21740 W McNichols, Detroit, MI, April 19, 2026
"Suspect arrested after allegedly shooting 3 people at Detroit gas station. —MSN
by Ron Riekki
“beside some Shreveport-like expanse.
But now you see it,”
—Bill Berkson
from “The Obvious Tradition”
“Haunted by ‘Dark Thoughts,’
Louisiana Father Kills 8 Children”
But now you see it,”
—Bill Berkson
from “The Obvious Tradition”
“Haunted by ‘Dark Thoughts,’
Louisiana Father Kills 8 Children”
Literally this happens: I’m driving to a mass shooting
and on the way to the mass shooting I drive by
another mass shooting, recognizing the area, and,
at the same time, on the radio comes the news of
another mass shooting. Welcome to America.
I think of the Childish Gambino video “This is
America,” the hyperviolence that’s so normative.
I think of the name Childish Gambino, Gambino
meaning ‘little gambler,’ like a child gambler,
a childish child gambler, and we’re in gang
territory, but all of Detroit is gang map on
the gang maps I’ve seen online, if those are
accurate. And I think of the words ‘drive by’
at the start of this poem, the dual meaning,
and I’m exhausted, driving, and I’m tired
of these mass shootings, but I’m realizing
America is number one in mass shootings,
that America has perfected mass shootings,
that America equals mass shootings, that
other countries laugh at us for our mass
shootings, how we do nothing. Jesus Christ,
I’m sick of it. I’ve been going to every single
mass shooting in Michigan for the last ten
months and no changes are made. None.
Nothing. At the site of the mass shooting,
I talk with Pretty Eyes. She wants to be
called Pretty Eyes. Her name is accurate.
She tells me, “It’s something we got used to.”
She’s used to the shootings. “You can’t
change people,” she says. She adds that
“there’s no hope.” I look around, this feel
of homelessness and hopelessness, this feel
of hole. This massive feel that this isn’t
home. I’m born and raised in Michigan.
Trash is speckled everywhere, the way
I’ve seen cooks on Top Chef sprinkle
salt so generously: white grocery bags,
paper cups, tissues, what looks like piled-
up abandoned old slabs of concrete curbs.
This is gang territory and, to be honest,
I feel perfectly safe. This is a feeling
that’s grown, where I realize a sort of
ridiculousness that black men are some-
how inherently dangerous. If anything,
they’re inherently courteous. Rushed,
Bill tells me that he doesn’t have
time to talk, but says I won’t like his
answer to what needs to be done to
curb mass shootings. “It’s strictly
God,” he says, “God and prayer.”
I like that it’s strictly God, reading
into how he’s worded it. A woman
named T tells me, “It’s been like that
since I been here.” She says, “You
get used to it,” echoing Pretty Eyes.
Nearby, the auto repair sign has
the word SHOCKS in caps and
that’s what this is, shock like lack
of blood flow to the tissues, shock
like feeling distress, shock like violent
collision, and, yes, that’s what led to
the mass shooting. Bill tells me it was
“just road rage.” Just road rage? Says
it like it’s not a shock that road rage
would lead into a mass shooting.
Three killed. Where we stand.
He has to go. Pretty Eyes has to
get going. T needs to run. I stand
there at another gas station where
another mass shooting has happened.
I have no idea why, but constantly
these mass shootings are at gas
stations. I think of the Strait of
Hormuz, the Exxon Valdez, Deep-
water Horizon, oil wars, petro-
aggression, petrostates, petrocracy,
a sort of arson of the world, and
a sort of prison of the world; we’re
at a Sunoco, listed online as an
“American vehicle gasoline master
limited partnership company”
started in 1886. Master? Why that
word? Because it’s dead-on.
I talk with Bam. He eats potato
chips, says the answer is “gun laws.”
He says, “mental issues cause
violence.” He says, “You should
carry.” He says he doesn’t have
a gun on him, but has one at home,
for protection. He tells me about
his collapsed lung. I asked if he
was shot. “No.” “Never.” But
“I know a lot of people who’ve
been shot, by accident, or gang-
banging.” He’s never been in
a gang, says people join gangs
because “they feel they got some-
body who loves them.” Love.
I didn’t expect that word. Love.
. . .
. . .
. . .
I drive away, heading home,
alone, passing a massive sign
above: $499 HEADSTONES.
and on the way to the mass shooting I drive by
another mass shooting, recognizing the area, and,
at the same time, on the radio comes the news of
another mass shooting. Welcome to America.
I think of the Childish Gambino video “This is
America,” the hyperviolence that’s so normative.
I think of the name Childish Gambino, Gambino
meaning ‘little gambler,’ like a child gambler,
a childish child gambler, and we’re in gang
territory, but all of Detroit is gang map on
the gang maps I’ve seen online, if those are
accurate. And I think of the words ‘drive by’
at the start of this poem, the dual meaning,
and I’m exhausted, driving, and I’m tired
of these mass shootings, but I’m realizing
America is number one in mass shootings,
that America has perfected mass shootings,
that America equals mass shootings, that
other countries laugh at us for our mass
shootings, how we do nothing. Jesus Christ,
I’m sick of it. I’ve been going to every single
mass shooting in Michigan for the last ten
months and no changes are made. None.
Nothing. At the site of the mass shooting,
I talk with Pretty Eyes. She wants to be
called Pretty Eyes. Her name is accurate.
She tells me, “It’s something we got used to.”
She’s used to the shootings. “You can’t
change people,” she says. She adds that
“there’s no hope.” I look around, this feel
of homelessness and hopelessness, this feel
of hole. This massive feel that this isn’t
home. I’m born and raised in Michigan.
Trash is speckled everywhere, the way
I’ve seen cooks on Top Chef sprinkle
salt so generously: white grocery bags,
paper cups, tissues, what looks like piled-
up abandoned old slabs of concrete curbs.
This is gang territory and, to be honest,
I feel perfectly safe. This is a feeling
that’s grown, where I realize a sort of
ridiculousness that black men are some-
how inherently dangerous. If anything,
they’re inherently courteous. Rushed,
Bill tells me that he doesn’t have
time to talk, but says I won’t like his
answer to what needs to be done to
curb mass shootings. “It’s strictly
God,” he says, “God and prayer.”
I like that it’s strictly God, reading
into how he’s worded it. A woman
named T tells me, “It’s been like that
since I been here.” She says, “You
get used to it,” echoing Pretty Eyes.
Nearby, the auto repair sign has
the word SHOCKS in caps and
that’s what this is, shock like lack
of blood flow to the tissues, shock
like feeling distress, shock like violent
collision, and, yes, that’s what led to
the mass shooting. Bill tells me it was
“just road rage.” Just road rage? Says
it like it’s not a shock that road rage
would lead into a mass shooting.
Three killed. Where we stand.
He has to go. Pretty Eyes has to
get going. T needs to run. I stand
there at another gas station where
another mass shooting has happened.
I have no idea why, but constantly
these mass shootings are at gas
stations. I think of the Strait of
Hormuz, the Exxon Valdez, Deep-
water Horizon, oil wars, petro-
aggression, petrostates, petrocracy,
a sort of arson of the world, and
a sort of prison of the world; we’re
at a Sunoco, listed online as an
“American vehicle gasoline master
limited partnership company”
started in 1886. Master? Why that
word? Because it’s dead-on.
I talk with Bam. He eats potato
chips, says the answer is “gun laws.”
He says, “mental issues cause
violence.” He says, “You should
carry.” He says he doesn’t have
a gun on him, but has one at home,
for protection. He tells me about
his collapsed lung. I asked if he
was shot. “No.” “Never.” But
“I know a lot of people who’ve
been shot, by accident, or gang-
banging.” He’s never been in
a gang, says people join gangs
because “they feel they got some-
body who loves them.” Love.
I didn’t expect that word. Love.
. . .
. . .
. . .
I drive away, heading home,
alone, passing a massive sign
above: $499 HEADSTONES.
Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice.
