Stream of Consciousness*

Oh, God.
What’s in his hand?
Oh, shit.

Got him aligned
Center mass.

Drop it!
Drop it!
Do it now
Or I will shoot!

He’s coming.
Hard and fast.
Eighteen feet
And closing.
Twelve.
Ten.

Stop!
Get down!
Do it!
Do it now!
Get down
Or I will shoot!

He’s not yielding.
Shit!
SHIT!

Stop
God dammit!
STOP!

Nothing.

Blade center mass.

FIRE.
FIRE.

Acrid cordite.
Gun smoke
In my strobes.

Staggering.
Tripping.
Lunging.

What’s in his hand?
Something metallic.
Still coming!

FIRE.
FIRE.

Twisting.
Falling clumsily.
Crimson bubbles.
Four bullet holes.
Blood from his mouth.

God DAMMIT!
GOD DAMMIT!

Pedestrians watching.
Too quiet.

Go see.
Go.

Oh, Jesus.
He’s a kid.
A fuckin’ kid.

Oh, God.
Oh, God.

Twelve seconds.
Oh, Christ.

*I spent 22 years with one department. I've had the training. Very thorough. I know personally officers that have had to take a life. It is, I assure you, nothing like what you see on Law and Order. As I write this, tears stream my cheeks. I have seen the bodies. My hands are shaking. Nobody ever wants this. I have used, in this work, profanity no gentleman uses, until he has to draw his weapon. Then vocabulary is of no consequence. My life was threatened. I understand. Vocabulary is simple phonics, at that time. If I have offended those of you looking for Helen Steiner Rice, well...I cannot apologize. I'm dealing with PTSD. Or, it's dealing with me. This is not an attempt to re-live Ferguson. The dynamics there were different than those I suppose here. What happened in Ferguson is terrible. I do not know Officer Wilson. But he is my "brother." I understand him. Most of you cannot. But I do. This is a shitty poem. It's far too real. I thought, and re-thought whether to post this work. At the end of the day, I think it's right. Think these thoughts. Put yourself out there. Try it.
~James