This is Hunting: George Floyd's murder brings me again back to a Bob Hicok poem
I don't want to get political on this blog, but this morning in the wake of the riots in Minneapolis following the murder of George Floyd by police officers, and protests in Louisville over another woman murdered by police in her own home, the final line of this Bob Hicok poem kept calling out to me... This is hunting.
The United States needs a good number of policy reforms, not the least being police and education. I've linked the poem before but today I'm hijacking it. I'm sorry diode. Everyone should go read the journal diode after this, it's a great journal of original and often quirky writing.
It's Friday May 29th, 2020. This is where we are, still. It stinks like rotten meat—and once again it has exploded.
The United States needs a good number of policy reforms, not the least being police and education. I've linked the poem before but today I'm hijacking it. I'm sorry diode. Everyone should go read the journal diode after this, it's a great journal of original and often quirky writing.
It's Friday May 29th, 2020. This is where we are, still. It stinks like rotten meat—and once again it has exploded.
--
Mirror
by Bob Hicok
Woke
to this on Google: another black man
cop-shot. He was already on the ground.
I didn’t read why because there’s always
a reason. He had a gun gun or a toy gun
or a hand that looked like it might have once
been or held a gun. He was on crack or PCP
or vitamins. He was too big, too powerful,
too feral for three cops, six cops, X cops
to control. It was dark and he was dark.
It was sunny and he was dark. Every time
a cop kills a black man – whether the cop
is brown or black or white – the killing
is white. I am killing these men and want me
to stop. If you’re listening to yourself
write this poem, know the world
knows who we are. I’ll spread my hand
across your heart, our heart, so you’ll feel
it’s a friend asking, How do you want to live?
But please – don’t keep looking like me
and saying this is justice. This is hunting.
-
cop-shot. He was already on the ground.
I didn’t read why because there’s always
a reason. He had a gun gun or a toy gun
or a hand that looked like it might have once
been or held a gun. He was on crack or PCP
or vitamins. He was too big, too powerful,
too feral for three cops, six cops, X cops
to control. It was dark and he was dark.
It was sunny and he was dark. Every time
a cop kills a black man – whether the cop
is brown or black or white – the killing
is white. I am killing these men and want me
to stop. If you’re listening to yourself
write this poem, know the world
knows who we are. I’ll spread my hand
across your heart, our heart, so you’ll feel
it’s a friend asking, How do you want to live?
But please – don’t keep looking like me
and saying this is justice. This is hunting.
-
