In realizing that yesterday was Center Street Days I remember with fondness meeting up with Noah. Few steps from his apartment. “Hey” Noah smiles slyly & proceeds to headbutt me. “Oh, it’s one of those days”. Noah was buzzed. Ran to liquor store – not to leave him alone. The night was amazing but with such a tense emotional time we ran into Evan’s first love. Within 10 minutes I lost Noah only to find him moments later about to be arrested. He was (later paid ticket) but it was only yesterday that I realized we were both arrested within a month. He’s having a son. I’ve been in prison. Strange turn of events. He stayed within God’s law. I wandered wrong side of the tracks . Man’s law. “we know what’s best”. There’s not a moment that I’m not thankful our roles weren’t reversed. I’m reminded daily of so many interpretations of prison. Of dealing with it.
A man a few years younger spends every night shedding tears – banging his head against the wall. He’s not the first. I’ve never shed tears for myself. Beat myself up – sure – no question. But pity – never. Anger. Then the realization “what did you expect – think?”
My tears are exclusive. Evan. Noah. My whimpers for the voids I’ve created. Those whimpers become poems, pleas, prayers. My friends are angry – hurt-confused- but survivors. Not all directed at me – those insane actions – but man’s law – society’s indifference. It’s all fun & games ‘til someone loses an eye. The judicial system: one pair of pants & hands of Shiva (the Hindu God with so many arms).
The kid who had his head bashed in with the cribbage board had sold his celly’s rug cause his celly was stealing from him. Apparently he was stabbed in Green Bay. I can think of a thousand truisms. Sunday a day of rest, my mind rush hour traffic. I’m moved to another village in Mexico. One which receives most of the news from the front. I continue to be the unlawful monk. Trappist raccoon & I do admit my judgment has been flawed.
Sidebar: As you might remember/know a wet cell - toilet sink=wet, get it? Well amongst inmates you place a piece of paper in the window. Flag. Sign of respect, courtesy. Cops hate, can’t monitor. Well with all my heart issues I’ve been opened, stripped, poked & prodded more than imagined. Hence no issue with body & varied functions. Slim convinced me to use “flag” today. So there I am abiding by con’s rules. In mid-evacuation cell door flies open. GI Joe rips out paper.
Oh well, such is life. Prison. Wide river.