by Khary Jackson aka 6 is 9
After the riot,
the streets are a milky haze,
the morning blurred in golds and yellows,
impressionism meeting sobriety,
rage wishing for a hangover.
Clouded yellow faces,
shadowed brown faces,
still streets covered in glass,
and the boy is still dead.
Store owners hoping their insurance
will keep them afloat,
car owners estimating the cost
of new headlights before
work, teachers weighing the
relevance of lesson plans,
and the boy is still dead.
They said the system was to blame,
and the system justified assault upon
the livelihood of a city barely making one.
Hundreds of numbing hospital bills,
millions lost among friends,
this is all worth the life of one boy
who is still very dead. Yet millions
die daily of starvation, of filthy water,
of systems that view them as numbers,
where are our riots then?
If one man can throw shoes,
can not a nation provide them?
If we're going to waste millions,
take them from the very hands
we kissed two days ago,
I know of a few nations
who need it more than the system
we desired to humble.
Because after the riot,
a dead boy is nearly forgotten, and hundreds
of beautiful people have become
an embarrassment,
walking through the glass covered
streets wondering, what now?
What now.
Khary Jackson aka 6 is 9 is a teaching artist, a playwright and nationally recognized slam poet; currently residing in Saint Paul, born in Detroit.
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