Midnight streets, I am being chased
a murderer, a drug dealer, unclean,
unchaste. Police faces flash like question
marks. Everything is running, jumping, ducking.
I am at my own crime scene with no remorse –
just fear of being discovered. Evidence,
blood stains and strange baggies, powders, grasses,
rocks, vials, scales, razorblades, they paw them
like crumbling sand. They dig, search, sniff for clues.
The officers have no eyeballs, detectives
have no mouths. The suits are dusty blue, almost
gray. Their feet, also gray, half invisible,
ghostly apparitions of legs. They float,
surge in unison like fish in the tide.
They ogle, watch for clues, eye. Discovery
is gut-wrenching, I’m scared, panting, running.
Sprinting, but feet drag, jumping, but stay glued.
In hallways, I reach doors and windows, throw
myself through them, strength ethereal, for
a moment I know I’m a demon so I
defy gravity, levitate, before
the weight of my fear tips me to disgrace.
Now they laugh, question, frozen mouths gaping open.
Hateful pitbull-faced, dog-brained hunters glad,
rapt, ecstatic at the sight of their breathing
prey, still alive, kept alive, to bludgeon, murder,
kill again, lock up, incarcerate, toss keys,
fat faces revel at the shutting gate with glee.
I end in a cell, no remorse, just fear
of being discovered. Each time the nights are
different, same me under the covers.


Culture the Emcee is a Boston-based spoken word artist. He is at work on a book of poetry to be released later this year in 2015.