Code Red
https://www.theawl.com/2014/11/a-poem-by-jerome-murphy/
I did not shoot a boy for his flaming red hair.
No witness was there who will tell you I did.
These agitators are out here to amplify everything
except for that fear I had for my life,
how in that one second when his hands
blurred toward me, the bright scarlet sear
leapt from his scalp, nearly catching my own.
How in that one moment, I was all dry leaf.
How my eye sockets singed when the spark got near.
I am a man who has always been fair.
This was no little smoldering coal.
Eighteen. A man. A full-grown man.
We’re talking hazardous heavyweight.
This is about the legitimate fear.
Pardon my questioning your own credibility.
Did you think my sense of duty
meant I wanted only this badge
to be left of my body? He had turned away
yes, to flee by then, but one stops
a fire before it gets too far.
This is not about anyone’s color of hair.
Others like him we detain on suspicion
of theft, affiliation, possession, specifics
are a matter of precinct confidence
and anyhow irrelevant to my very good point
that that behavior is always the same.
Who hasn’t seen them set whole cities alight.
You ever seen the wind catch a flicker,
blow it too bright and too far?
Storefront blown in, possessions in shards,
ammunition in the air. Gets hard to contain.
Anyone who’s been there knows what it’s like,
standing in the middle of inescapable destruction.
This is about how destructive they are.
True, a few will give off some warmth
and quite often no small amusement
but face it, we don’t want too many around.
This element is to be harnessed, for the greater good
use, and nothing to be played with up close.
With more than a few of them dancing together
it’s all out of hand pretty fast. You ever
seen August blow a blaze across grass?
The flame by its very nature is dangerous.
Science and society have made clear appraisal
of the properties of this particular element.
I only tell you what you already know.
How everywhere they go they bring their own hell.
How their scalps have that distinctive inflammable smell.
At this point, admit they must want to stand out.
Is it our concern how they get anywhere?
We’ve given them shot after shot after
shot. That’s what they get. Shot after—stop.
Stop trying to make this about what it’s not.
I adore accusations of excessive force
from heroes not here to watch this town burn,
this inferno feeding itself beyond reason
in whole gouts of red, red seizing
the air, spilling over these sidewalks,
all out of line, in a loud tide of blood.
Now here are fellows
from out of town with their bellows,
who come here to coax the blaze bigger,
chucking their own kindling
on this whole fucking thing.
I don’t see color, but make sure
they see trigger.
Look out at this destruction, its roar.
This is not Lady Liberty’s flare.
Chanting martyrdoms
and what’s at burning stake for them,
all their flaming heads together look
more like some nightmare of lava below.
The boy—man—was a match for our suspect.
All of that pretty straightforward.
Don’t act like that match
unless you want to get snuffed.
I would do it to you, do you
hear me, I would do it to you.
Six years with the force,
can’t leave my own house. Boy,
we used to douse those flames with hoses.
Oh little red roses, oh little dead angels.
Any conflagrations on your guest list tonight?
I thought not, and have a nice dinner.
This is about some proper surveillance,
this is maintaining some semblance of order.
This is not about anybody’s color of hair,
this is not Lady Liberty’s flare, not about color,
all about culture, anybody who says
otherwise was not there. You just want
to believe anything that you hear.
Well everything you’ve been hearing
is of nothing but burning, thus far
it has all been smoke and unfair
fiction to which you like
to listen because who
would kill a citizen
for any color of hair.
https://www.theawl.com/2014/11/a-poem-by-jerome-murphy/
I did not shoot a boy for his flaming red hair.
No witness was there who will tell you I did.
These agitators are out here to amplify everything
except for that fear I had for my life,
how in that one second when his hands
blurred toward me, the bright scarlet sear
leapt from his scalp, nearly catching my own.
How in that one moment, I was all dry leaf.
How my eye sockets singed when the spark got near.
I am a man who has always been fair.
This was no little smoldering coal.
Eighteen. A man. A full-grown man.
We’re talking hazardous heavyweight.
This is about the legitimate fear.
Pardon my questioning your own credibility.
Did you think my sense of duty
meant I wanted only this badge
to be left of my body? He had turned away
yes, to flee by then, but one stops
a fire before it gets too far.
This is not about anyone’s color of hair.
Others like him we detain on suspicion
of theft, affiliation, possession, specifics
are a matter of precinct confidence
and anyhow irrelevant to my very good point
that that behavior is always the same.
Who hasn’t seen them set whole cities alight.
You ever seen the wind catch a flicker,
blow it too bright and too far?
Storefront blown in, possessions in shards,
ammunition in the air. Gets hard to contain.
Anyone who’s been there knows what it’s like,
standing in the middle of inescapable destruction.
This is about how destructive they are.
True, a few will give off some warmth
and quite often no small amusement
but face it, we don’t want too many around.
This element is to be harnessed, for the greater good
use, and nothing to be played with up close.
With more than a few of them dancing together
it’s all out of hand pretty fast. You ever
seen August blow a blaze across grass?
The flame by its very nature is dangerous.
Science and society have made clear appraisal
of the properties of this particular element.
I only tell you what you already know.
How everywhere they go they bring their own hell.
How their scalps have that distinctive inflammable smell.
At this point, admit they must want to stand out.
Is it our concern how they get anywhere?
We’ve given them shot after shot after
shot. That’s what they get. Shot after—stop.
Stop trying to make this about what it’s not.
I adore accusations of excessive force
from heroes not here to watch this town burn,
this inferno feeding itself beyond reason
in whole gouts of red, red seizing
the air, spilling over these sidewalks,
all out of line, in a loud tide of blood.
Now here are fellows
from out of town with their bellows,
who come here to coax the blaze bigger,
chucking their own kindling
on this whole fucking thing.
I don’t see color, but make sure
they see trigger.
Look out at this destruction, its roar.
This is not Lady Liberty’s flare.
Chanting martyrdoms
and what’s at burning stake for them,
all their flaming heads together look
more like some nightmare of lava below.
The boy—man—was a match for our suspect.
All of that pretty straightforward.
Don’t act like that match
unless you want to get snuffed.
I would do it to you, do you
hear me, I would do it to you.
Six years with the force,
can’t leave my own house. Boy,
we used to douse those flames with hoses.
Oh little red roses, oh little dead angels.
Any conflagrations on your guest list tonight?
I thought not, and have a nice dinner.
This is about some proper surveillance,
this is maintaining some semblance of order.
This is not about anybody’s color of hair,
this is not Lady Liberty’s flare, not about color,
all about culture, anybody who says
otherwise was not there. You just want
to believe anything that you hear.
Well everything you’ve been hearing
is of nothing but burning, thus far
it has all been smoke and unfair
fiction to which you like
to listen because who
would kill a citizen
for any color of hair.