I DON’T GOT NOTHING. I DON’T GOT NOTHING

a collaborative poem 

by Amaré Fields and Ron Riekki

“I gotta run at eight.”  “So we got seventeen minutes to write this.”

“He gotta a gun and hate.”  “He’s seventeen years old bleeding to death.”

He was a kid. He could’ve been mine as me could have been yours.

We don’t have that kinda lingo in Seattle.  We have everywhere a battle.

With 9mm ruler sticks measuring out your lifespan.  Kadir Skinner,

19-years-old.  “We have a warning.  This video is difficult to watch.”

Have you seen Sinners?

Fourteen shots, 2 blocks ran. He was running.

How does someone defend themselves with their back turned?

Grey hoodie turned red with hate.  How does someone hear

Black words?  I’m not talking about the good cops.  We’re

talking about the bad cops.  We’re talking about black ops.

We’re talking about being hooded, dropped. “He was clearly

running away.” He has a gun he had a gun. The only gun

to his head pointed by the one with the blue

thread.  “I gotta run at eight.”  “So we got eleven minutes to write

this poem.” Cops protecting a land they not even

from. Drum bomb, Iran with a gun. 14 shots

10 blocks from the sun. You motherfucks

ain’t want this son. Honey bloody money

call for your mum.  We’re not talking about the Black cops,

we’re talking about the bad cops.  Bad cops

ain’t far from the good cops. 10 blocks

running from the blue opps.  Black bodies not far from

their homes.  Shot. Glock 19 MOS pistol

whipped car with lights too

bright. I can’t see.  Pissed writing this.  Resist.

I can’t see I can’t see. I. Can’t. See.

He was clearly running away.  Unarmed.

Unharmed?  Hell no.  Fuck the politicing

the hall of pity, shit ain’t witty.  Fuck the politicing

coming straight from the underground, a young brother

got it bad ‘cause he’s dead. Dead, honey. Dead,

you hear that. Dead.

You better start running now, motherfucker

We not talking about the Black cops,

the bad cops; shoot you down

front of your dad cops.

“Where’s your cousin?”

“He’s deceased.”

Body camera video of deadly police shooting released.

“I gotta run at eight.”  “We got three minutes to write this fucking poem.”

Ain’t bout the poem no more.

Words on a page

can’t hold this rage.

Please, don’t shoot.

I can’t see. Blood in my eyes

I can’t see.

I can’t sleep.

He can’t do anything except sleep.

If you held a microphone up to this brother

What would he say? 

Amaré, we got one more minute to write this poem:

what you got to say to the world?

Fuck the politicking this is real life.

Klu klux hold the world to a real knife.

Amaré Fields is a young Black and Japanese poet and scholar currently attending Yale University.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice. 

BLACK MAN RUNNING

by L. Smith

"At the end of the day, the evidence in this case will prove that if Ahmaud Arbery had been White, he would have gone for a jog, checked out a cool house under construction, and been home in time for Sunday supper," Assistant US Attorney Barbara Bernstein told the jury [in an opening statement of the federal hate crimes trial of Arbery’s killers]. "Instead, he went out for a jog and ended up running for his life.” —CNN, February 14, 2022

“A White father and son in Mississippi were charged this week after they were accused of chasing and shooting at a Black FedEx driver in an incident that the driver’s attorney says was a “copycat crime” of the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. FedEx driver D’Monterrio Gibson said he was delivering packages on his route in Brookhaven, Miss., on Jan. 24 when two White men with whom he had not interacted chased him in a pickup truck for about seven minutes and fired at least five shots at the van he was driving.” —The Washington Post, February 12, 2022

Inhale, exhale. Red blood pumping.

He was a black man running.

Running for what? For leisure?

For health? For fun? For fit? In pursuit of dreams?

He was a Black man running, running until the gun, the threat, the them,

the father and the son—they both pointed that gun and

Black man running now running from that gun

from the threat

of the ones

in pursuit

of him.

 

Black man running, for what? For leisure?

For health? For fun? For fit? In pursuit of dreams?

(Nah, they don’t do that. Not the black man, huh?)

Black man running run from himself, from his shadow,

run from his responsibilities, from his family, from his integrity,

at least that’s the lie they try and try again to tell me. Black man running from

something that he did, that he ain’t supposed to do, ain’t supposed to have done, and

Black man running with something he stole, like their wealth, like their women’s innocence,

running with something he ain’t supposed to have like self-pride and self-confidence,

that’s what they wanna feed my conscience, but nah—

Black man running running b’cause he gots to run.

He gots to run to keep from crying, from screaming, from loosing.

He gots to run to keep from coming loose.

He gots to run to keep from the noose.

He gots to run to keep the noose loose.

 

(That uppity nigga there got the audacity to run with entitlement.)

 

Hell yeah, that black man running. He running from that gun.

Black man running always been running from the gun,

from the one with the perceived power, from the wretched one with the will to

kill his potential, stifle his legacy, ruin his reputation, claim his coins and his creations.

Black man running, he run from the pain, from the fear,

from the frustration, and he can feel all those running who

ran before him, running with him now, running inside of his chest—

making his heart beat harder and his lungs fill faster and legs run rapid.

Inhale, exhale. Red blood pumping.

 

Black man running been running a long time. Black man running is

tired of running—not of feeling tired, not the bottom of his feet feeling tired, not the soles aching,

but the bottom of his soul, tired and aching, from all those souls running inside his chest keeping his

blood pumping red.

He is so tired; he is soul-tired of blacks running.

Tired of being a black man running.

Tired of them chasing him while he’s chasing his dreams.

Tied of them chasing him while he’s slowing down.

Tired of them chasing him while he’s doing no thing. At all.

Inhale exhale, inhale exhale. Red blood pumping.

 

(This nigga here got the audacity to be running and funning.)

 

But what happened to black man running?

Black man running with his red blood pumping? Well,

they forced him to stop running. Inhale, inhale.

 

But what if black man running was running toward somethin’?

Well, black man running was forced to fight those in pursuit

of his portion, in pursuit of his promise. Inhale, inhale, inhale.

 

Black man running had to stop his run, to stop his fun, his fit, his leisure,

had to quit his pursuit of his kingdom, of his dreamdom

to fight those in pursuit of his freedom,

those in lust of his life, jealous of his journey, envious of his evolution,

not that one, but of the magnanimous way he was created

by the Creator, and how their pursuit to stifle him never seems to really win,

they—them other theys—literally shackled his ankles a time or twelve million,

amputated his manhood for sport cloaked as social order, for hate hooded as justice,

and black man—well, he just keeps running, keeps evolving,

so they—these theys—saw this black man running

and decided for him that he would run no more.

 

Inhale, inhale, inhale. Red blood pumping.

 

Black man running would have run on, would have won on, had he kept on running.

He would have been winning, had he kept on running, but they—the jealous, the fearful, the hateful—

they jolted his journey.

Inhale, inhale. inhale. Red blood pumping.

 

The father and the son—they both had that gun.

The wicked and the wretched—they both wrestled his run, and when it seems like

black man running wins with his wrestle, with his hustle, with his bustle, and

when it seems like black man running is making gains with his grind and with his grit, and

just when it seems like black man running might get the glory,

what they know

is that black man running

can’t win ‘gainst no gun.

(This nigga here ain’t gone outrun this gun.)

 

Inhale, inhale, inhale. Red blood pumping.

 

The gun wants no fun, no fit for the black man running.

                No gaining, no glory for the black man running.

                No playing, no pleasure for the black man running.

                No leisure, no living for the black man running.

(Black man running, you gets this gun.)

                The kingdom not coming for the black man running.

(Black man running, this gun got your gallows.)

                No dreaming, just drumming for the black man running.

 

Exhale. Red blood spilled.

 

He was a working black man running

running at work.

He was a running black man running

who went for a run.

L. Smith, a New Orleans native, is a writer, an English teacher, and a Johns Hopkins University graduate who has freelanced for local newspapers. She has an anthology of poems and prose set to publish spring 2022 that her mother and daughter created space for her to write. She also has begun the blog Writer Teacher for writers teaching writers.

MEN IN BLACK

by Michael L. Ruffin

BREAKING NEWS: Georgia police on Thursday arrested a white father and son and charged them with murder in the killing of Ahmaud Arbery, a 25-year-old black man whose death in February has recently attracted widespread outrage. Much of that anger has been focused on the fact that no charges had been brought against the father and son, Gregory and Travis McMichael, ages 64 and 34. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation said that both men had been taken into custody and charged with aggravated assault in addition to murder. Travis fired the shots that killed Mr. Arbery, the state police agency said in a statement. —The New York Times, May 7, 2020, 8:26 p.m. ET

MIB 1997
Running black man
gets to be
a secret agent
who fights aliens
and protects Earth.

MIB 2020
Running black man
becomes
a victim of
lawless and
senseless violence
before he lives
long enough
to become
who he could
and should
have been.

MIB 2053 (Proposed Sequel)
Anyone can run
down any street
anywhere
anytime
without being afraid of
anybody
and remain
alive and free
to become and do
anything.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: For Ahmaud Arbery, killed in my state on February 23, 2020.


Michael L. Ruffin is a writer, editor, preacher, and teacher living and working in Georgia. He posts poems on Instagram (@michaell.ruffin) and prose opinions at On the Jericho Road. He is author of Fifty-Seven: A Memoir of Death and Life and  of the forthcoming Praying with Matthew. His poetry has appeared at TheNewVerse.News and is forthcoming in 3 Moon Magazine and Rat's Ass Review.

MIGRATIONS #1

by Judith Partin Nielsen

Shifting Perception, painting by Jay Alders

                                                                                                  In Memoriam
                                                                                                  José Angel Alfano Solana


We crossed over the border
I won’t say how
and what can I say of
freezing desert nights
black sky blazing stars
then searing, burning sun
tearing into flesh
relentless, relentless
the walking, and fear
then- - - - - - -running, running
as sand clouds appear
against the far sky
running, running- - -and then
I lost you and Juan and
the girl running, running
and falling face down
breathing sand and
dreaming, dreaming of naranjas and
water, rain falling and
phantoms unfurling like giant
sails across the desert floor
and the pounding, pounding of
ocean waves in my ears
and then- - - - -the face, the face
of El Senõr

                                                                                                 

Following a trail of words, mountains, spirit and tears, Judith Partin Nielsen, writer, mother, wife and eventually psychoanalyst left Texas for Colorado in 1985. "Freud said 'everywhere I go, the poet has gone before me.'  May we keep following those footsteps on our paths thru the worlds."

MONTHS AFTER

by Alan Catlin

Months after
the towers came down
he sat an Upstate
New York bar
drinking lunch,

in town for business,
his friends teasing him,
“So were you one
of those guys we saw
on TV running away
as the second twin
came down?”

“Bet your ass
I was.”
He said.
Not smiling.
Not even vaguely
amused, as if he was
thinking, ”I could
have been one of those
human specks falling
down the side of
a building from
just-above-impact-
floor.”

“What would you
have done?  Hung out
to watch or stayed in
the lobby to see what
happened next?
I don’t think so.”

I didn’t either.

Alan Catlin is poetry editor of online journal misfitmagazine.net. His latest book of poetry is American Odyssey from Future Cycle Press.

FUGITIVES

by Philip C. Kolin

Drawing of fugitives running from the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Image source:  A Guide to the History of Slavery in Maryland (The Maryland State Archives, Annapolis MD and the University of Maryland College Park, MD)

Black blood rushes from city
after city; running is now a crime,
guilty or not, the verdict is the same
and so is the punishment; backs
broken, heads smashed,
necks choked, chests exploded,
organs silenced; hope ended.
There is no escape, no plea, no trial.

Every black man is now afraid he wears an invisible
target only dashboard cameras can capture.
Hanging-noose ropes are strung around
the killing scene; black sons set in  buckled asphalt.
The community  fears that American history has
reversed itself, the  Fugitive Slave Acts
reenacted.


Philip C. Kolin, University Distinguished Professor in the College of Arts and Letters at the University of Southern Mississippi, is the editor of The Southern Quarterly and has published more than 30 scholarly books on African American playwrights, Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, and Edward Albee. Also a poet, Kolin has published five books of poems, the most recent being Reading God's Handwriting: Poems (Kaufmann, 2012), as well as hundreds of poems in such journals as the Michigan Quarterly Review, Louisiana Literature, South Carolina Review, Christian Century, Spiritus, Seminary Ridge Review, America, and has co-edited Hurricane Blues: Poems about Katrina and Rita (Southwest Missouri UP, 2006) with Susan Swartwout.

RUN

by Mitch Grabois

I was always disgusted by my younger sister
a sloppy teenager,
by the time she graduated high school
porcine
the kind of girl that develops a sense of humor
to compensate for all the good things in life
her lack of self-discipline denies her

Somewhere along the way she developed the habit
of slapping her knee when she finds something funny
the only person I’ve ever known who takes
“That’s really a knee-slapper” literally

Over the years, though, I took a kinder view of her
as my own self-discipline slipped
eroded by divorce and an ever-weakening relationship with my son
Her crutch was food, mine drink

Then, at age thirty-eight, something happened to her
I suspect she fell in love
and was spurned
as a fatty

She began running
became increasingly fanatic
ran early in the morning before work
and sometimes in the evening after work
in rain
snow, swelter
Sweat ran from her, detoxification

She became as beautiful as
our mother in her youth

Me, I met a divorcee who owns a house on Cape Cod
Her voice is aristocratic
and she openly despises most people
though she accepts me,
my flaws and foibles
a mirror image of hers

That morning
we were both badly hung-over
She stepped on her Shi’ Tzu’s foot, it yelped
and she burst into tears
but I’d promised my sister
we’d come see her finish the Boston Marathon
013 her lucky number

I didn’t recognize her at first
sinewy
with frosted hair

Then I pointed her out to my new paramour
and we watched her approach the finish line
exhausted
but tenacious

The earth lurched
and because I’d lived so long in California
I thought: earthquake

but instantaneously I heard thunder, saw smoke
 and my sister’s legs
--what were they doing?—
making a sprint for the finish line on their own?


Mitch Grabois was born in the Bronx and now lives in Denver. His short fiction and poetry appears in close to two hundred literary magazines, most recently The T.J. Eckleberg Review, Memoir Journal, Out of Our and The Blue Hour. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, most recently for his story “Purple Heart” published in The Examined Life in 2012. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, published by Xavier Vargas E-ditions, is available for all e-readers for 99 cents through Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Smashwords. A print edition is also available through Amazon.