Monday another month. Fog settles dawn. Dampness rests about the collar. Breath. Went to library to write, return books. As I sign in, “Go to security suite”. Long story short my mail has been monitored. Asked what was I doing. I reply: “I write. I read. I exist.” “Yeah, not too good with writing poetry” – “Yeah,” I sigh. Everyone’s a critic – but that’s cool. Bottom line. “Don’t talk smack”. “I don’t” He knew. He’s read everything. I have no secrets. No “real” problems. I admit to every possible questionable action. To tell you the truth – we were both confused. All my letters were there from the past week. My only concern was I hope no one was worried. Concerned I hadn’t written. Earlier asked if I had any tickets. “No”. I think we understood each other. Stood, shook hands. Dropped of my letters at mail box. Went back to library. “Can I get on the computer?” “Sure”
Re-wrote some poems. Amused I write poetry. Strange. I guess I take my words for granted. So much a part of me. My walk. My eyes. Fingertips. After writing I got into the stacks. Found Ten Men Dead: The story of the 1981 Irish Hunger Strike. How cool is that? Emily Dickinson. Grabbed current “GQ”. Read a few bits & pieces. Jack White. Being in the wrong time. I don’t get that. Then everything fell together. The reality. Prison. Joel said everyone’s in one. Yeah. Bobby Sands. Huge difference. I’m in their world. A huge difference from where I came from. A different time. Place. I explain a bit of the blog to the officer. I don’t write of the day to day because so much is dumb. Gossip. Madness & fits. I prefer the silence of this morning of yesterday. I can’t write of the terrors. The horrible certainties. The reality is simple. We/I broke the law. We are here. Locked up. No shock. There are rules. Yes, some seem gray. Some are pure common sense or? I want this behind me. To get it behind me I need to go thru it. I’ve explained my pain - Noah, Amanda. Their family. My family. My friends – dear, dear, fuckin amazing friends. My father. I don’t care what we eat – sure I love peanut butter. I don’t care if they read my mail. Check my body. Clothes. I don’t care about tv or what’s new in the yard. I walk. Talk. Live honestly. Respect my diction. Love my cadence. I’m an outsider. Not better than others. One of the inmates. I do get bothered by inmate fits & guard’s bad days. But again I’m a 50 year old man. Lived a tremendous life. This my pond. My monastery. Joe warned of hard time coming. I pray this was it & frankly this wasn’t hard. Finished lunch. Talked to a buddy about his life. Explained this blog & what happened earlier. “Basically your blog is an outlet for rage.”
“No, I have no rage. No real rage. Sadness maybe.” I want to take advantage of this time. Whether to understand or just be. One thing - I’m so conscious of my actions. What I project. What I accept. Reject. Knowing any rage that may exist is directed at myself. I digress. This is a different time. A different place.
Received a wonderful letter from Stacy. Always an inspiration. Always a wonder. She was wearing a thin white sweater she found in a box on the sidewalk. I felt a moment of jealousy. To be in NYC & to find something wonderful on the street. In my visits I’ve found a hat, scarf, brown leather briefcase in which Gene silkscreened a target & a great chrome chain that Jacob took home. My jealousy moves into pleasant. My Stacy. Said she read the blog before she wrote. That is the intention of the blog. To let you all know all is good & some poetry here & there. Nothing more & hopefully good. Stacy informs of terrific work schedule & mapping out poets. I’m so proud of her. Always good news. I’m grateful all is well out there. Perhaps a grandson. I’m grateful for all your support.