driving, the six feet inside a pine box car, down the mountain
right
before you shot me to death
you
might have been
imagining
my criminal behavior
but
I was only listening to Kate Bush
when my fire was turning past you
parked
on the side of road, waiting
to
turn on your lights
in
someone’s rear view
I
was mining magnetic force
wings
beaten
heart
flying
horseshoes
and hand grenade
hoping
someone else
could
have been buying
your
attention
locker-ed
steel
gated
brigade
you
pull me over
and
I am
pouring
sweat
id
please
you
the
officer asks
immediately
profiling
me
my
race and secular affiliations
my
material wealth or lack thereof
any
access to fresh food
my
skin might show
and
all my ultra violet inks
all
my tattoos
all
my cancers
and
any ideology
I
may ascribe to
that
maps
what
you make up
what
explains
how
much a fit
I
am, in the box
you already
had
waiting
for me
pieces
of my eight
are
traded
for
something
removable
for
something
that is right
now
for
something
as
dark as mistrust
for
something
that
gives meaning
in
return
for
my humanity
I
can stand
to
fall
to
be burned
beyond
recognition
you
have me inventoried
now,
I must have been
reaching
for a weapon
I
must have been
almost
ready to become agitated
as
you already stated
to the second responder
you
must have accidentally
turned
your dash camera off
in
the hurry to save your life
though
your eyes, officer
are
a camera too, and
that
never turns off
it
never changes
what
it sees
what
it smells
what
it means
when
you look
in
the mirror
and
find something
elementally
missing
from
inside your soul
every
moment after
you
pull that trigger
like
you know
you
are going to do
in
a few moments
when
I reach
with
a nervous jerk
for
my punch out slip
from
work that night
to
prove to you
where
I was when
you
asked randomly
what
was I doing
at
such a time
when
you me pulled over
because
you said
I
was weaving
within
the lane
and
just then
at
that moment
when
life and
its
incessant
individual
melodies
collide
with death
a
message
of
chance
will see
our two
paths
in
the stop
wait
click
bang
bang
slump
quiet
traffic
whirring by
rubber
necking
slow
down crane
bent
knee, to see
vicariously
misty
how
sweetly
a
criminal dies
in
flashing lights
with multiple back-ups
and
ambulances
for a dog
and pony show
grief counseling
and
oxygen
for
the shooter
standing by
both
of us
will
be frozen
in an instance
and you
will
still be breathing
and
I will be
stuck trying
we
attempt
a language of eyes
neither
of us understands
and
the conversation just ends
with your protocol story lines
and
you and I hoping
someone
can translate
what
happened
between
the lines
before
this night is through
someday
though
I
know
you
too, will die
as
I look out
and
take one
last
breath
and
I think
about what
everyone
might
say
happened here
late
tonight
desolate
stretched
on
the highway’s
wrong
side
of
the town
you
pulled me over
and
I realized
as
the bullet
was
exiting my back
that
I was on
the
wrong side of life
but
the right side
of
writing one last
tombstone poem
by
the railroad tracks
EJR
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