Saturday, August 27, 2011

Thin Black Line

Soooo, I know I said that I would update this blog once a week and apparently, I missed a week. No one said a word about my missed week so that makes me think that no one reads this. Mayhap that's the truth...

Anyways, a word before the poem: in police circles, there are two kinds of people- law abiding citizens and criminals and the thing that separates them is the police force ie. the thin blue line...

Thin Black Line

I learned to kill monsters
before I learned to tie my shoes-

I considered the great responsibility
of bringing criminals to justice
and bringing justice to criminals
as my shield to bear-

I felt the staggering weight
of what we call ‘good and evil’
and the unstoppable force that drives it
and the immovable object in its path-
or the other way around-

I looked into the abyss
before my first day of big kid school
and found evildoers looking back at me;
monsters in every closet and under
every bed-

I became a concerned citizen
but those places have no hotlines to congressmen
so I asked my caped crusader,
“what is to be done?”

He helps those who help themselves
the Good comic Book once said-
I bought hockey pads
and a mask that velcro’d
over my face-

I became the thin black line.

Saturday, August 13, 2011


It's been almost a month. Does it feel that long to you? Maybe you don't wait for these poems the way I imagine you do. I like to think that you do though because that matters to me.

If it's any sort of consolation, every day I don't write a poem feels like a week. So a month in blogyears is like a lifetime in poettime.

But now, I've got lots saved up and I've got some trojan horses to pull from the stables. So what say you to a poem a week for a month???? Yay or nay?


I am Bigger than black-

I have a mirror the size of africa
and I ask it questions in rhyming couplets-

I am more than slavery and slaves
and slavebreakers,
african princes who came to the colonies with nothing
but their lives and left with less.

I am more than house niggers eating scraps
from the master’s table.

I am not the so-called negro in America;
I am not an african in America-

I am greater than the sum of my parts
scattered and reassembled at appomatox.

I am a bigger word than miscegenation-

I am larger than horse-faced gods and lion-breasted goddesses

I am beyond the pale
Roman-Dutch-British occupation.

I am older than my face.