Here you will find the Poem Riot Act, April 29, 1992 of poet Ai (Florence Anthony)
I'm going out and get something. I don't know what. I don't care. Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it. Look in those shop windows at boxes and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes to make me fly through the air like Michael Jordan like Magic. While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee. Looks like he's flying too straight through the glass that separates me from the virtual reality I watch everyday on TV. I know the difference between what it is and what it isn't. Just because I can't touch it doesn't mean it isn't real. All I have to do is smash the screen, reach in and take what I want. Break out of prison. South Central homey's newly risen from the night of living dead, but this time he lives, he gets to give the zombies a taste of their own medicine. Open wide and let me in, or else I'll set your world on fire, but you pretend that you don't hear. You haven't heard the word is coming down like the hammer of the gun of this black son, locked out of this big house, while massa looks out the window and sees only smoke. Massa doesn't see anything else, not because he can't, but because he won't. He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money, mo' honeys and gold chains and see me carrying my favorite things from looted stores than admit that underneath my Raider's cap, the aftermath is staring back unblinking through the camera's lens, courtesy of CNN, my arms loaded with boxes of shoes that I will sell at the swap meet to make a few cents on the declining dollar. And if I destroy myself and my neighborhood "ain't nobody's business, if I do," but the police are knocking hard at my door and before I can open it, they break it down and drag me in the yard. They take me in to be processed and charged, to await trial, while Americans forget the day the wealth finally trickled down to the rest of us.