Ed. note: Over the next few days I’ll be posting responses to the murder of Michael Brown and non-indictment of Darren Wilson. Prose, poems, essays, collages, music, photos from vigils/rallies, and film for inclusion can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.
“Our separate investigations followed the trail of facts with no preconceived notion of where that journey would take us.”
~ Robert P McCulloch
Anyone who speaks of fact is a liar. There is only truth in ἀλήθεια – not forgetting.
Aletheia November 24th’s awful warmth, a stickiness like paranoia condensed
on the visors of riot helmets like a wayward cloud staggering over a desert.
Like stumbling through smoke. Like fear.
We stumble through the words, huddled around info glow waiting for the words:
Wilson’s freedom contingent on fear’s induction.
Wilson, playing the bourgeois poet game, invocation of demons discarnate of fact.
Facts that become facts through municipal alchemy, nine out of twelve jurors summoned to utter our doom of his freedom.
November 24th perfectly situated within the media buffer zone.
Poised to reap pageviews before everyone leaves the house
to give our economy its annual Botox injection.
In the fringes of the streets I won’t lie I cannot forget it was hard to distinguish
between protester & consumer, illegal consumption still consumption
whether through debt-drenched currency or through a smashed window.
Dollars proxy for everything, corporate personhood elected to municipal office.
Shielded next to the dollar tree and pharmacy in brutalist office complexes,
people like Robert McCulloch paid to walk the trail of facts through
the arch and into rezoned subdivisions where they find truth in poverty taxes.
Aletheia Akai Gurley, beneath the Decker Building suited man yells fuck the police
beneath a state lottery billboard and we follow the facts snaking up to Times Square,
where there is always a riot but never a protest.
Helicopter churning overhead spread surveillance the new napalm.
& as we burn in the long trail of memory, like that of a screaming comet’s,
we spread like smoke through the streets, smoke against billowing smoke,
a smoke that doesn’t choke or gag but makes the taxi drivers lean on the horn
and a whole city busload beat against the windows smoke that makes the Mercedes
driver roll up their windows as all the lights go up in Harlem and none go up in the new developments along the Bowery because no one real actually lives there.
The neon of Times Square screaming “HANDS UP” and there is Bratton,
covered in the fake blood of the scapegoat, $30k bail for the spiller,
$30k Daren Wilson will never have to pay because he walks along the trail of facts, rubbing the fading contusion on his cheek as he tells the reporter that the death of Mike Brown will not haunt him
and the white males respawn fear in the courtroom and offices and secret indictment halls and black rooms and enhanced interrogation chambers and they cry out swinging their contused dicks
WE ARE DAREN WILSON and we all walk free along the trail of facts
and that should scare the shit out of you.
The Times Square Elmos have taken off their heads, they are White Male
Cephalophores in salute,
Patron Saints of Black Friday
but we had their hands up and their heads rolled.
Black Friday renamed
Michael Brown Friday
and all the stores are finally closed.