6:45 am, another morning, another week, another month ends. Same for you out there – though your distractions are non-existent in here. No bother. It’s hard to admit the certain hurt. Bellyful of ache. Not just because the letters don’t come. Not for the aggression or the torment that reads billboard in here. It’s as if we don’t exist. I understand from my one friend’s dismissal that she’s uncomfortable. Can I spend time guessing, wondering why? No, I know her, like all of us, has her issues but I’d need a shovel to find that vein. All I ask is for honesty. All I ask is for some sense of history of who we were /are/ will be tomorrow. Don’t scream ten minutes after I stepped on your foot. Yell now or forever hold your peace.
A young man was raped a few weeks back. He takes trazadone. Well his celly makes a hook-up (convict stew) & drugs him with seraquill. (Both these meds are for depression, sleep, etc. – heavy duty) & proceeds to rape him as he’s passed out. Well he wakes, wanders down to the day room – passes out. An investigation. The kid will be moved back here. The perp will spend forever here or shipped to Max. Needless to say it’s hard to stomach. Needless to say – I won’t. Needless to say, please say a few prayers.
Sadness served fever pitched.
Just got called to property. Cantos, from Stacy, had to send to Kelly ‘cause the book distributor didn’t enclose an invoice. Sad seeing Pound sitting on that table along knowing I’m the only one within a distance that adores. In my way I got the cop to open the book. Hear the pages turn. A fall morning. Thank you Stacy. All I have is time-humor & an ability to digest without getting sick. Jonathan Hayes’ Window Pane Press broadside of mine arrived for me to sign. Of course they wanted to refuse but I acted confused & claimed artwork. They told me I had to sign a.s.a.p. Thankfully count was around the corner. I took all back to my building – signed & had a quiet moment of success. They look great. I added my prison ID# – figured while I’m here it’s cool to use. They could have busted me for enterprising.
Poetry & prison can exist. Thank you Jonathan!
Sometimes I think I’m too positive. My glass is full – but it’s cracked.
No shower today. It’s over 90 degrees. A personal poem.