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. 

WHIRLS

by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Click to read article and view video.

1: California Driveway

 

The unfurling of the calla lily

Like a white dress whirling

 

When fully open with the day

Orange pistil elicits pollination

 

2: Minnesota Video

 

Masked man’s bodycam sees driver:

“I’m not mad at you, boy.”

 

Nearby woman wielding cellphone:

“You want to come at us?”

 

3: Reflecting Poet

 

The whirl of wheels

The whirl of a weapon

 

What makes a mind whirl

What made our minds whirl

Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA Antioch University L.A., taught at USC and Occidental College Upward Bound, board member California Poets In The Schools, publisher Four Feathers Press, host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading and workshop series in Pasadena, California.

MASS SHOOTING #4

2700 block, W Michigan Ave, Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI, September 20, 2025

by Ron Riekki

I see fog: the feel of San Francisco,
of swamp, of isolation, of Gothic,
 
of Dickens, of Doyle, of death.
A girl's dressed Goth, smoking
outside the bar across the street.
The air is thick with cannabis,
 
so much so that I feel high just
walking.  I get food.  While I
wait, I go to other businesses
nearby.  There’s multiple, all
 
supplying either food or drink,
signs with a bright white VAPE
and a thick red BEER/LIQUOR.
I’ve come late, to get a feel for
 
what it was like at the time that
the shooting happened.  This is
Michigan’s fourth mass shooting
in two months.  We’re borderline
 
on campus/off campus.  I wonder
where in the parking lot that it
happened.  I go to a pizza place
while waiting for my food.  They
 
nod that, yes, they know about
the shooting.  It happened at
the building next door.  I go
across the street, to a bar, ask
 
for water.  They give me some.
I talk to the security guard, ask
him if he knows anything about
the shooting.  He points where
 
it happened, across the street.
I ask if he’s worried about any
more shootings.  No, he says.
I go in Two Fellas Grill.  Its
 
name reminds me of the film
Goodfellas.  “Layla.”  Tommy
gets whacked.  The place is
empty, totally empty, except
 
four employees.  I ask if they
heard about the shooting.
They look me over.  Why’m
I asking about the shooting?
 
One guy looks to see what’s
in my hand.  I’m holding
a notebook.  I don’t take
notes.  The guy says he
 
took video, of the aftermath.
Was he here when it happened?
No.  But he lives nearby.
He came right away.  I ask
 
what caused it.  A girl
behind the counter says
there’s lots of rumors,
maybe gang-related, or
 
maybe somebody got
jumped.  She says that
Kalamazoo used to be
the 4^th most dangerous
 
city, but now it’s 2^nd.
The guy says changes
are going to happen.
I ask what.  He says,
 
Changes.  Like what?
He says that’s being
talked about, but they
used to close at 4 a.m.,
 
but now they’re going
to close at 3 a.m. instead.
I ask about cameras and
he says they have those
 
already.  I tell him that
there must be incentive,
since this is campus and
there’s students to protect.
 
He says we have to protect
everyone.  He asks if I’m
going to order anything.
I can tell he’s done.  I go
 
back to the place where I
ordered food.  I eat next
to another table covered
with boxes, old computer
 
screens, a big bag of soy
sauce, the feel more like
warehouse than restaurant.
I talk to the workers there—
 
a chef, a driver, a guy who
takes the orders.  One says
he lives in Battle Creek, sees
shootings all the time, more
 
than I can count on my hands,
that’s for sure.  I ask what can
be done to lessen the violence.
It can’t be helped.  I ask if there
 
is anything we can do.  All three
say that they don’t think anything
is going to change gun violence
in America.  Nothing.  There’s
 
a tip jar nearby that’s marked:
Tiperoni 😊 Thank yoooooooo
The phone rings constantly.
Nobody eats inside, but Door
 
Dash people keep coming in
and out.  The guy asks me if
I want to see the footage of
the shooting.  I’m stunned.
 
You have it on camera?  He
pulls out his phone and in
a few seconds I’m seeing it
happen in front of me.  It’s
 
five black kids.  Children,
really.  Looking high-school
age.  And it lasts for just
seconds.  Maybe eight or
 
so seconds.  An ugly brawl
where fists are flailing and
it feels a bit like four against
one, except it’s too chaotic
 
to fully know who fights who
and quick, incredibly quick,
so quick that I have him show
me the footage three times:
 
one of them pulls out a gun
and starts shooting.  One kid
shot in the stomach and three
shot in the feet.  This is what
 
I realize—how incredibly
fast someone can pull out
a gun.  Another revelation:
how having a gun doesn’t
 
protect you.  He fired five
shots before I even realized
he’d pulled a gun out.  Where
did he get it? I ask.  It seems
 
like it just magically appeared.
From his pants, the guy says,
taking his phone back.  That’s
how fast, in three seconds, less,
 
you can shoot four people.  I
pull out my phone, time it.
It’s maybe two seconds and
four people have been shot.
 
And all of them could have
concealed weapons/permits
and it would do nothing.
We have this conversation
 
just ten days after Charlie
Kirk’s debating gun violence
was ended by gun violence
and I ask the three in front
 
of me, saying, you must have
some ideas of solutions, and
they say, no, there is nothing
we can do, and I push them
 
on this, but they stick to it,
this feeling of hopelessness.
I leave.  I’ve gone to three
other mass shootings and
 
people there have had ideas
of how to fix things, but now
the feeling is there’s nothing
we can do.  I go to the parking
 
lot and have this revelation that
the shooting happened inside
the restaurant.  I had just seen
the footage.  I’d assumed it
 
was in the parking lot, but
it was inside.  I get in my car.
A podcast starts up.  It’s three
men talking in toxic hyper-
 
masculine language.  I turn
it off.  I start to drive down
the street.  A car is alongside
me, going the exact same speed.
 
They’re in the passing lane, but
they don’t pass, just riding along-
side.  I make a turn I don’t need
to make.  I stop to get some gas.
 
The signs here say:
5 C OFF A GAL
REWARDS
and
 
2 SLICE S OF
P IZZA   &
L G  BI G GLUP
4 W  RE WARDS
 
I’m feeling depressed, but I laugh
at the word “GLUP.”  I pay, sit
down and look up to see another
sign on a pawn shop nearby:
 
GUNS &
AMMO

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

JULIO

by Judy Strang

Screenshot provided by the poet’s son from the video he recorded.

My son told me 

he’d put on his vest and 

hooked the phone into the chest pocket facing out, 

pressed video, then strode across the narrow city street. 

That was his spontaneous choice, 

just home from his night shift, 

after parking his car across from his apartment,

after seeing two masked figures accost a person on the sidewalk.

 

In his paramedic suit and bullet proof vest with the phone-on-video,

he told them his name and pointed to his photo badge. 

He asked them to identify themselves,

looked at their badges—photo-less, flimsy, 

“Those could be printed on Etsy,” he said, “How do I know who you are?” 

They would not answer. But he got the name of the person they were taking, 

who gave it to him freely. 

My son yelled at the masked faces, “Take off your masks. 

Show us who you are.” 

And he yelled it again, venting his anger at their secrecy 

at their silence 

at their unjust power—

then it was over.

They had shoved the man into their unmarked car and were driving away.

 

My son told me

that’s when he let loose the language he’d wanted to spit in their faces. 

He threw it at their backs, watching the car disappear,

then stood there on the sidewalk, 

next to the door to the stairs leading to his apartment, 

and called the police. 

He waited for them to come so he could report the incident. 

A paramedic, he would speak his truth, 

“to serve human need, with respect for human dignity,”

and he would wonder what would happen 

to the man he would never see again 

whose name he would never forget

 

Judy Strang lives in the woods of Amherst County, VA, where she writes creative nonfiction, directs the Sourwood Forest artist residency program for the Pedlar River Institute, and works part time for the Harte Center for Teaching & Learning at Washington & Lee University (Lexington, VA). Her creative nonfiction, including What Holds Us Here: pieces from a place in the woods (Blackwell Press 2023), examines how humans understand (or not) their place within more-than-human nature. 

WITNESS

by Jean Mikhail

I have witnessed little animals, 
their death throes at my doorstep,  
ones killed or maimed by my cat, 
Phoebe,  and from time to time, 
I have nearly stepped on some small dead 
something, and I’d love to catch her 
before the killing act, to turn back time, 
and gently place the baby rabbit back 
in its burrow, or set the fledgling 
robin on a branch, safely, but instead, 
I have tossed the carcass in the trash 
or pitched the body into the woods,
a safe distance away, and I have   
shifted my focus, turned my eyes  
from their bloody mouths, lifted 
my shoe to float over them, 
like  a cloud crosses the convex 
eyes of a child of Gaza, lying dead, 
and I saw him in, of all places, 
a Facebook video while scrolling 
through all the other videos of surfers 
surfing, of people giving cooking 
lessons, and the bombing of this 
building, the concrete caving into
a boy’s chest,  he will never crack 
a smile, or break into laughter, ever 
again, he was made to be a martyr, 
in his mother’s eyes, a martyr, 
his brown eyes softening into cloud 
wisps, into blue sky reflection, 
and he and other children throughout
history, the children of the Holocaust,
of Syria, and those others murdered 
for no reason, no fault of their own, 
don’t even have a doorstep 
tombstone,  or a proper burial, 
or a bell ringing like a doorbell,  
no one will answer the question 
why their deaths don’t matter, 
or how can this be happening, 
because let’s face it, 
we’d never get anything done 
if we solely focused on the world’s 
horrors, we’d never even get our 
shopping done, or have the strength
to lift our heavy brown paper sacks 
to the car because everything would feel 
so burdensome, heavy as a body, 
as concrete collapsing into the child
counted among the dead, a number, 
a child cocooned in a burial cloth, 
and the world tilts on its heavier side, 
and we are on the lighter side giving  
nothing but a thumbs up for dying children, 
and all we can do is hope for better 
endings, for a ceasefire and for peace, 
I  can no longer watch a mother grieve,
yet can’t look away from her, either, 
as she  performs the ungodly task 
of collecting her child’s blown off 
ears and fingers, wiping tears 
on her hijab because what else 
does she have but a sheer will 
to survive and head covering, 
and how else can she know 
her child’s hand from any other 
child’s hand, like my own children's 
hands, how would I recognize them,  
whose hand would I hold, whose 
fingers thrown into the air, asking 
which almighty to help them. 

Jean Mikhail lives in Athens, Ohio with her husband, who is Egyptian. Two of her children are Guatemalan adoptees. She has published in The Appalachian Review, Sheila Na Gig Online, Pudding Magazine, and other journals and anthologies. 

"WORSE" THAN RODNEY KING?

by L. Smith

56 baton blows.
6 neck kicks.
5 white officers.
A broken leg. Multiple facial fractures. Bruises. Contusions. Laser gun burns.
Worse than Rodney King?
If only we could ask Rodney King—
King who was jumped with expert-level lack of restraint and professional lack of protocol by five white officers—Koon, Powell, Wind, Briseno, and Solano—
King who was jumped so well and so wildly, with his body writhing with each raging blow, that all semblance of protect and serve faded to black.
And, 32 years post “the-video-that-changed-everything-and-nothing,”
A new video we watch—we waited to watch, sat on edge for its release while it was advertised and hyped up like it was the big fight—a new
video we watch
to rank and to compare
two police beatings
32 years apart
of motorists. Unarmed black men.
King and Nichols, both jumped initiation style by blue-cloaked vigilantes
and folks are watching and analyzing blows like this is the big match up.
Ranking police beatings? 
Is this the pic-a-nic culture of the not too distant south?
 
Worse than Rodney King?
If only we could ask Rodney King—  
Here’s a thought:
Was disciplinary action against the
5 white officers who beat Rodney King
worse than the disciplinary action against the
5 black officers—Haley, Mills, Martin III, Smith, and Bean—who beat Nichols?
5 black officers swiftly dealt with—
dealt with in a way that’s worse than
5 white officers who beat Rodney King—
5 black officers swiftly fired for excessive use of force,
Failing to intervene and
failing to render aid.
 
32 years ago, we had
5 indictments.
5 acquittals.
3 days of violence.
60 people killed.
Thousands injured.
Millions of dollars of property destroyed.
32 years post “the-video-that-changed-everything-and-nothing” we again have
1 unarmed black man
1 traffic stop
5 officers
1 brutal beating
1 unarmed motorist who was not so lucky.
“Rodney King was lucky.”
Was he really, though?
56 baton blows?
6 neck kicks?
5 white officers?
A broken leg? Multiple facial fractures? Bruises? Contusions? Laser gun burns?
Constitutional rights violated is luck?
Assault times five is luck?
“Rodney King lived.”
Did he though?
32 years apart from each other, are
2 motorists—unarmed, black men
brutally beaten by
5 officers
while traffic-stopped and the world later watched
and ranked and forgot the
five white acquitted officers—Koon, Powell, Wind, Briseno, and Solano—who jumped Rodney King.
Worse than Rodney King?
If only you could focus on the right scales.

L. Smith, a New Orleans native, is a writer, multi-certified, English and master reading teacher, who has freelanced for local newspapers. She has an anthology of poems and prose set to publish spring 2023 that her mother and daughter created space for her to write. She also has begun this blog for writer teachers.

WATCH THE VIDEO

by George Held

Screenshot of the video of the murder of Tyre Nichols.

For Rodney King

 

 

After Memphis, what more can we ask video

to do? After Tyre Nichols, what more

can it confirm? About barbarity,

good ol’ American barbarity? 

The Nazis had nothing on us when it

comes to barbarity. Just look at

the video and see those black men in

uniform dishing out murderous mayhem,

 

killing Tyre as surely as pink-cheeked

SS troopers brutally murdered an old Slav

or a Jew. Yes, these assassins, blond or black,

and legitimized by uniform, carry out

the will of the culture, brutalize the despised

while we, mute, wait to watch the video.

 

George Held occasionally contributes to The NVN and has poems now in Ultimate Reality and Jerry Jazz Magazine.

TOO GRAPHIC

a poem found

by James Penha

in “Why the Austin American-Statesman chose to publish video from inside Robb Elementary,” July 12, 2022.

Above: screenshot of the video.

We have also removed

the sound of children

screaming

as the gunman entered

the classroom.

James Penha edits The New Verse News.

PICTURE PROBLEM

by Rémy Dambron

Video footage (via The Texas Tribune) recorded inside Robb Elementary School in Uvalde at 12:04 p.m. May 24. Authorities stormed the classroom at 12:50 p.m.

this picture

evidence we all see 

now for the first time

released 

officers’ long guns drawn

from behind ballistic shields 

formed up for an advance 

but shockingly at a halt

at least five men

sworn trained and well-armed

against the one 

*murderer of children still

the photo’s caption 

stating the time scene was 

captured

12:04pm

just underneath 

another detail displayed

authorities storm the classroom

12:50pm

forty-six minutes

they stood by to witness

as calls for help simply went

(unanswered)

as parents right outside 

against their wishes 

hands tied

by more armed men who just waited

for forty-six minutes

they wouldn’t act, only witness

another sickening school shooting

ensue

Rémy Dambron is a former English teacher now Portland-based poet whose writing focuses on denouncing political corruption and advocating for social/environmental justice. With the help of his chief editor and loving wife, his works have appeared in What Rough Beast, Poets Reading the News, Writers Resist, Words & Whispers, Spillwords, Robot Butt, and The New Verse News. 

BLACK TRAFFIC, STOP

by Rémy Dambron

The police in Grand Rapids, Mich., released videos on Wednesday showing a white officer fatally shooting Patrick Lyoya (pictured above), a 26-year-old Black man, after a struggle during a traffic stop last week. The officer, who has not been named, was lying on the back of Mr. Lyoya before he appeared to shoot him in the head. In the seconds before the shooting, Mr. Lyoya and the officer wrestled on the ground and seemed to be fighting for control of the officer’s Taser. —The New York Times, April 13, 2022

at first 

an ordinary traffic 

stop, routine

suspect 

you

stay in the car 

get back in the car

do you have a license 

your plates don’t match

do you speak english 

show me your license 

i said your plates don’t match

stay in the car

no stop

you can’t stand there

hey you can’t stand there

stand here no 

wait STOP

grabbing him 

restraining him

throwing him to the ground

with the force of the law

immunity qualified

we’ve seen this before 

too many times before

released body cam footage shows

cop shoots black man

don’t watch it

hurts 

(body camera shuts off)

he shoots 

he shot him

the cop shot the black man

(body camera turns on)

paramedics can’t revive him

because the cop 

he shot him

he shot him dead 

for what 

why

forgive me 

for being repetitive 

but another man with a badge 

shows his bad intentions and 

oh, did I mention?

*he shot him in the head

they called it a struggle

a fight for control over the taser

cop drawing the weapon first

ready to electrocute 

the man he would instead 

just shoot 

but no charges filed

the investigation is ongoing

ongoing, yes

forgive me 

for being repetitive but 

another man with a badge shows his bad intentions 

and oh, did I mention?

*he shot him in the head

his community going on 

carrying his cry for help

to the city steps in protest

to say to their reps 

please 

enough 

stop letting them shoot us

for gods sake 

jesus 

forgive me 

for being repetitive 

but another man 

with a badge 

shows his bad 

intentions and 

oh, did I mention?

*he shot him in the fucking head

Rémy Dambron is a former English teacher now Portland-based poet whose writing focuses on denouncing political corruption and advocating for social/environmental justice. With the help of his chief editor and loving wife, his works have appeared in What Rough Beast, Poets Reading the News, Writers Resist, Words & Whispers, Spillwords, Robot Butt, and The New Verse News.