It was a warm night...A poem in honor of a young brother, Idriss Stelley, shot down by police

POOR correspondent - Posted on 23 June 2010


It was a warm night
the kind that drips
with pain

It was a warm night
filled with whispers
and screams

you can peel that
kind of night away
with your fingernails -
you can cry into
that kind of night
and no-one will hear you

it was a warm night
filled with you ...

you were depressed
they say-
I’ve been depressed like that-
so depressed that
only hollywood can fix it

they say you said
“i’m gonna die tonite”- -
i’ve said that many times..many times

poverty, conflict, confusion, and distress-
it drips too...
onto our collective foreheads...

when we’re trying to think
it fogs our minds -

“I just need to finish school - -everything will be ok -
I can get through this... but I can’t” –
I heard your silent screams
I heard you being tired of feeling that pain
and I heard it whispered in the halls of that gentrified palace
that palace of mirrored
glass and the blood of a thousand of poor elders
who once lived on that earth - who
died trying to stay there.

I heard you through all that burgundy carpet,
popcorn and glass-
I heard you - cause I’ve been there..
I am there...

and I don’t know you but I do cause I know that kind
of pain - I know that kind of conflict-

but poverty and conflict don’t carry guns-
confusion and distress don’t shoot you

8 Big men who are hired to gentrify us out of
theatres and concerts, houses and neighborhoods. .who are paid to not understand –
8 men who have the blood of other men on their hands and
the agenda of other men in their pockets-

these people shoot us and take away our life and our
breath and our thoughts and our
laughs and our time and our pain
and take it away...
... forever-

beautiful and powerful


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