of injustices happening as history
was happening for childhood was happening
in back trails of a almost-suburban, 
not-quite-country home.

Jesus loved all, looked out especially for children
Sunday School sermons of puppets, skits,
stories told lightly, told mightily of everlasting
power of Jesus. Mind soaked it up,
drank it down, took communion with power,
and willfulness that they wanted,
and wondered how beautiful a world
it could be.

The everlasting promise of His good name,
was hard to sell as child got bigger,
contradictions in human suffering,
and lies of political opponents cast
harshness to a wonderful light, but so many
who taught did not see this contradiction,
did not see benevolent Lord this way,
though they said it with words, encouraged
they did the judgement of others,
but judged everyone all the same.

Child going into manhood, told
to worry about end journey, that so trivial
were worries of man that they should not bear
a thought. Sacrifices were made to feeding
some poor, and young man wondered
why it was acceptable to abandoned
neighbors for a chance to fund a TV
broadcast. So, one of many doubts 
planted, and he was rebuked for doubting.

How harsh it is, and disastrous, to grasp
so hard to love of Jesus to see it disparaged
by people who taught in favor of a clique, 
a club, exclusive, step out of line, forgiveness
was not reserved for you, and they cast so many
stones.

Boy had never been too bad as child,
not terrible as teen. He had has his share
of wrong-doing all told, but he stayed free
of trouble. And always his extended members
of family tree judged him, doubted him, 
mocked him, belittled him. And always his
church family judged him, doubted him,
mocked him, belittled him. And for what?

The man lived by Jesus' principles all his life,
he knew they'd shaped his morality view,
and yet when he wanted to wrap arms
and declare love for all his brothers,
the Church decried it, extended family
rebuked it. 

The man had talked back, swore, had a left
leaning world view, that's how they labeled
it but he thought he just followed that Jesus
philosophy of loving thy neighbor as they self.
He thought, if hell awaited a sinner, why make
it hell on Earth. And he knew action, and perseverance
were needed, even if prayers were all good.

With only support for his momma, his father,
brothers, and two sisters one that was in-law
he took it upon himself to better himself. Trying
to grow, and check what prejudices were accidentally
put upon him. He took lessons of love and forgiveness
his mother taught him, and proud hard work his
father top him. He kept going, and tried to treat
everyone with respect.

In his work, they had said being nice to employees
wasn't enough, you weren't there to be their friends,
and yet when he was placed into a position of authority
he both worked harder and prouder, and friendly toward
all and he was beloved by most of his peers.
Respect was key, kindness was working.

He learned, he returned to school, grew up, expanded
his skills and mind. And amidst all that a vile
beast slept inside the white house, spewing
words of hate, and he found it unforgivable,
not because of political reasons, but because
of the blatant evil it represented, and he sounded
alarm amongst his family, and to his surprise
some supported the beast, and used Jesus
to reason why.

Jesus and this beast would never fit together.
Like a square peg trying to go into a round hole,
one spoke selflessness, the other selfishness,
one said turn the other cheek, the other said use your fists,
glorified the opportunity for violent retribution
the beast did, and Jesus was implemented, again,
in some kind of holy war.

How hard it is to have faith shattered,
dashed upon the rock again and again,
and how hard it is to sound the alarm
and have no one heed the flashers.
As they acted like insects in the night,
attracted to a light leading them to a trap.

How hard it is to be shattered. And how thirsty,
am I to be repaired.

A Moment of Independence - a flash fiction

There was something vengefully archaic about dipping her socked feet into the brown of the river that Pamela couldn't resist. She'd been sitting there, on the bank, in her gruff but brand new tennis shoes. White was smudged with shit-colored mud, and her mother had made her promise she would keep them safely away from the river that she liked to frequent. Pamela had lied and assured her mother that she would do as was requested but once she found herself wanting to visit the bank she couldn't very well rush the quarter mile back home to switch out for better shoes.

The fabric of the socks sucked up the water almost instantaneously, the way a sponge might, or a paper towel. She felt the heels of her feet dip back and down into the soft earth below her, a slight sinking that was but a few centimetres. Pamela pulled a foot out of the water, holding at her ankle and watched the water cascade off in its suspended waterfall, back to be collected again against the smooth current of the river. She dropped it back in with a splash and it collected about her light blue blouse, and her pristine navy skirt and she didn't care.

Then she stepped in further. Behind her her disgusting shoes sat empty and useless, no longer housing her feet, and she figured would not be able to house the soaking socks once she had become bored with her current fascinations. They sat there askew in the position she had been in when she took them off, almost kissing each other but not quite. Laces were still bow-tied, the patterns of mud unchanged, crusting in the exposure of that late-day summer sun.

Pamela had asked her mother, truthfully, begged her honestly why she should be required to wear her Sunday shoes, and what in truth was the point of having just one pair for one day that cost more than the lot of her worn out pairs. Her mother had told her, classically, that it was because she had said so, but that was such a stupid answer that she had wanted to call out bullshit. But to use such language would of course warrant a smack across the cheek, and would have led to the same answer only more irritated and angry so, so it was much easier to avoid the foul language. It would have been good fun to use such an opportunity to curse.

It was the first bite of the several swarming mosquitoes that awakened Pamela to the hour. The sun had begun to retreat and she at once realized how much the temperature had taken to drop. She should have had the foresight to understand that the weather and location was prime for the pests, but she had become too excited in demolishing her shoes that she forgot to take in the time. Another mosquito bit her inside her elbow and she caught it with a slap, its blood filled body exploding into a blotch on her skin.

How miserable it must be, she figured, to be a mosquito, to buzz and pester, just trying to survive with what food you can find, only to be beaten, and killed and shooed away by your main course meals. To have that singular purpose and to be rebuked for it. She had sympathy for the blood-suckers but she still crushed them under her eleven-year-old palms just the same. Survival of the fittest, or whatever it was evolution had said.

When she turned to return to her shoes she dug her toes into the mud and twisted them sharply, pushing down with that twist in order to send a cloud of foggy mist to coat about her legs. The film ceased visibility to her feet, and when they returned to view she walked up the bank and collected her shoes, keeping them both pinched between the fingers of her right hand.

The soaking socks made her feet heavy as she trudged through the barely there path through the woods. A small sapling had somehow thought it could survive on that path, and Pamela made sure she took great strides to walk on the far side of it as if it were a traveler sharing the road. Her socks collected heaps of pine needles and dirt bits, small rocks, and the chipped residue of floor leaves. And they squished aloud with every step, every crunch musically mixed with a puddy-like-gloopiness that she would love to emulate again.

Pamela's home was a short walk but long enough for the light to start to fade more noticeably but not long enough that the night had overcome all together. In the long country driveway her father and mother's pickup trucks, one red and the other blue sat unused and useless without their drivers. The mute yellow light of the porch light grew brighter and brighter as the encroaching darkness consumed.

When she stood under the light that the night insects had already come to battle over, she had almost gone straight away for the front door knob. Her hand extended out, ready to accomplish a twist that she had performed on a multitude of occasions with that satisfying release of the latch, but she stopped herself. Her gaze returned down to the mess her socks, her church socks, the once-white socks, now littered with debris. She stepped in place, and listened to the water still seeking to gush out of them, and stared down upon the water stains on the wood porch boards.

Then she removed them, one at a time, and tossed them into a thicket-bush that sat as a border around the porch. In truth they were rose bushes, but Pamela had never seen red flowers grow there, just greenery, and thorns, for as long as she could remember remembering. Her shoes she could not toss, the punishment for losing them compared to the punishment for dirtying them was far more severe. So she kept them squeezed tight in her fingers, and went in to face whatever punishment she should face for being eleven.

Extra Extra - a poem

See headlines on newspaper black font on white background

that bemoans fall of star athlete and how all potential awash

down drains. Distinction given to passing of footballs,

of a slew of extracurricular's, student senate, and four-point-o

grade point average. See, way that academic acceleration

puts pedestal under truly exceptional. How wishes of future

are deemed more worthy for people who partake of system,

who are deemed worth their weight in attention. See headline

though, on same backgrounds, in same ole font. To decipher

that a sorry sort, was sorted out into disadvantage, who

had forgotten how to do algebra, chemistry, who hadn't been

able to read. Still, tried true enough to be something higher,

psychologically beating brains to be smarter, happier, worthier,

of sorts that get exceptional feedback from parents, and not whipped,

cursed, and screwed by god-like figures. This detriment is critical

because too often American idealism sees those with weaknesses

as worthless.