the calling in poetry

the streets strewn with garbage
and so much disease
but the worst thing in Baltimore
is the BPD
the city police
but brother, this isn’t The Wire
there’s no doubt who started the fire
break an innocent man’s back
like the strings on a lyre

you called me last night
from the Baltimore Jail
you’d been on a looting
and asked to post bail
when you arm cops like an army of occupation
they’ll start to act like one
without fail
the killer cops all posted bond in thirty-seconds flat
those who raided the payday loan places
for exploiting our desperation
and rubbing it in our faces
well
our checks are still in the mail
and we’re treated like garbage
in the Baltimore Jail

while the Washington Post
is sucking up to the beat cops
that leak them their leads
to hell with human rights
they can’t bite the hand that feeds
they’ll say everyone’s on drugs
they’ll say everyone’s a thug
but unless we’re in 1300s India
we know what the word “thug” really means
it means a word that starts with an “n”
but they try to keep it clean
it’s a dog-whistle word
for the shock-news machine
and they’ll call it a riot
because they’ll think you will buy it
but sometimes in an uprising
total non-violence equates to compliance
and you can’t blame the invisible
for punching someone in the mouth
if it gets them finally seen
“drugs” “thugs” and “riots”
we know what these words mean

you called me last night
from a city of ash
where they take frustrated angels
and collect them like trash
the guilty walk in an hour
while the innocent have to pay to be freed
you called me last night
I asked “what do you need?”

and well
we should all be asking that question too
now