Posted: May 22, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

crime 3


Damn, my chest hurts,
motherfucker must’ve popped me
with a 9 millimeter.
Getting capped with a .22
wouldn’t feel this bad.
Where’d he come from?
And why?
I thought I left all that
gangbanging shit.
Man, got me a little boy
a good woman, a job –
left that crack street scene.
What happened?

God, it’s cold.
Wonder when someone’s gonna come
take me to the hospital?
What’s that?
Shit, took ‘em long enough,
Dude could bleed to death.
Least, the pain’s gone.
Damn, it’s cold!

Where am I?
Must be on my back,
alls I can see is
that bright streetlight
just outside my crib,
the light I useta shoot out
just for fun when I was I hangin’,
gotta keep our bidness in the dark
away from that bright light,
that inner city
halogen yellow.

Shadow standing over me
squats, feels my wrist
pulls my eyelids up.
That shoulda hurt,
but didn’t. Shadow shakin’ his head.
Hey, c’mon, do somethin’
about that hole in my chest!

I can’t seem to talk.
Mouth’s fulla blood, vomit
metallic taste, like some
piece of aluminum foil
stuck to my chewing gum.
Can’t move my lips.
Damn, it’s cold.

Shoulda changed my underwear,
what’ll Momma say about that?
Cops’ll laugh.
God, it’s cold.
Shhhh! What’s that sound?

No sound.
Someone turned the volume off.
That can’t be right,
all kindsa sounds just a moment ago.
I heard those sirens,
shoes on concrete, running
that hurried, excited chatter;
some woman screaming,
the young dudes, the crack runners from the corner
those newbies I had working for me,
they were here,
I heard them talkin’ ‘bout
some dude got capped right in front of his own house.
I remember that talk now,
One said: “Hey, it’s that gone-straight gangster
Hey, the Crips capped Norman!
He dead!”

Nah, I’m still thinkin’.
Stuff still going on in my head.
Damn, it’s cold.
Hey, there’s my boy!
Hey, junior!
Oh man, he’s bawlin’.
I can’t hear him, but I see his pretty mouth
all contorted, tears runnin’ down his…
Oh, Normie, baby
Daddy’s gonna be….
Man, don’t take him away.

Shadows coming close,
somethin’ being put over me.
Shit, it’s a sheet.
Man, why?
Come on now, stop jokin’.
Get me to a hospital
Damn, it’s cold.
Least the pain’s gone. Hope no one
sees I didn’t
change my underwear.


By David Allen

NOTE: Norman was a former crack dealer and gang member in Fort Wayne, Indiana, back in the late 1980s. I was a cop reporter for the afternoon daily newspaper and covered his story, starting with his cleaning up and becoming a leader in working with the city’s growing gang problem to his murder.

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