by Justice Putnam, Black Kos Editor
When I was a young father and husband in my mid-20's, attending Portland State University to finish out my undergrad degree, one of the many jobs to make ends meet, was as a life form model in several Art Schools in town.
It seemed curious to me at the time, why few of the student artists would draw the scars from my athletic injuries; tank track-like scars on my right shoulder and right knee, back in the day when they flailed you open to operate. I asked one of those student artists why that was so,
"Because," he sort of sniffed, "true Artists are only concerned with Beauty. By our efforts, we only want to immortalize that which is Beautiful."
And that summed up the dichotomy that presented itself, to me, in Art generally, but Poetry in particular; is Poetry of the detached observer or of the active participant? Is Poetry to concern itself with Beauty only? How then, is Beauty defined? To that question, I had already concluded with Balzac and Baudelaire, that Beauty is in and can be found in, all things. Regardless, Art and Poetry are records, Art and Poetry are History. As the French academic, Fernand Braudel wrote:
For the historian everything begins and ends with time, a mathematical, godlike time, a notion easily mocked, time external to men, 'exogenous,' as economists would say, pushing men, forcing them, and painting their own individual times the same color.
-- Fernand Braudel
On History
And Victor Hugo punctuated,
One cannot be a good historian of the outward, visible world without giving some thought to the hidden, private life of ordinary people; and on the other hand one cannot be a good historian of this inner life without taking into account outward events where these are relevant. They are two orders of fact which reflect each other, which are always linked and which sometimes provoke each other.
-- Victor Hugo
Les Misérables
Confessional Literature has always intrigued me. But for my own work, it is only a step on a journey, it is not a definition of my life. Because I have nothing to confess. I am only reporting life as it is.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
--Walt Whitman
“Song of Myself”
And Memory Became A Fading Melody
by
Justice Putnam
I
My vision was hazy
As I stumbled
Into the alley
And it was hard
To remember the reasons
Why I'd been
Shot in the stomach.
The more
I tried to focus
My eyes
Mind and body
The more clouded
The details developed.
I could only see
Myself as a child
In Corvallis
Running
With Tippee across
An emerald
Expanse of pasture.
"Jean!"
I could hear
My mother calling
From the porch
Of the farmhouse,
"dinner's ready!"
Turning
I could see the old barn
In the distance
Dulled red with a gray haze
The green pick-up
Parked next to
The chicken coop
Lady
Our black Labrador
Came running
Fast and low
From the farmhouse
Tippee bounded
Past me to meet
Lady
Both sliding
To a stop
Licking each other
In greeting
And then racing to dinner.
As I broke into a run
I perceived out
The corner of
My eye
An angular
Dark shape
Moving in the woods.
I felt a tearing
Grip my stomach
And stopped
At an evergreen
To compose myself.
I leaned my head
Against the tree
And felt the bark
Press indentations
On my forehead.
Slowly I slid to my knees
My head never
Losing contact
With the bark.
But I was
No longer
In Corvallis
As a child.
I was crumpled
In a dirty alley
My head against
A concrete building
My forehead
Bloodied and wet.
I staggered
To my feet
And felt my
Midsection
Tearing loose.
I grabbed
And tightened
My shirt
For surely
To do
Otherwise
Would mean
Spilling guts
Here and now
In this
Wino piss tank
Alley
This alley
In LA
That was it
A flash of clarity
Lit my memory
I had been shot
And I was in
An alley
In LA
Somewhere near
The Greyhound Bus
Station
Judging from
The sounds
Of the street.
I leaned back
Against the
Concrete wall
And attempted
To focus on the
White dumpster
Across the alley.
Stenciled
In black
Block letters
Were the words
LA SANITATION
I figured
If I could hold
My attention
On the white dumpster
I might
Then be able
To resume my quest
For the reasons
Why
I had
Been shot
In the stomach.
My eyes began
To flicker
And then strobe
I saw interposed
First
The white dumpster
And then
Metallic barn
Then the dumpster
And then
The metallic barn
My father contracted
To have built.
It housed
Hay and alfalfa bales
Farming tools
And supplies
And the farm's
Only milk cow.
I was walking
From the
Farmhouse
At four in the
Morning
To milk
And then collect eggs
Feed the geese
And dogs
Tend to the
Horses and goats.
As I walked
A crystal radio
I had built
Bounced slightly
In the pocket
Of my coveralls
An ear-jack cord
Snaked its way to
My left ear.
I was listening to
Early morning
Weather reports
Local news
And political
Commentary.
I was
Seven years old
And lived
In Corvallis,
Oregon.
Hatfield was
Governor and
Kennedy was
President.
The farm
Lay outside
The town
Proper
Among
Hilly pastures
And wooded valleys.
But I perceived
Of something
Beyond the farm
Beyond Corvallis
The Nation
Even
The world.
Often
When I was
Doing chores
I pretended
The metallic barn
Was a space station
Or at least
Part of a
Space station
I pretended
The livestock
The supplies
And my
Responsibilities
Were integral
Parts to the
Survival
Of the whole
Contained
Cosmic community.
To have purpose
And meaning
To benefit
Others
Were Virtues
I was taught
And came
To believe
Even at that
Early age.
As I continued
With my early
Morning chores
I again noticed
The angular
Dark shape
But moving
Among
The hay bales.
I felt a burning
In my stomach
As I retreated
From the shape
My hands snagged
Splinters from
The rough planks
Of the pen
As I moved back
Until stopped
By the corrugated
Metal of the barn.
Beside
The hay
And alfalfa bales
Were twenty-five
Pound sacks
Of rock salt
String-stitched closed
Stacked ten high
Four deep and
Eight across.
I was staring
At the sacks
Of rock salt
When
Involuntarily
I blinked
Quickly
Several times.
My eyes
Began to tear
Blur
And when I focused
Again
I was in the
Dirty wino piss tank
Alley
Near the Greyhound
Bus station
Staring at the
White dumpster
With the stenciled lettering
That read
LA SANITATION.
II
As I became
More cognizant
Of my place
My body and
State of mind
I took mental inventory
Of the immediate events.
Beginning with the
First acknowledgement
I had been shot.
I was sure
I was dying
Had not I read
Somewhere
That one's
Life
Flashed before
One's eyes
Preceding the moment
Of death?
Except
My will for
Survival was strong
Always strong
I laughed silently
To myself
As I
Remembered
A couple of lines
From a poem
By Jim Morrison,
"Did you have a good life?
Enough to base a movie on?"
I thought how trite
My movie would be
High-angle
Long-range shot
Of young boy and dog
Ambling over the
Gentle slope
Of pasture
And woods.
Close-up
Head-shot
Of young mother
Calling for dinner.
Regressing
Dolly-shot of
Young mother on porch
Then
Frame
Farmhouse.
Cross-cut
To boy and dog
Responding
Turning
If the dog
Wasn't a mutt
This could be a scene
Right out of
Lassie.
I chuckled
At that vision
Of ridiculousness
Gulped some of the
Sandy Santa Ana's
That blew
Newspapers through
The alley
And abruptly
Painfully
Became aware
Of the whole
Awful sequence
Of events that
Led up to
My shooting.
I had become
A man
Who still believed in
The power
Of Boy Magic
Except
In this part of
The world
Magic
Doesn't work
Anymore.
I had become
A man
Who still believed
In a Soul
Something that was
At the core of
Conscious and
Moral
Intelligence.
"That in us,"
I would often
Quote Plato,
"whatever it is,
in virtue of which
we are denominated
wise and foolish
good and evil."
I knew the
Function of the
Soul
Was not just
To know
Good and evil
But to direct and
Govern ones’
Actions
So that
Evil was
Avoided and
Good achieved
Except
I had compromised
My virtue
I had come to
Believe
That the mere
Pursuit of
Beauty
Was enough to
Justify meaning
And purpose.
Except
In this part
Of the world
Meaning has
No purpose
Anymore.
But
What of this
Part of the world?
This society
Without culture?
What kind
Of TV dream
Would
Motivate
Generation
After generation
To pursue a
Vision of
Beauty
With obsessive
Narcissistic
Pride?
Except
In any part
Of the world
Life is Suffering.
And I was dying
From a gunshot
Wound in
The stomach.
Almost
As if
I was reading
A book
I could see
The words
LIFE IS SUFFERING
Float
In front of me
But like lifting
An overlay
From the overhead
Projector
In junior high
LIFE IS SUFFERING
Changed to
LA SANITATION
And I lay
Bleeding
Slow
Suffering
Life.
I was taught in
College physics how
Time
Like particles
And waves
Could shift
From red
To blue
Move fast
Or slow.
But in that
Alley
I perceived in a
Constant
Rhythmic
Chill.
I could see
Molecules of light
Play on the
White dumpster
And the low
Stone black
Wings of death
Shadow colors
Refracted from
A multitude
Of broken bits
Of glass.
I could hear
The scratching
Of the electrical
Transformer
At one end
Of the
Alley
Harmonize
With the
Reverberation
Of traffic
At the other.
I felt
The heavy
Bass
Of buses
And semi's
Mix liquid
With the
Treble
Of car stereos
Gained-up
Playing
Classic rock
Rap and
Latin.
I could also
Taste my own
Salt tears
Barely dilute
The thick blood
From deep inside me
And excreted
Out my
Mouth and nose.
Tears
Falling
On paper and dust
While
Blood rusted
A path over
Flesh and metal
Discarded and crushed.
No longer could
I blame
Collective insensibility
Only my own
Alone.
Yes
It was stupid
To confront
The young hood
In such
A belligerent manner
As he accosted
The elderly
Woman walking
Across the street.
I could have just
Ignored the episode
More than likely
The occurrence
Would have passed
Without incident
Everyone
Would have been
On their way.
But
The scene
Was ugly
In an
Ugly surrounding.
"Hey!"
I yelled a
Little too
Aggressively.
"Whaddya gonna
do about it?"
The hood
Approached me
In a posture
Of hostility.
"What the fuck
do you think
I'm gonna do?"
I said.
My arms
Spread
Like Jesus
On the cross.
"What the fuck
you gonna do
now
muthafucka?"
The hood
Spit
As he shoved
A gun against
My stomach.
I continued
To hold my arms
Outstretched
And looked him
Dead
In the eye
I drew a breath
Between
Clenched teeth
I said in
My best
East Coast accent,
"Fawk You!"
He fired
One shot
And ran
Away.
"Help!"
The old woman
Squeaked
As she
Limped
To a nearby
Liquor store.
I stumbled into
The alley
And against
The concrete wall
Sliding
To my knees
A white hot burning
Radiated in my stomach
As an angular
Dark shape
Wavered
From
Across the street
It was the old woman
Returning
With a
Vaguely looking
Middle-Eastern man.
They both
Stopped close.
The old woman
Was praying
The man
Leaned over me
"You be ok,"
He said
As my eyes
Fluttered
And slowly
Rolled up
To my brow.
III
I could
Remember
The days
When innocence
Was blowing
Like across
A Van Gogh
Meadow
Caressing the
Hillsides and woods
With a
Fragrant
Shimmering
Color.
Innocence
Rising
Above the
Vulgarity
In which the
Existence
Of nearly every
Individual
Is spent.
But I had become
Bound by guilt
And dubious
Of the truth.
I came to believe
That in a sense
Innocence
Was the same
As failing
Holding onto
Innocence
Meant becoming
Dog-lipped
And stranded
In the park
Alone.
I came to believe
That the measure
Of love
Was the amount
Of emotional
Hurt
I could survive.
Not quite
Like a crushed
Butterfly
Picked apart
By a colony of ants
But I had often
Cut my finger
From the beauty
Of a long-stemmed rose.
So I realized
In those final moments
What had actually
Happened
My life was
A series of patterns
A self created
Maze that offered
No escape
So overwhelming
In its
Awesome-ness
That I was
Incapacitated
By its weight
I had no
Resiliency
Left to survive
I punctured
Myself
With my own
Pursuit of
Beauty.
Again
And again
I had sought
Compassion
And heart-pure
Connection
Between the legs
Of Beauty
Only to make
Visible
My own
Impure
Weakness of heart.
I would
Give up.
I would
Let sadness
String itself
Between my fingers
And memory
Became
A fading
Melody.
(From: The Nature of Poetics Collapsed Outside My Window)
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
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News round up by dopper0189, Black Kos Managing Editor
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A three-year breakdown of data surrounding the Louisiana State Police Department reveals troopers used force against Black people at a rate that far surpassed the population of Black people in the state.
Louisiana’s population is 31% Black, but they made up more than 60% of all recorded use-of-force incidents involving state troopers. There were 902 use-of-force incidents involving Black people and state troopers from 2022 to 2024. By comparison, white residents, who compose 61% of the state’s population, were involved in 341 or 23% of all incidents.
The data analysis report was conducted by Innocence and Justice Louisiana, formerly known as Innocence Project Louisiana. 11% of use-of-force incidents had the suspect’s race listed as unknown, which, according to data and community coordinator Esme Lee, did “limit the precision” of their analysis.
The study also showed racial disparities were prevalent across the state’s entire State Police regional force. Southwest Louisiana had the highest number of use-of-force incidents, where Black and Native American residents were three times more likely than their population percentages to be involved.
State law in Louisiana requires police departments to report all use-of-force incidents that result in bodily injury to the individual or individuals involved. Named the Shantel Arnold Act, the law centered around a 2021 incident where a Jefferson Parish sheriff’s deputy was captured dragging a Black woman by her hair and slamming her into the ground. Ultimately, the sheriff’s office settled a civil lawsuit Arnold brought forth for $300,000.
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Martin Luther King Day—more specifically, Martin Luther King Day of Service—is right around the corner. Every year, the holiday gives us a moment to pause, reflect, and tap back into the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., one of the most influential civil rights leaders this country has ever known. Dr. King wasn’t just about powerful speeches and historic marches; he was about action, community, and showing up for one another in real, tangible ways.
Dr. King’s birthday became a federal holiday in 1983, with the first official observance taking place in 1986. Years later, Congress designated it as a “Day of Service,” shifting the focus from a day off to a day on. The idea is simple but powerful: instead of just honoring Dr. King with words, we honor him through service. By giving back, helping others, and strengthening our communities, we live out the values he fought for.
On MLK Day of Service, communities across the country come together to volunteer, organize, donate, and uplift. From food drives and marches to teach-ins and mentorship programs, the day is all about collective impact. It’s one of the few holidays rooted in the idea that change doesn’t just come from the top – it comes from everyday people doing what they can, where they are.
What makes this day especially meaningful is that anyone can participate. You don’t need a big platform, a lot of money, or a large group to make a difference. Whether you’re moving solo, with friends, or as part of an organization, there are countless ways to show up and serve with purpose. Even small actions can ripple outward and create real change.
If you’re looking for ways to get involved this year, here are 10 meaningful ways to observe MLK Day of Service and make an impact – all rooted in community, intention, and love for the people.
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The Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture is introducing an exhibit featuring the archival collections of historically Black colleges and universities.
The exhibition, which is called “At the Vanguard: Making and Saving History at HBCUs,” is set to open Friday (January 16), and run until July 19. Visitors will be able to view the artifacts, artwork, historical documents, and multimedia from five HBCUs — Clark Atlanta University, Florida A&M University, Jackson State University, Texas Southern University, and Tuskegee University. According to the Smithsonian, almost two-thirds of HBCUs house museums, art galleries, or archives.
“At the Vanguard”—named to honor HBCUs for being at the forefront of preserving and documenting Black history—will split its catalog into three themes: Preserving Student Activism at HBCUs, Preserving Black Scholarship at HBCUs, and Sustaining the Arts at HBCUs.
“This exhibition honors the legacy of HBCUs as cultural and educational powerhouses,” Shanita Brackett, the acting director for NMAAHC, said in a statement. “Through these collections from our partners institutions, we see the breadth of Black intellectual excellence, activism and artistic achievement, reinforcing the vital role HBCUs play in shaping American history.”
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From Africa to Latin America to Asia, babies have been carried in cloth wraps on their mothers’ backs for centuries. Now, the practice of generations of women could become a lifesaving tool in the fight against malaria.
Researchers in Uganda have found that treating wraps with the insect repellent permethrin cut rates of malaria in the infants carried in them by two-thirds. Malaria kills more than 600,000 people a year, most of whom are children in Africa under five years old.
The trial involved 400 mothers and babies aged about six months old, in Kasese, a rural, mountainous part of western Uganda. Half were given wraps, known locally as lesus, treated with permethrin and half used standard, untreated wraps that had been dipped in water as a “sham” repellent.
Researchers followed them for six months to see which babies developed malaria, re-treating the wraps once a month. Babies carried in the treated wraps were two-thirds less likely to develop malaria. In that group there were 0.73 cases per 100 babies each week, and in the other there were 2.14.
One mother who attended a community session on the trial results stood up to tell the gathering: “I’ve had five children. This is the first one that I’ve carried in a treated wrap, and it’s the first time I’ve had a child who has not had malaria.”
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WELCOME TO THE FRIDAY PORCH
IF YOU ARE NEW TO THE BLACK KOS COMMUNITY, GRAB A SEAT, SOME CYBER EATS, RELAX, AND INTRODUCE YOURSELF.
