Poetry on L.A. Riots and Rodney King
Author: Various poets
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I REMEMBER - LA RIOTS
I remember the blazing terror between the flames
While the National Guard tried to restrain
I remember the fear running through my veins
My first childhood memories were filled with pain
My family always had a fear of the police
But this time they weren’t pulling over behind us
They weren’t driving alongside of us
No. They had their rifles pointed above us
Glaring from the rooftop of an abandoned building, they tried to put me at ease
They smiled at my terrified little face as they waved, but all I saw was their M16s
For 4 days they watched my city burn with neglect
Now I was supposed to believe they were here to protect
I remember the fire
I remember standing outside to watch and weep
I later learned that it all started just a few miles away from my street
April 29, 1992
I knew oppression before I could even tie my own shoe
Even through a child’s lens I remember the anger; I remember the tears
I remember the shouting; I remember my fears
I can still remember the fire, even after 20 years
__________________
in the city of angels
by David Riley
el pueblo grande
boils and bubbles
like a brea pit
fear and anger
rise from the pitch
like hungry spirits
incendiary questions:
why’d the cops beat him?
how come they got off?
sacrificial fires are lit
on asphalt altars
the hungry spirits are fed
the night cries
no justice no peace
and when the smoke clears
in the char of morning days later
what is revealed?
only mammoth humanity
stuck in the tar
© 1992-2011 dmriley
_________________________________
Riot Act, April 29, 1992 - Poem by Ai Ogawa
I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
like Michael Jordan
like Magic.
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
Looks like he's flying too
straight through the glass
that separates me
from the virtual reality
I watch everyday on TV.
I know the difference between
what it is and what it isn't.
Just because I can't touch it
doesn't mean it isn't real.
All I have to do is smash the screen,
reach in and take what I want.
Break out of prison.
South Central homey's newly risen
from the night of living dead,
but this time he lives,
he gets to give the zombies
a taste of their own medicine.
Open wide and let me in,
or else I'll set your world on fire,
but you pretend that you don't hear.
You haven't heard the word is coming down
like the hammer of the gun
of this black son, locked out of this big house,
while massa looks out the window and sees only smoke.
Massa doesn't see anything else,
not because he can't,
but because he won't.
He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money,
mo' honeys and gold chains
and see me carrying my favorite things
from looted stores
than admit that underneath my Raider's cap,
the aftermath is staring back
unblinking through the camera's lens,
courtesy of CNN,
my arms loaded with boxes of shoes
that I will sell at the swap meet
to make a few cents on the declining dollar.
And if I destroy myself
and my neighborhood
"ain't nobody's business, if I do,"
but the police are knocking hard
at my door
and before I can open it,
they break it down
and drag me in the yard.
They take me in to be processed and charged,
to await trial,
while Americans forget
the day the wealth finally trickled down
to the rest of us.
_______________________________
4/30/92 for rodney king
Lucille Clifton, 1936 - 2010
so
the body
of one black man
is rag and stone
is mud
and blood
the body of one
black man
contains no life
worth loving
so the body
of one black man
is nobody
mama
mama
mamacita
is there no value
in this skin
mama
mama
if we are nothing
why
should we spare
the neighborhood
mama
mama
who will be next and
why should we save
the pictures
_____________________________
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