The color of violence is black.

Those are the facts, spread-eagled

against a white background,

where policemen have cornered the enemy,

where he shouldn't be, which is seen.

Of course, they can't always believe their eyes,

so they have to rely on instinct,

which tells them I am incapable

of civilized behavior,

therefore, I am guilty

of driving through my own neighborhood

and must take my punishment

must relax and enjoy

like a good boy.

If not, they are prepared to purge me

of my illusions of justice, of truth,

which is indeed elusive,

much like Sasquatch,

whose footprints and shit

are only the physical evidence

of what cannot be proved to exist,

much like me,

the "distinguished" professor of lit,

pulled from my car,

because I look suspicious.

My briefcase, filled with today's assignment,

could contain drugs,

instead of essays arranged

according to quality of content,

not my students' color of skin,

but then who am I to say

that doesn't require a beating too?--

a solution that leaves no confusion

as to who can do whatever he wants to whom,

because there is a line directly

from slave to perpetrator,

to my face staring out of newspapers and TV,

or described over and over as a black male.

I am deprived of my separate identity

and must always be a race instead of a man

going to work in the land of opportunity,

because slavery didn't really disappear.

It simply put on a new mask

and now it feeds of fear

that is mostly justified,

because the suicides of the ghetto

have chose to take somebody with them

and it may as well be you

passing through fire,

as I am being taught

that injustice is merely another way

of looking at the truth.

As some point, we will meet

at the tip of the bullet,

the blade, the whip

at it draws blood,

but only one of us will change,

only one of us will slip

past the captain and crew of this ship

and the other submit to the chains

of a nation

that delivered rhetoric

in exchange for its promises.

by Ai (African-American)