The Old Man: Prison Poet

2009-09-08T14:31:00.000-07:00

8259

Had a wonderful dinner with Kelly. Finished up with P.O. Usual frustration with the state. Over a month trying to get food stamps and nothing. Not that they owe me but it is something offered to citizens of the state. I can’t vote so who knows I am a citizen without a tongue. So I make every effort to be positive & without question I’m surrounded by love. It’s just this state. State of. I can’t imagine doing this alone. Any of it. So grateful to have the love I do. Just please process my food stamps and let’s get this behind me. Forward. Was going to see Noah but the rain was crazy. I just wanted bad tv. Something to distract. Falls asleep to. Nope. Got newest blog. It’s only been 2 to 2 ½ months but who’s counting? Great pics from Matt – thanks. Just to let you all know it’s almost all o.k. for the most part.
So got home - Addicted To Beauty, great trash tv. Milk & cookies, (way sick now from all the food). Now some super sad movie, Catch and Release. God, I hate dead people movies. Hate, though drawn to. What is that? Well, it’s self-pity & a perverse guilty pleasure. To know these people playing some part in some fiction & their hearts are breaking. Super. Break some hearts, just leave real ones alone. So this was to be about food stamps & general b.s. of the state, no, it’s good food with a good friend and reminders of love. So 2 weeks or so ago I’m going out for a walk, about to enter sidewalk territory & up ahead 2 women, 1, a strange shape – a kind of walking juice box – real, real square. Side look and OMG, it’s her! That woman who just couldn’t talk to me cause I’m such a monster. But then my other friend found me and all was good but now she is a juice box – yuck. Is this what they call instant karma or just too much grazing? Yikes. Either way I almost jumped in a bush. So Noah had errands to run and I had quiet to attend. Kelly a drive home. Ben beer in his car.What were you doing at almost 11 p.m. central time Tuesday? So let’s recap. A ramble to address the insanity of trying to get food stamps turns into an odd sadness of fictional blather that re-focuses the absurdity of real life and the sometimes juice box individuals that are better dealt with in a bush. I have no answers just frustration that turns into slap happy laughter as a car drives by and hits a huge puddle delivering so much funky, funky water into Kelly’s open car window as we are driving. Instant karma does exist & does remember to bless us in so many ways. I’ll get food stamps some day. Now I have tons of pancake mix & so many good, good friends & some more time left to this movie – a wonderful cast by the way.
Talked to Aaron upon his release. So happy he is out. Little food. Lots of books. Music. Josh is back in my life and gave me a ton of music. Pet Sounds, Townes VZ, Muddy Waters, Radiohead. Super. Making & working at a pizza place is work. Great crew. So tomorrow & today & yesterday, forward.
Later.

2009-08-21T14:40:00.000-07:00

8189

Tuesday, more than 2 months out. It’s harder writing this than before. The need to continue happens for a number of reasons. 1 – to let those close know I’m going forward; 2 – to document this journey; 3 – to resolve anger; at myself for being so selfish. For forgetting all the support, love, tenderness, at Evan for leaving, for the state for not listening, for the silence that allows so much wrong to continue. Anger does help heal, to allow it to speak, to protect, to give a certain closure (Evan). I never got real angry with Evan. Just feeble bouts of. He was and will always remain like his brother – overwhelming sensitive. They learned from me to clothe sensitivity with anger or bravado – to hide it in what is not. Looking back perhaps I should have seen Evan was not long for this world. I have a hard time justifying by saying he’s in a better place. I’m selfish & misery does love company. So many sinking ships. Anger at the state, guilty by association. Just because my behavior was so inappropriate does not mean I hurt children in that way. I know that. My friends do. My family. I got a job making pizzas so I guess even strangers see beyond this. b.s. So my anger at the state continues cause they continue.
I was with horrid men who committed such crimes it would be a crime to discuss with you. Not their identity. What they did. How they justify. How they will continue. Live like wolves & you observe scary behavior. Myself. My anger at myself does wane when I listen. When friends come up & talk about those last days, weeks, months. I was a car bomb waiting for someone to put the key in. Something was going to happen. It’s hard to hear. To know I was not John. I was madness in John’s skin. So my anger reminds me. Protects me. Allows me to be accountable. It’s not an active or violent anger, it’s a dammit! Anger. It’s an amazing self aware anger. I’m sure silence then forgiveness will follow. Now I listen. I listen to their pain, now their support & concern. I’ll be sad for a while, maybe forever. It’s not the end of the world. It’s an awareness & thru it we/I discover 2 larger purposes. Beyond poetry. Beyond art. It’s family. It’s love. It’s quiet & it’s sweet. I sit more than before. Things seem to work out. I just wait without sounding self-pity or dramatic. I grieve for Evan. For me. For all of us. & thru that I intend on doing all to make the day better, if it doesn’t work, I’ll still try.

There are still a number of chapbooks available. 5 total done. 2 more to finish & Flagrant. So for the 5, they are $5 each, postage included all 5 for $18. Either e-mail singlepresse@yahoo.com or write me at 1671 N. Prospect Avenue, #507, Milwaukee, WI, 53202.

Just got some great poetry & art from Stacy at Poetry Project, Joel of Fell Swoop fame & Mike Noland, an amazing artist from IL. All wonderful gifts. Plenty to read & dream. A thank you to all. My mother & Milton always reminded me “we are not alone & to reach out”. I could not have done this alone & to have thrived as I have – thank you & all my love.

I just got a heartbreaking letter from a friend in. Lost a dear, dear friend when he was mid 20’s. The circumstances, devastating. It’s so hard to write to him because I want to hold him. He held this in for 30 years. My heart is so sick. Sometimes you have to wonder why. Look around. This is so hard. To go forward. So much sadness. Sure, if you don’t care or you can separate or you get the bigger picture, but sometimes you don’t & you want your friend, brother, sister, father, mother, son back. The quiet in prison helped. I learned to let go. To relax. To breathe & to make things. Sometimes we don’t have time to stop and glaze a plate or sew a quilt. But make that pizza special or make your first cake. Do it for yourself. For those with you or for those who left. Do something. Just don’t go forward. Do something wonderful with those steps. I needed to go down this past path. I needed to remember to focus, to find birds again, to listen to music & yeah, make crazy pots & bead & leather. For all the bitching & moaning I will say I learned so much in hobby. So much. From the actual way of constructing from all the personalities, the good & the bad drama. It was an amazing journing. If prison is to be at all corrective, it needs to invest more in hobby, the library – rec. If you want to stop negative behavior you need to replace with something positive. Hobby did that for me & nearly everyone else of course with the exception of “woodchuck”, an insane inmate who hid from the cops in a woodpile, but that’s another story. It’s hard to believe I’m ½ century old & every day is still a blessing. Still a miracle. Still a challenge.
Later.

2009-08-20T11:45:00.000-07:00

82009

John in his new apartment

all photos by Matt Wild

2009-07-27T07:55:00.000-07:00

7239

It would be a lie if I said prison was bad. It was release. No/little thought. Way way time to dream. To wonder & yes, wander. In the last few days I’ve received 4 letters from 4 I’ve left (physically) behind. They’re & others like them, are so firmly wedged in my heart. I can see them in my veins. I suppose this would be a time to define brother/sister hood. Fuck that is you haven’t figured out, whether actual or physicophical, forget it.I have 1 birth mother/father. 5 siblings from that tree. My brothers, sisters, mothers, father abound as fruit from dawn. Well anyway, my friends in there want to know how my trip home was. It was a car ride with Kelly. It was a cup of coffee. It was new green. It was traffic. It was who will I see. Who will greet me. Who will hate me. & whom I left. It was quick. It was & still remains sweet. Just like I can’t/won’t talk of that joy & secrecy of a lover’s arms. My trip home was/is something so profoundly private. It’s taken time even for me to come to terms with. I’m a coward & prison afforded me a certain dignity. I have a horrid time with life & prison is floating in a dirty bathtub. Pouring vodka on a water moccasin. My apartment is wonderful. My books, art work, chrome furniture & clothes, & everything is coming home. & yeah, those memories. That thick clot. Saw Alex, my therapist, ½ hour or so ago. Touched base. What I learned, my change. My pain. My joy. I haven’t let Evan go. I never got mad at him for leaving. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m holding on to this pain to hold on to Evan. This apartment is already Evan’s. Noah is here but somehow, a dead son overwhelms the living. I know Alex is right. I’m truly petrified. I actually thought prison would have helped/cured. Nope. Another stupid John trick. Dave wrote & said I cared more for the seagulls than most of the inmates. I miss Dave. I miss Rodriguez, Aaron. Chris. Jefe. Smurf. Hell I miss the food. Kelly made me a cake last week. It’s been many a meal. Sold some lamps for some cash. Broke again. Selling more lamps today. Erik is a miracle. This apartment. He’s also helping me move. He’s there. He’s here. “None the less I confess I yearn”.
W.J. music has been my food. Move love. My friend. Catching up. Finding all my cd’s & some others. It is a bittersweet reunion. I guess the most amazing thing is how easy this is. How open hearts are. Everyone is holding me. Welcoming me. My family. Our family. I was always home. When I clicked my heels I just came to another house. Home is family. It’s love. Our purpose. Our reality. “I still miss someone”. & How are you.
Later.

2009-07-13T11:50:00.000-07:00

7/13/09

Today is the day before I go pick up John from Oshkosh. Lots to do. Clean the house. Go shopping. I’m house sitting for my nephew so I raided his movie collection and CD collection. So much to watch & listen to.

Pulled out some stuff I thought John would like right away. The leather jacket. May be too hot for it but I know he will want it. It still smells like patchouli. I have to laugh because our old boss did not know the difference between the scent of marijuana and patchouli. While looking for his wallet I realize just how much of his stuff is in my house. It is everywhere! All with a faint smell of patchouli. I found his overstuffed wallet and pulled out his I.D. That is one picture that will have to be retaken.

I have to get up early to leave the house by 6:30 am but am watching Lars & the Real Girl. What a beautiful movie. I am very surprised by it.

I have to remember to pick up a camera. He wanted me to bring one. I hope it is to take pictures of family & friends when we visit tomorrow. If he wants pictures taken of prison, well, I don’t need to see those. I don’t ever want to see that place again.

-kc

2009-07-08T07:40:00.000-07:00

729

I was just taking a leak & thought I have 1 more Thursday then tomorrow 1 more Friday. Today the panic hit hard. Only a little more than a week & so many projects to finish. R & S’s vases. Noah’s belt. Stacy’s. 2 Guitar straps. Going to type up See You In the the Morn(ing), misc bracelets. The belt buckles. Finish Elliott Smith, amazing book. Order bio of Pasolini. Letters to write & I want to do a few paintings, poems & mugs. I want to do 4 more beer mugs. So the panic wavers. Oh to do prison with your loved ones. I imagine that may sound strange. I was just walking with Levi. We were talking of this brotherhood. When we get it & truly invest in it, it’s profound. Not the criminal, but some aspects apply. It’s that we’ve been physically, mentally, spiritually, intellectually, creatively stripped. Naked we stand & we slowly dress ourselves together. Today a close friend asked if he had a pimple on his head. “Yes”, I replied. “Can you squeeze it?”
“Sure”. And I did. It’s not something I do but here within the context of our/this relationship it was ok. We look out for each other. Feed each other. Talk to each other. We sing. We run together. We shovel snow when the track is covered. We share anger at our behavior at the C.O.’s at the system. At this/our life. So when I say 1 more Thursday it’s the definition of bittersweet. I will hold you & we will cry & we’ll be so happy. I’m leaving brothers forever. Some released a month after, Aaron, Levi 1 year. Conley 2 months. But some never. Some were cellys. Some ate with. Talked with.

Picasso said, “Nothing can come about without loneliness. I have created a loneliness for myself which no one can imagine.” Some guys tell me how they will miss me & will I write. No, you’ll forget. Some know of my overwhelming need to make things. To never sit still. They don’t know & if they do they don’t understand this blog. Even falling away from I have continued. Even though you haven’t. If you don’t get in trouble here, if it seems questionable, “they” say, “you’re manipulating the system.” I reply “I’m taking advantage of the/this situation”. Each moment is simply that. Each moment. Whether I’m washing dishes or doing push-ups in prison. It’s it’s own moment. I experienced those moments & then I forgot. I began to re-act. Just doing it. Then Evan died & I slowly stopped caring. Stopped living & just went thru those motions & I forgot you. All of you. Most all Noah. Then here where every day is counted. Where 4 times a day every thing is stopped & everyone is counted. At first you brace yourself. Then it becomes second nature & am I institutionalized. Then fuck that & you act out. Then why? Then it becomes the sun rising. Setting. Rain. Snow. It becomes nature. It moves past distraction to this is how this goes. Pretty soon when count is late you get concerned that something is up. Then soon after that you go home. First 1 more Thursday, then that Thursday then I see Kelly, Noah & Evan Henry. & then you.

Later.

2009-06-29T14:54:00.000-07:00

6249

I grew up with my mother reminding me, “no man is an island”. Blah blah & I was like, “yeah, he’s a man. Not an island”. Such a smart ass & at 51 I’m still that child but now I accept the community of. This community. Our community. Now New Order on radio and Derek Jarman in my heart and mind. The indulgence of isolation. You take my loves. My world. & I will always seek & find that dry landscape. So much to feel so much to say. Prison is not as bad as you think but worse than you can imagine & I think some of you get it without having to get it. I test stoves. Actually that was my first job. God, I miss you. The fact that Kelly has made this, this possible. The litany of friends who do get this. This system is so so flawed as mankind. The left hand ignores the right & we all die alone. This heat is liberating. I welcome sweat as I do the mail. Bring it on!
I do get such touching, amazing letters & I really don’t go into but at the risk of…..I will.
When I read Dave Stacy’s statement that, “I’m guessing that the experience of time in there makes for a completely different reality”, it was so right on & that he didn’t think he’s ever referred to it quite like that. Stacy also expresses such intense love & understanding that frankly I don’t think I’m worthy, but I will make myself. Matt writes, “Everything forgiven ( no need in the first place), no one forgotten”. Kelly can’t wait to pick me up & spend the week with me. It has been like another country. Another reality. What point served? Was I, are we, that horrid? Is this where we must go? Do we as a society understand forgiveness- redemption – humanity?
My God, every morning Evan dies. Every time I open my eyes I remember. So this existence is so flat. I have to laugh; poor Kelly has lost her back bedroom to boxes & boxes of projects I’ve sent home. Whether poetry or leather or pottery or beaded belts – books. I took advantage of this, this displacement. Derek Jarman reminds me of the power of blue & to always go forward. To take Dec 22 as that reminder that every moment has power. Speaks volumes of who are we and what are we doing. Is there meaning & to redefine, to look into the past & weave a new future. A fantastic future that is here & to serve. Not giving up. So this is ending without ending. Just my location. I refuse to feel dirty. To feel as if I’ve done this huge wrong to society. This state attempted to take 2 ½ years of my life. I have used those 2 ½ years to open myself up. To constantly get up. To never give up. Whether rain, blizzard, this heat, I’ve walked averaging 100 miles a week. I’ve learned to shut my mouth. To speak loud. To find hours in a minute. To be home. To breathe. To pray. To survive. To flower & to not give a fuck. I have become jaded but dismissive. To listen. To anticipate violence & to accept love. I guess most important I’ve learned to ask for help. Learning patience. Welcome freedom. The liberty across my chest screams.

Later

2009-05-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

5189

In my struggle – my investigation, my path, as all of ours, flips & curves & bounces with such an intense energy. That perhaps, I think, am I really needed here. Life moves forward with or without us. As I first stated, my struggle, so of course I need to be here. Just spent the past 2 ½ hours walking the yard. Inmates come & go. A conversation seemly without direction but moves sometimes. (most times for me). Smooth. A perfect line. From our crimes to drug of choice to mother, father, brother, sister to fucking death. Nothing, I repeat, is off limits. Sure some guys can’t talk openly about. Let’s say the details of that rape-molestation-battery. So they either move on or remain silent. I hope I will remember these treks. Today Kelly sent a package of info for me – from Hank III, my father’s obit, a website of paintings & an email from Kathleen. She edits the zine, The Worst, devoted to death. It’s impact on us, the survivors. I read about in MRR. Seems great. Very nice email. She’s got lots of poems. Wants prose. I think, yuck. So I put on the radio. Figured I’d write to you. Kelly didn’t know I was named after my father. Dave said that I “always spoke with pride about him”. In group you learn to listen to others tell you how you come across. Who you are or better yet, what you are saying. When I saw Evan in his bed I knew he was dead. Feet from his body, I knew. No comparisons. No it was like his body without him. Evan had left. I was alone with that fact. My first thought was join him & then I heard Noah. My battle began & I continued to neglect Noah. If I wasn’t a father then my son didn’t die & if I wallowed in self pity & destruction, who could tell me I was wrong? I knew I was John. Somewhere, somehow. So many many people broke apart with Evan’s passing. Some healed. Some didn’t. Now I can see what I did in an unhealthy way. & I hear “there is no wrong way to grieve”. I respond, “prison”. They reply “You’re still alive”. In my insanity some how I managed to remove myself without continuing to hurt others. This past 2 ½ years without Noah? I will do everything I can to repair. Without question. I am alive. 3 years without Evan kicks me every second of every moment. It is only in my last breath that that will be resolved. Again, what of Noah? Does Colette carry this? Do you carry this? For your brother, your father? Sister – mother- friend – lover? & how would I know. Obviously we can’t spend our waking hours grieving. We still have this life. We do get thru the day but how? And at what expense? Prison gives me the luxury of collapse. Somewhat limited support, but the support is amazing. With my father’s passing not only did my boss, the psychologist & social worker connect with me. By that I mean, real, deep fulfilling conversations where we related. Where were together. In that pain. Those lives. Our lives. None of us can escape that reality of death. To escape that pain associated with the loss of a loved one is simple – don’t love. I asked my nephew Andrew if it was a mistake to have raised Evan & Noah in such a way for them to have loved, adored each other to that extent that now is leaving Noah lost. Andrew thought I was insane to ever think of that. A few nights ago, in a dream, I was arguing with a fellow inmate about Einstein’s theory of relativity. That is based on the amount of pain one endures must be balanced with pleasure – love. That is the theory. Perhaps that was an odd dream but what I’ve learned & still am learning from the deaths of Evan , James, Reed & my father, or to be in that moment. Just be. No thought. Whatever moment. The mind/body seems to know what to do. I tried to stuff the pain of my father’s departure & I got anxiety attacks. I tried to self-destruct with Evan’s & all I got was more trouble. Reed’s, I was actually glad to be in prison. James, I wept. For me they are different though the same. Always degrees. Always exhaustion. Alice Notley is the most terrific poet. A supreme goddess. Her poems, her voice, her being as an artist for me, is the total summation of breath taking. & this woman has survived. Has taken that pain & transformed. When I think of Alice, my mother, my sisters, brothers, Noah. Colette, Jacob, Anna, Jimmy, Emily TimB, my nephews, Colette’s brothers & sisters, Kelly Richard Hell, Matt & Chrisanne, the lives they lead. The lives that have passed between, that’s the key for me. There will always be those moments. Those sad tributes. Those wonders. After Evan’s passing a lot of us either got his tattoos or variations of. My therapist at the time was concerned that I/we wouldn’t be moving on. I disagree & actually the psychologist here reminded me, “there is no wrong way to grieve”. “prison”. “You’re alive”. My regret thru all this is of course Noah. My walking away is so wrong. I knew then & I know now. I disconnected. I am reconnecting. The luxury of prison has given me that distance. That silence. Just now thru writing this I have sobbed & my eyes are swollen & stained. I just stood for count . Not one man will comment or harass. I can truly be alone here. To sort. To prepare for release. Another round. So I don’t know if I want or could write prose for Kathleen. I prefer poetry. All this. I feel I communicated better in this poem I wrote for Evan Henry:

on a Sunday

grief becomes

wild dog
ferel
rabid
infectious

you’ve just
handed me
a 2
x 4

2009-05-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

5109

heart broken
become unglue(d)
think Ted
Berrigan & the white
that dries
clear

father buried
by now
Evan in various cans
shared by friends
family

2 new birds in this yard, distant relatives
of the seagull
there is no
self-pity
in this
moment
exhaustion
dread &
the wonder why
& could I
ever mount
that “horse”
again

Van
Morrison sings
day passes whether
or not
I’m ready
someone mentions Basketball
Diaries my heart
skips
fragmented
I think,
“now we chat poetry perhaps Frank
O’Hara” no,
they just lust
that “male”
actor

I’ve never been so alone
stumble in dark grope
light
switch

my mother alone with
friends
family
on this day
celebration

Joel’s right
we’re all in some
prison
retarded syntax
& all

2009-05-11T07:46:00.000-07:00

569

My father died this past week a few days after he had my mother call. We talked, laughed & generally ignored death. We knew each other well. Kind of like you see a friend walking by – you don’t go “What you doing, walking?” Fuck no. You walk. So we talked of my mother, how she adores him and of him falling. Strange how it all works out. So my sister called Monday. It hit me yesterday. Today it’s a heavy mist outside. No one on yard. Just me & some wet seagulls, sound of traffic & nearly 2 ½ years of this bullshit. Last night my chest tightened & I so wanted to smash something. Luckily I just listened to the radio. Real love & then went to walk. Somehow, amazingly, no idiots approached. I’ve been spending a lot of time beading & craft crap. I need to write so I’m wrestling with a moderate length poem. Kind of titled Phil Spector Can’t/Wear Wigs/In Prison. A summary of this. The restraint – the death – the love – the wander – on the outs Dave says/questions “Are you just going to walk around the block for hours ‘til someone calls you in?” Probably. If society considers prison such a horrid thing & you survived (seemly), a shattered heart the only casualty - You/I develop a real grasp on this reality called existence. Yes, this is a cake walk compared to CA or NY or other prisons. But if my father didn’t love me as much as he did to call me. Imagine.

2009-05-04T09:46:00.000-07:00

4299

Numb-denial, alone here. Though surrounded in distance by loved ones. Richard H. / Kelly just sent remarkable letters. As I tried to explain to sister, mother, father, prison is not the worst or even a bad thing. It’s an away thing. Frankly I’m an away person. I am trying to reconnect with my peeps. It just sucks that it has to be like this. Reading Outlaw Bible of American Literature. From Waylon Jennings to John Rechy. Annie Sprinkle to Emma Goldman. I read, bead, pottery, leather, eat, shit, sleep & pray for all in my heart & those I don’t know, yet.
Later.

2009-05-04T09:45:00.000-07:00

42809

If we could look at life as a bit of fiction – a distance – I believe I, if not you, could relax. Maybe not totally but to see & breathe every moment. To see the lifetime in every second. I got called from hobby back to my unit. I knew it was either my father or canteen. It was my father. He is alive but his health is failing. I got to talk with him, my mother and my sister. We talked 15-20 minutes. My father is brilliant. Always was & looks like always will be. Funny, quick & so loving. My mother & I shared so many tears. This journey. & my sister – always so strong. Death is weird. So weird. Which direction. What direction. A shrink here told me “Be in the moment. Feel the moment” & yes, so right. So much is defined by how we live. What we did. What we didn’t do. So much pressure. So many directions & then we’re gone. In loved filled relationships there is peace. There is joy but for me there’s always selfishness. Questions & then the sadness. Life is our fiction. What we chose to write – to live. I spent time with my mother, father & sister explaining how prison is helping me. How I miss them. My Noah. My friends. My Kelly. But I don’t miss society. I just miss my loved ones which means I’m ready to go. I’ve never stopped loving & I’ll never stop fighting (for good, for art, for poetry) & I can tell you who is responsible. Who gave me that first taste of love. Of Man’s injustice. But I think you know. My sister wondered about this blog & so did Kelly. I get so distracted & I forget to write. I will get back on that horse.

2009-04-07T06:57:00.000-07:00

22609

Let’s confirm a few ideas/thoughts – concepts that exist in here. Never trust. Never let down your guard. Continue with criminal behavior. Do what you have to do to keep everyone at bay and on the defensive. Well that’s how most exist in here. It’s not like I’m some special person (I am! Ha!) It’s I try to get everything out of a situation. In here it’s solitude. It’s loneliness. It’s contemplation. Look at yourself 360°
degrees. If you need to step out – so be it. Well I deal with my rage (soon I won’t personify) my sadness. Despair. Just that immense hollow that attempts consumption. But I get tired. Wiped out. It’s the lot I’ve chosen but my actions are not always on target. My issues are with mankind & the mistakes we make – but the deeper I look & have. I keep coming back to God & the concept of our purpose. What is the purpose? To discover pain. To understand suffering. Explain that to all who have lost someone. That void. That great big horrid pain. So we march on .We drag with us those who can’t walk. We continue. We continue to fight. To hurt. To continue this cycle of despair. I’m done. My acts of inappropriateness & stupidity are waning – soon no exist. My issues are with the Maker & that is my plan of attack. There will always be suffering & misunderstandings & the chaos of nature. It’s when I indulge that chaos that I set my self on fire. I so regret the pain I’ve caused the ones I turned my back on. I am truly sorry & every day I strive to create less stress – chaos. I’m learning to walk away. Not to indulge my own stupidity or other’s. My celly sings at random. These slow deep warbling Gospel songs. I can’t always understand the lyrics but his voice is beautiful. Yesterday after group I walked I was so tweeked. So like I was covered in something - bugs? Wet liquid? Something. I came back to the cell. We talked & talked and I could feel my pain rising – silence. Then his voice & the river I become. Became. All the pain. All the pain.

If anything, please hug someone after you read this. Someone. & remember all we have is each other.
All we have.

2009-02-25T15:27:00.000-08:00

21109

I’m not the only one, nor should I be, to call Reed “my brother”. Our brother. We turn natural wonders of the world “waterfalls”. Crazy beautiful mountains – geysers, landmarks, huge national parks. Reed as a man was as big as any mountain. As deep as any river. With a soul as bright, if not brighter, than the northern star. It’s an understatement to say Reed will be missed. We will stumble & we will collapse. Reed was/is a profound friend. The true family of man. Any good that I contain within, I give freely to Tom & Candy, Reed’s parents. His brother Geoff. To Justin, Ben & Ben, Bryan, Noah, Sara, Michelle, Joe, Derek, Jack, Danimal, Johnny, Fish – my heart goes out to all of you. Miggs & so many otheres.

Reed, my brother, please provide some guidance. Some understanding. Your music like your laughter – oh so divine. My God man, I love you so much & my heart is so gone.
All my love.

2009-02-25T15:26:00.000-08:00

2809

For the past 2+ years I’ve shared a few moments of music. The masters of song lyrics – the vast universe of. & I have a check list & believe it or not, I’ve heard some beauties from E.Smith to P.Furs – Richard Hell, Voidoids, Heartbreakers, Misfits, Social D, Replacements, Husker Du – just amazing. Just now Gram Parsons live with Emmy Lou Harris (1973) – Love Hurts. My God – such purity of note. Clarity of soul. I get scared but that fire is so good. So blessed. I just held the radio. Hugged, rocked & sobbed. This place does clarify your priorities. Now to hear Townes Van Zandt. Wow.

No the banjo isn’t my favorite favorite. It’s just great. I dig but I get the perfection of the guitar. Dave’s just worried I don’t shower a lot, don’t wear socks & now the banjo. I’m not denying the simplicity but I’m not that country.

& when I mentioned Tim, James, Julie & Noah getting brutalized – they were robbed while fishing down by the reservoir.
Ok?

Later.

2009-02-25T15:25:00.000-08:00

2609

Do you dream of what you know – understand? Or like the bottom of depth of ocean where impossible for man to breathe without assistance? Every time I pierce my skin I stop & gaze as red joins this world. Slipping down the whole concept/reality of just disorientates me. Mid-stride I glide thru the dam. But blood A letter A distinguished word & I’m back to who am I? Who are you? What are we? This wonderful chaos blankets all my thoughts.

Listening to Waylon Jennings. His voice narcotic to me. I could just climb up his verse. So so perfect. The other night on Punk N Pie (WRST) heard Misfits, Replacements, Social D. In my mind you could hear a pin drop. That’s what my dreams are made of. Sometimes spiders. Sometimes your lips. I do get pissed. Yesterday - why do I write this blog? Never a comment or reference to. I feel as if you’re watching me in the shower. At least hand me the soap. But a new song comes on & I think “no bother”. This is my way of saying I’m still on the plain & here’s some ramble.

Thank you to Stacy for 2 great books & Kelly for updating and running errands. Just keep well. I miss you all so much. No this not a dream. Our dream begins face to face. Nose to nose. Shared breath. A sneeze.

2009-02-25T15:17:00.000-08:00

1249

It’s like 18 below out right now. No real movement. No walking. I have to remind my legs we’re lazy today. Still the itch to move. Nice letters from brother Paul & Reed. Actually great. Paul says Dad is hanging in there. Wants to see the Spring/Summer after this cold, cold winter. & Reed & Noah starting a band.

20 some years ago Colette, Evan (4 years old at the time) & I ran into Brian Ritchie (Violent Femmes) @ Sweet Doomed Angel – an amazing shop on the Eastside of Milwaukee. Evan was Evan – very direct. Actually politically aware and very anti-establishment so Brian & the owners of the shop were like “Oh, he’ll become a banker some day”. Between getting pissed & laughter we were like “no way” Yeah, I hate that belief you fight everything your parents dig. Rebellion for the sake of. Evan & Noah whether born or raised are poets. Without question. What dictates – nature or nurture? Who cares? My sons, our sons, are fantastic & now a new little beast. I sit back here looking out on some highway. Watch cons come & go. “Society”. I can meander in my
thoughts justify. Sadness hovers cause I’m so far from my sons/loved ones. But we’re here. It’s what we do with it. That’s what matters. Even in here. We’re living, sure existence, but I’ve always pushed it. Suck the life right out of life. Delicious. Sit back & listen.

Got rid of my killer celly. Got an alright quiet guy a few years older then me. Just go with the flow. Water is breath & breath movement.

Reading a book on gay vampires & just got Thurston Moore & Bryan Coley’s book – No Wave. Very nice. If you don’t remind yourself so much becomes lost. I can’t always hear the music but with these pics I remember the dance & soon enough the smell sounds hot. Check it out.

Later.

2009-02-17T10:27:00.000-08:00

Reed

#1

lie this cross
against
yr chest

borne
deliver

you, one
of
life’s mysteries

never solve

our

salve

#2

Kiki said
“elegant
with

an edge”

now, how I see

yr shadow

robust thunder

#3

prepare for
battle

tongue beneath teeth

logic circumstantial

yr music
LIBERTY
a miracle
across this/my
chest

no need for magic
within this wind

dust
dry
dust
dried

#4

care or
not to
care

not landscape
never sea

ability
attempt

love

now,
I wait
for
the
sun

#5

need to find
some
bird
within this fence

answer these needs:

shoulder to bend
neck to soothe
fire to plan
love to instigate

too much cabbage
over abundance
of weeds

lie divine
my blood yrs

need to find
some bird

when black became grey
drug light
comrade moon
man shutters
nature
sighs

purpose revolution
revolution born
of love
a better

when black greys
I stand upon the shoulders

I knew you back when

#6

depend on to
that we can’t
grasp

yr voice, always

rapture
now memory must
hollow
hallow

we use grass to landscape
once, huts
if no leaves then to wipe
ass

why does it be
everyone
goes to sleep
remains
asleep

remain sleep remains
sleep remain sleep

good-night
good friend

2009-02-11T08:44:00.000-08:00

21109

Reed Alan Chadbourne Thieme

Thieme, Reed Alan Chadbourne Age 28, died in his sleep on February 5, 2009. He had a big heart, a bellowing voice, a booming laugh, a bear-like hug, and a will to live the blues. Reed was born September 8, 1980, in East Troy, where he attended Good Shepherd Elementary and East Troy Middle and High Schools. He graduated from the Southern Lakes Alternative School on May 28, 1998. In East Troy, his performances evolved into the band Fulvous Low with Erin Malcolm and Ian Watson. When Reed moved to Milwaukee to major in film studies at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, he founded the punk band Avoided with Justin Remhof and Ben Blask. He subsequently worked construction jobs and devoted his considerable energy to performing and touring with Avoided. Reed was indifferent to status and fashion, colorblind, intense, congenial, and a performer since childhood. He will be sorely missed by his parents, Tom and Candy Thieme of East Troy; his brother Geoff (Stacey) and niece Kailey of Milwaukee; maternal grandmother and paternal grandparents; and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins who loved him dearly. A memorial service will be held at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, 1936 Emery Street, East Troy, at 3:00 PM, Friday, February 13. Visitation with the family will begin at 2:00 PM. You were the best, Dude. Rest and be at peace. BRETT FUNERAL HOME (414) 342-0692

2009-02-02T13:31:00.000-08:00

to live outside the law you must be honest *
111208

memory
dust buddy
with teeth
& me
without broom

“the state uses any hammer
to pound one’s peg
into their hole”
strums Kafka

sit in dark
snow isolates
insulates
must claim fear
I have forgotten yr voice

2009-01-31T09:13:00.000-08:00

11809

I’m a dog. Literally. Learnt to accept my bird & here, snake. To be more specific I’m a cross between coyote & domestic. Either a canary or a parakeet & for now, without question, bull snake. A bull snake perfectly imitates rattlesnake without rattle & poison. As a child God knows how many I chopped up & delivered to my dad. “John, there’s no rattle”. It wasn’t until baling hay that I encountered a true rattler, “Oh”. Dead I reached down into its slimy form (way dead & starting to leave) I grabbed its rattler – my hand stunk! The story of my life. I can envision anything but I need to experience it to get it. Who knows over active imagination, dark, or just don’t get it. I realized I was a dog a while ago. Cranky, Loyal. Simple but can dance on hind legs. Love to roll in stinky stinky substances & love to throw paws over backs, but kick me too many times & you’ll get more than teeth. Well, if you me, bird is obvious. My grace incredible warble & dainty dainty ways. Ha! No, I’m more like a cowbird. I guess bird is my vision. My escape hatch. My survival. & snake, well, that’s simple. I can squeeze into any situation & it takes some time to realize I’m not fatal & I do shed my skin. This all leads to coddle. Coddle is a strange concept in here. You all (perhaps not) vision prison as this rather stayed serious scary place. Frankly, we all have that basement of youth that is more prison than here. Call it the times, call it lazy. Call it what it is – mental hospital. Call it what the hell do we (the state) have to do to get you (inmate) to take responsibility accountable anything? Sure there are convicts here. Usually they don’t refer to selves as such. Sure there are monsters here – big time freaks, but mostly drunks, mama boys, lost causes & homeless. If I attempted to assemble a crew to rob a bank, kidnap the head of some corporation, I’d be better off getting the Apple Dumpling Gang – Don Knotts and all. So coddle.It’s been cold here just like you all just got. The yards were closed down. So let’s do the math. These are the guys who raped, killed, robbed, maimed – who victimize society & it’s too cold for them. I got frost bite as a teenager. Lost in the woods with friends and hid in a cave until we realized no one was looking for us. My hands & feet got messed up. Not horribly but with my heart issues & circulation my right foot goes dead. No feeling & I can’t even grip a pen with my hands after time outside but I survive & I continue to go outside. Is that the issue, us freezing, or is the issue much bigger? I think it’s bigger. Look at the budget for D.O.C. Look at the direction prisons are going. Believe me you (the taxpayers, the victims, society) do not want to coddle inmates nor do we need to be in “that” hole. There is a middle ground. This is not a very smart population (inmates). You do not want to coddle these/this men/man. We get popcorn once a month. Work is not mandatory or the programs (the road to accountability/responsibility) It’s a play prison. Sure we’re locked up. Sure we’re monitored. I’m looking at the big picture. Our shared picture. Our children’s picture. This is why I’m now called “Non-Union”. I see both sides. I always have. There are always 2 sides. This is why I’m a dog. Independent – loyal, yet will attack at odd provocateur. Think about it – coddle in here just sounds gross.

Next word – empower. Great concept. Great practice. You’ll hear & will continue to hear & to learn to be empowered. For me right now my act of empowering is dancing in my cell. It’s my gauge that lets me know I’m back on track. Dancing is so core to me. I was introduced as a young child by older sister. Was reinforced thru Nut Cracker. I’m a horrible dancer. A hyperactive crazed man on an invisible pogo stick but it’s my language. I don’t really dance with any one. I dance with myself but I am surrounded & I adore dance. Just saw Kelly Anderson from Dance Works in the Milwaukee Journal. Jacob danced with her in college & worked with her in numerous works – Bad Meat. Amazing. Always loved Merce Cunningham. Ms. Duncan. For me it just washes. Imagine an empowered baptism.

So where to go? I’ll be out this spring. Kiki (Anderson), super poet & contributor to Flagrant supports the idea of me doing a reading right out of prison. It’s on my top 10 list. Noah, Amanda, Evan Henry are top 7 things. Friends are 8. Sweet potatoes & couch are 9. Poetry & PBR is 10. Any suggestions? My last reading, days before prison, was at my loft downtown so I like the idea of someone’s basement or attic. Maybe a band or 2. Just something to cleanse me.

The other thing I want to organize is a t-shirt drive. I think I still have some pants & Richard H. & Kelly just bought me a pair of Wranglers but I will need t-shirts so I am going to nag a few friends for t-shirts –yep. Joel-Richard-Richard-Stacy-Julie-Matt-Zack – all of you, I need t-shirts, medium to large – I weigh 158. Bands, crazy images, words, all I want. I’d love words written directly on. Gene, I’d love one of your amazing silkscreens – spray paint, etc. I want to put on all, one over the other. Feel, smell, be with all of you. Ok? If any interest email singlepresse@yahoo.com.

I don’t think there’s any thing wrong with confusion. It’s what you do with it. Reaction. I spend a lot of time confused. Sometimes just wondering. Now wonder, that’s great. One of the main building blocks of the Godhead & of course joy. Joy is right there with bliss, but I digress. Confusion – I’m confused here a lot but that’s to be expected. My celly wants to move. Now my current celly is classic pervert. I can actually watch my skin crawl when he speaks. He has 2, count them 2, natural life sentences plus random additional time of 20 – 30 years so what does that add up to? He claims it’s from having sex with an under aged child. I’m assuming he ate her/him. Killed a few more on the way. So right there he won’t admit to extent of his crime. In the yard David goes “you know who Tyson’s celly is”. Yuck. So if a man can’t be honest about his crime. Now Bob Dylan says “to live outside the law you must be honest”. Following? So everything, everything, my celly says or does I weigh. He hates everyone (very common here), from Martha Stewart ( I love) to President Elect. Judge Judy (she can be a crank). He hates strong women. He hates all races. He seems to hate everyone & everything. He can’t victimize. So those who know John know why he celled up with him. For those who don’t, you will. So my celly want so move. I go up to Sgt. “ Do I need to find a new celly?” “What do you think of_____________?” “Works in the main kitchen” . “That big dumb goof ball?” “Yeah”. “Oh God” “It’s that who I’ll get?” “Well you know Charley is trying to help someone out”. “ Yeah.” “That’s why I let Charley move in with me & because I wanted to understand the depths of his depravity. “ Dave once said “If Dahmer was here…” “Of course I’d cell up with Jeff.” I’m curious & I’m confused. But one thing I’m certain, words have never lied to me. Yes, they have been used to lie to me but if I listened clearly the tone/diction allowed me to see the flaw. Words don’t want to lie. Manipulation does enter the equation. I don’t know why I love poetry. So many things to say why but just not sure. So many transistions. My poetry wants to be honest. Sure, it’s my honesty but me thinks it wants universal honesty. When Evan was born my poem waned & your assumption is right. He is our poem. Colette’s & my collaboration. Then Noah & I became one very far from the written work. They are my everything. Poems became chocolate on everything. Way too much but there were poems on occasion. Rough, raw screams in the dark. I wanted Colette’s breath & limbs. I wanted their eyes. Then I started to die & the words were back at the door willing to deal with my rejection. Then the break-ups. & the words whispered “we never left and never will”. Now they answer my door. They are the whole home. I looked in the mirror today & I look aged & happy. My hair greyed. Was name “happy grey” by another inmate & I wondered. Two years ago I couldn’t die fast enough and now I’m thinking about aging. Confusion wanted to enter the picture & I said no. I want to live for John & for Noah & for Evan Henry & I want to live for today & tomorrow. I need to finish what I’ve started. I need to tell strangers of Evan & I need to walk that line between life & death. Between prison & freedom. I need to hold my friends. My family. I need to piss against a tree. I need to look at a stop light with the confusion of a child. I need to sit in a tub alone or with friends. I need to live confused in a positive way. I turned my back on so much. Way too much & as I continue to turn, soon I’ll be facing you.

2009-01-31T09:07:00.000-08:00

11109

Poetry is ease & talking. Talking is breathing with words. They are not without effort – they are my comfort. In here most of my talking is internal & those who know me know whom I’m addressing & of course context of the conversation. This blog is unnatural – putting a sweater on a horse. Sure it’s cool & all a way to get one’s point, perception, vision across. It’s not unnatural. It’s difficult for me. I already talk to mirrors , puddles reflections – lately birds. So I pretend you are all birds-ok? Then I’ll babble. I have the luxury of knowing what I really want. If I can/ could actually tell you of everything what do I want & of course those that know me know who he is. Well there's 3 hes. 1 is impossible well shackled to this plain/universe. Other doesn’t know me & the last well, that’s his father, Noah. I intend on failing as a poet because not only do I refuse, I can’t, explain/express that pain. Not only do I have no apology I’m proud to know there are emotions, words impossible for me to express. Understand. I had a stroke 3 hours after being released from the County Jail. Do the math over 2 years in prison & to hear Noah’s voice. To see his beautiful face. To let him crush me in his arms. My heart will crash. Then to hold his son. & I don’t embarrass, but a man can only be so strong. I had lost my way. First my health. Then Jacob. Then Colette. Then our jobs. Then James shot. Tim thrown in the river & Julie beat up & then Noah almost shot. Then Evan. Then prison (frankly a relief). I had so lost my way. Then Evan Henry was born. A cycle began. We lost wonderful dear friends & family. I’ve always resented the word/definition comfort. If we accept, yes. We are not here for comfort. We are here to keep getting back on that horse that has thrown us & I’m standing again & I’m ready to raise some hell. To crush Noah with my hugs. Take. E.H. to the lake or down the street for ice cream or whatever. Let him know without letting him know that grandpa is not going to let him go.

Been listening to blue grass/country on the radio today. The banjo may be my favorite instrument. I have wonderful & amazing friends. I can’t talk about them in here. First, no one would believe me. I do talk to Dave about them but Dave is different. Like Aaron. They are the 1% out of a million. Guys who lost their way, took responsibility, accountable. They are the exceptions in here. Sure some guys are alright – Dave & Aaron are friends. Real friends. Not John’s crazy friends. Anyway I am lucky. Good does beget good. Well Kelly is beyond comprehension at every level. When I saw the images of the chap books on the blog I wept because they are alive. We did it. We took so much time & energy to write, publish & circulate 5 chap books plus 2more on the way and a zine we are finishing. Sure anything is possible but when was the last time this was accomplished? I meant the poems aren’t all that amazing but they are righteous & our intentions are/were pure & redemptive. Right now they are in my friends & family’s hands. Kelly pulled it all together. So suffice to say she is one of my untouchables. Of course the list gets major here from friends who sent money for backing the chaps & zine, books & beads, to a typewriter from Richard H. so Stacy, Erica, Julie, Richard H, Richard L. Jonathan, Joel, Reed, Chuck, Matt, Chrisanne, KiKi, Ben, Mom, Dad, Pat, Paul, Mark, Zack Matt, Mike, Jesse, Conroy, Elaine, Gene, Rob, Conrad, Thurston, Noah, Amanda & of course James Liddy, who reminded me of Oscar Wilde (De Profundis is his amazing journey of prison). I’m sure I forgot some and for that I’ll make amends but as you can see I got lots of amending to do. (this is where I am speechless & so loved) & it goes without saying I wouldn’t have made this without Evan.

2009-01-29T09:59:00.000-08:00

12909

new poems by John Tyson

11308

no longer lying
stand
obelisk

is it because I forgive myself
or could you no longer remain
prone

when you're non-union in here
you can identify
every bird
species of grass
words
condensate blue
another killdeer scolds me

blood takes stand
where once thought
ghetto

111508

Spicer sung,
"the Poet is a radio"
Pound threw first ball @ Yeats,
"the Irish like contradiction"

Corso rolls out of bed aplop,
"let the sea be merciful"

killdeer possess magnificent melody
on occasion a falcon breaks in
sky caress sun as mother to child

"does blood wish to be in a seaport town?"
Notley quiets

2008-12-15T07:28:00.000-08:00

The latest chap books by John Tyson are now available:

Strike Hard Old Diamond

Killing Time

Barren poise swill

What I Love About Your Life Is What You Leave Out

Spit & Sugar Evolution of Smoke

Books are free! All you do is help pay shipping & handling.

$5.00 per book $3.00 if you want 2 or more $10 for the whole set

Please contact Kelly at sisterweezer@yahoo.com

2008-11-14T11:46:00.000-08:00

111108

James Liddy was/is by all accounts, by all actions, by all thoughts – poetry. He redefined for me & so many, poetry & the true existence of a poet.
A brilliant man. A profound & hysterical observer of life – of heaven- of that space in between that so few of us find, let alone live in. He lived in it. He lived.

Today, this morning, reading of his passing “FUCK!” flew out of my mouth. Sadness dropped me to my knees. I’m honored to know James. To have shared, to have witnessed him wearing that God horrid canary yellow stretched out sweater, holding court. Never minding the coffee stains or God knows what, all over.

James wore his life like that sweater.

Jim & Zack – I am so sorry but I am so grateful to have shared the most wonderful, divine Mr. Liddy.

http://www.jsonline.com/news/obituaries/34240804.html

2008-09-23T06:42:00.000-07:00

91308

Kelly just left (visit) loaded down with stuff I made.
She’s a saint.
I was lost.
Back in here. Still wrapped in her laughter – her difficult dad- wonderful nephews- new trip to Ireland.
We share insanity.
I’m telling Kelly a story – blah blah about how I really am not concerned , blah blah.
“ I know John, I’ve seen your tub”.
If that’s not love…
Fuck it.
She’s a saint.
I walked in the rain for 10 minutes after our visit.
I’m oh so cleansed.
Blessed.

Later.

2008-09-23T06:28:00.002-07:00

91208

I cut my finger the other day & nothing changed. No blood no pain. Just a fine delicate piece of. I pulled & out popped a petal. Thought quite strange so in silence of night I pry open my skin & decorate my cell with flowers constructed from those petals.
Something is changing.
Someone is changing.
Prison is a desert. Lack of love. Ability to eat an apple at will. Such is man’s law. Desire goes as seagulls devour landscape. My identity is more of my mind. My ability to survive.
I live for the sky. Apply to string beads a scattered poem. So now my legs grew/grow stronger & veins run where once death. Transcendent is a remarkable dance. Whether middle finger or my mouthing “I don’t care”.
I fear that to fear is to doubt. To forget. To back petal.
I’ve been ruined. Never one for whistling through grave yards. I do beg Mary Worth in “that” mirror. Strapped & good to go, I’ve said “some of us should never see what’s on the other side of that line”. Can you dig? Ability to split atoms & sell art @100 million ain’t goin’ to stop that river. Man is as superficial as an adolescent wet dream.
Walk away.
Walk away.
Weigh those options &
tell McCain’s token to fuck off. Any time it’s reduced to eyewear – smell the coffee and walk away.
Walk away.
Consider both sides of every line.
Take responsibility & unhook that collar.
Something/someone is changing. & I’ve seen too much waste. Too much death. Lies. Back petals & force fed media compliance. Who are we & what have we become?
Walk away.

2008-09-23T06:28:00.001-07:00

91108

Help me!
Get back from hobby making two mugs for Tim & Noah. Exhausted. A friend explained a ‘new push up”. Your arms straddle 2 trucks. So you go down. Way down. Tear. Amazing. Then “Superstar” by Sonic Youth.
You all know I’m in Mexico & I’m blessed. Fuckin’ Superstar & Mr. T. Moore. Blew me away. I’m so blown. Maybe truly amazed.
Reed, letter on the way. You too, Stacy. Miss the hell out of you all but I’m ok. You?
Drop a line. Soon this Spring sprung. & try out these push-ups.
Later.

2008-09-09T10:28:00.001-07:00

82708

Today’s Milwaukee paper:

Female teacher gets 25 days in jail and two years probation for kissing a 14 year old male student. A misdemeanor.

William Burroughs said it best & I paraphrase (age & all)

“An old black faggot once said to me - “honey, they’re all shits”.

America thy name is hypocrisy. I run to Emma Goldman & my mother. To those who know me understand the leap. To those who don’t, government is wrong & when you have too much mud - make mud pies.

I live in a cell filled with mud pies.
Kelly soon to visit & then Spring I will be sprung so I guess words are more harmful than physical touch – or just my words? I should have continued on my path of 1st criminal act.

My celly went to the hole after an inmate enraged him by suggesting they go to his cell where he would beat him & put his finger up his butt.
“You want to put your finger in my butt?” my celly asked coming up behind the guy, he pulled a chair – boom boom boom – punched his face, head & raised a chair over his head . Sgt. Yelled: Get on the ground!” Another moment of.

Dave told me he overheard the guy my celly knocked around,”If I would have gotten up”. I’m waiting to hear that conversation to which I will add….”William Burroughs once said…..”

Later.

P.S. Hurray for Ted & Hillary – Hurray!!

2008-09-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

82208

My celly went to the hole. Long story short his anger consumed. First directed at me. I responded no, I will not indulge. Probably the most threatening “move” but at this point in my life that “no” spoke volumes. No means a yes to you – by me saying no I was saying – screaming- Yes, I love you & yes I will survive & yes I can move forward & yes life can suck but right now I will pass this test. The last few days a single cell. Quiet and because of Dave I’m reading No Country For Old Men. Holy happiness. Just what I needed. When you’re up there reading Genet you do need help getting to the ground. This is it.

Stacy hang in there. I love & miss you. Julie a letter on the way & yes, I love & miss you.
Lopez thanks for the $ & great letters. One on the way to you.
Ben if you’re out there – best of luck with your birth.
Presents on the way.
& to all a good night.

Later

2008-09-04T10:42:00.000-07:00

A Highly Personal Journey of Survival

the blood is bright red
another reminder of
being
victim of the collective pain

what does one do when the loneliness is accepted?

die. inside. everyday. a little.

The Pretending

sin & sinners

don’t you dare judge

(lest you be judged)

someday
bleed.
bleed bright red

blow minds

2008-09-04T10:32:00.000-07:00

would you even care

productive only when under the influence
feel only
when
torture
that addicted soul
not meant for this world

create & supersede

only true hearts understand redemption

NOT DEAD YET

when we meet on that Sunday afternoon how long will you stay?

2008-09-02T12:34:00.001-07:00

82608

“Nothing should be able to harm a man except himself. Nothing should be able to rob a man at all. What a man really has is what is in him. What is outside of him should be a matter of no importance.”

- Oscar Wilde

2008-08-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

August 4, 2008

Hello John boy,

Just had to tell you about the crazy dream I had last night.
My regular pattern – go to bed early but I can feel heart palpitations coming on. Why? Who the hell knows? So anyways I get to sleep. No panic attack.
I am on my side and feel someone in the bed. I move my arm to feel what (Max) or who it is & I feel an arm. I say – “is that you John?” and you say “yeah”. So I turn to look at you and you have longer hair and about 2 days worth of facial hair growth wearing a white “hanes-like” crew tshirt. I go – “what’s wrong? What do you want?” (See how crabby I am when I am sleeping! Ha!) and you tell me that there is a problem with Green Lake. “the book?” yeah. I said , no, you mean Spit & Sugar. You say no, Green Lake. Ok. What’s wrong? You haven’t worked on that one in a long time”. Well then we hear some music playing – electric guitars – and you say “oh, I gotta go” and you start to fade away. Then I say to the “music” who are you? I don’t have for you right now. Go away. And the music stops. I can see a white door that is half open with bright white light coming from it. But then you come back because the music went away and say oh, I can stay a little while longer now. And then you show me a paper with Singlepresse 2007 typed on it towards the bottom and the below that is the computer path – you know “C:Programs\dkjfldjflakfjdlajf\lkjdfsdlfj” and that is the problem with Green Lake. That the path is displayed. I look confused and ask you what do you want me to do ‘cause I don’t remember that ever being there and then you are gone.
Of course then I am awake. Can’t sleep. Can kind of feel heart palpitations but they are very light. That seems to be the pattern lately. Heart palpitations lead to a “psychic” dream. So weird. I wouldn’t mind the dreams so much if I knew or could figure out what they mean.
So today I checked the Green Lake of yours I have in the computer and there is no computer path on the bottom of the pages. So what’s your problem??? Hahahahahaha!!

So I am exhausted today. Work is pissing me off like you wouldn’t believe. Hot & humd. Disgustingly gross. Just want to be on vacation.

That’s my note for the day. I wonder what is going on in the universe that is giving me these dreams right now.

Kelly

8-5-08

K –

I still have goosebumps – first of all without question the guitars is Evan. Don’t know why but as soon as I read; “Evan” popped up – my heart broke & I was there. Green Lake has been on my mind big time. I’m planning a sequel but comes & goes, plus I’ve been planning a cover (beaded). Just very amazing. As of Friday night/sat I did have a 2 day growth on my face (just got head shaved & face done Thursday night) How fuck’n amazing. Oh, the computer thing? Who knows. Perhaps it’s a song? But girlfriend somethings up!

2008-08-28T07:33:00.000-07:00

8908

Essentially our days are our own. To always certain extent movement – even you are limited by movement – hence logic. Some marvelous challenges of that half lead to this 21st century. So we walk. Alone or with other. & those of you who “know” me, know & understand my judgment or lack of, in determining a “friend”. Believe me that term is a loose definition, though occasionally 1 sneaks by. My friend Dave is. Met him when I got here. Very distant. Been down for a bit. Very independent. Smart. Quick tongue & very well read. A great pal. We share a lot & have quite a bit in common. So far he’s the only one with exception of Josh & Mark in the H.O.C. to reduce me to tears of laughter, begging for relief. Davis is a gas. Very very cautious though so social, to say the least, he exhibits skills that I lack & need to fine tune. He discerns. Needless to say, that’s #1 in here. Everyone lies. “I was this – I did that”. I roll my eyes. Dave finds the holes in the conversations. We can be a wicked team. So between Dave & Genet (again Elaine, thank you) I’m finding my way. Accepting chokes. The burdens. The life beyond the decisions. Prison. Here (&now) is not Genet’s. There is no honor amongst thieves with the exception of a few. At the same time a buddy will sell you out for a “thank you”. I used to be a dog. Still loyal but not quite as so happy. I’m learning the ways of the snake. Silent, steady & very aware.

2008-08-15T09:33:00.001-07:00

8208

When I used to rage, a dog at my throat, chewing. I could feel that consumption. The cracking of muscle. Slopping of fat. Whether human, object or even air, I was launched. Friend or foe. Lover, family, best friend. My rage. How to explain?Regret sorrow, the endless sadness. This is not attempt of pity pot – this was the way of my life. My control. My anger. Now as that dog leaps, a simple no & the disgusting dance evaporates. A ton of thoughts shower of emotion. & the understanding of. To be believed or not, this was never about the assault of a child. It was just another of my steps over that line. To challenge. To upset. To lash out. Self destruct. & so prison.
The happy home of the most fucked up. Not necessarily the crimes. Oh sure, some real issues. It’s the dealing of. The admitting to. The “this is who/what I am”. Not a badge. An admittance. I am & have been a criminal. Not so much of committing crimes but attitude of. Behavior of. My middle finger proceeds me. Was it the way I was raised? That first beer. Death. The inconsistency of life. Why me & not you? Strange questions. I know there are those who know me & know I’m safe® here to a certain extent – yes. Am I some terrible terror? Of course not. I love the individuals & I hate the society. Those who “know” me know there are no limits (well, obviously some). Where is this coming from? Well it’s what I fight – I want to be part of and to a certain extent I am. But I have to be honest. With the exceptions of those in my heart (you know who you are), this life in here is nothing. The handcuffs. The cells. The showers, food, library. I know this is medium but even in max I relaxed. I am comfortable in my skin though it itches dog like, when I think of you. That’s the strange. The ironic part. Most guys hate it here & all they have is some family/friends, or, nothing. I don’t hate it. Here I am blessed with support – yes even as the letters drop off & the promises of $ or more letters fail as that finger rises to the horizon, I whisper to myself “another day closer to home”.

There is no denying I am a selfish man. I turned my back on true solid love & allowed my anger – sadness- my comfortable rebellion, to ride shotgun. I know you’re expecting a different John. No, just a better driver. Elaine E. reminded me of Genet, though never far from the brain or heart, - that reminder spanked. So I’m reading The Declared Enemy & wonder to myself – a society that seems to sleep with n o anxiety is truly dishonest and so wrong. When he writes of the rights of blacks, queers or Palestines in the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, I reply – My God! Are we ever going to grow up? We can’t handle the idea of a woman for president or a black man? The fact that that the vile term is used/allowed – “race card” – fuck it.
Accept the responsibility Amerika. We’re racist-sexist-homophobes – what is different angers us. We use God, facts & figures to promote and to justify. No. No more Stop right now. Listen to the politicians voices – what they say they believe in. Fuck the crotch & ignore the skin. Allow another Bush? Are you serious? Get some balls, some strength & fight. Fight for this country before it’s too late.

We have hated too long. I live in a house of hate. Of confusion. Of sadness. My God, think of your children. Their children. No more. Please no more.

2008-08-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

72808

Finally located The Diving Bell & The Butterfly. An inmate had donated it to the library. Amazing book. In here probably all the more so. Of course we are not limited to the extent of Jean-Dominique. But we all need heroes. & I will never deny this sky. Something that throttles you reading this. Perhaps it’s my interpretation – no matter. When all has or attempted to be taken away the/that sky has a way of smacking you silly – in a Zen Master kind of way. We move too fast. I moved too fast. Now that I’m regaining my turtle vision, perhaps I’ll light from the cocoon – flapping. Read this book. See the fuck’n movie. My God, perhaps it will stop, thoughts.

2008-08-08T07:36:00.000-07:00

72108

Routine became, becomes salvation. We eat, shit, sleep all within minutes of each. Of every day. Perhaps minutes stray into hours. Rare. Rare as pelicans. As the monarch. The moment of peace. Celebration. World of living breathe into world of dead seemly. I know I discovered this sky before this incarceration but moments have decided I was wrong. Was it Audrey Hepburn, Rene Ricard, who place blue as God? Or as a child upon this back crushed under drag to & fro. Head banging against. If love is discovered within every moment does the past exist? Has/could this sky any more than this. What deems perfection? What does it mean? I lie upon my back at 50 impossible to forget where I am or even want to. I sink. Upon my back thru the feet of every inmate pounded stroked & resented ear. I blame routine & I blame love. I blame the chaos that created the wheel & the first shot against the state. Alone I am never. Though I strip & shred every article of cloth, muscle, bone alone. I am never. In the death of sky’s blue I sink & then swim. For I fear as much as my day consists of walking in circles & talking to the deaf, the reality of prison can never be understood. The exquisite nature of depravation is more appealing than full lips to a perfect backside. A Guston – a Jasper Johns Elliot Smith viewed in a closet of windows. I tell my friends to understand me, we must become naked. I’ve never meant clothes. To understand prison you spread your ass cheeks with glee.

I revert back to survival as a penniless convict. My messages as such, Joel, thank you – great message. Stacy, rare such perfect combination of words, thought; “Discarded hope breeds violence”. Joseph Beuys, I dedicate my life of wool & lard. Stacy, you, a forest for me within this fence. Thank you. & Lopez, thanks for words & promise of help. Please send to Kelly a.s.a.p. Well all a good day. I shall “pop” up again. Gene, sorry for your bad news. Yet, you such a cat. Always land on your feet. Foots.

Later.

2008-08-07T08:16:00.000-07:00

72008

“Prison isn’t prison. It’s escape. It’s freedom. There you can escape the trival & return to the essential.” Jean Genet

Kelly left about an hour ago. Great visit for me. Total ease. For her I am sure effort. Get up early (on a Sunday), drive 1 ½ hours here & sit in a retro – 70’s disco hall/prison room. I know her effort – she’s having a hard time waking in the morning for work – 8:20 a.m. – yet she needs to get up by 6:00 a.m. to get here by 8. At first her sacrifice was overwhelming then intimidating. To accept such friendship/love. Out there is hard. In here – just try to guess. I think you understand. 2 points compose a line. We move from 1 to other & back again or off on angles. Tangents. Our lives movement. To cross those line. Friendship-family-enemies. By returning to the essential, the glorious truth reveals itself. For me then the movement stops. I stop. I thank & accept that/this blessing. No longer a frog from 1 pad to the next.

Guys ask how my visit went. If they know me they ask of Kelly. Otherwise just a general question. If they don’t know me they ask if we ate in the training kitchen. (A way for inmates to learn food prep & all aspects of). I respond, “No. Until all inmates have the right to eat there - I refuse. My visitors refuse.” Kelly supports totally. That’s the kind of person she is. She also picked up a few of my hobby projects & will deliver to those intended. She also fills me in on her life. Her family. Her friends & the men in her life. The ease is divine. Silent & calm. Acceptance. I babble & she laughs. Life is composed of these moments when you sit with them and allow them to fill & to heal. Then I believe our purpose(s) revealed. She assures me my friends haven’t forgotten. “It’s summer”. That strangeness isn’t limited to here. She relates equal stories of discontent. What I’m saying is I’m learning to “shut up” & find/stumble upon that essential. Thank you Kelly. Thank you friends. Thank you for taking this rather odd, though real, trip. My first arrest at 18 was for D&D & assaulting a police officer.

I should have left well enough alone.

2008-07-31T06:43:00.000-07:00

2008-07-30T09:07:00.000-07:00

2008-07-29T07:50:00.000-07:00

2008-07-28T09:24:00.000-07:00

2008-07-06T14:28:00.000-07:00

70608

When I went to Ireland a few weeks back, John asked me to take some of Evan's ashes with me and spread them. I think I found the perfect place to leave them. Evan & I often talked about Irish writers - especially James Joyce. I will always remember that. Outside of St. Patrick's Cathedral there is a little park that has tribute areas to many Irish writers/poets. I thought it was a perfect place for Evan.

2008-07-06T14:23:00.001-07:00

62008

New Pics of John

2008-06-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

61908

I have not written for a while – why? Well, Kelly & I have been finishing up some chaps. 2 done, 2 on back burner, 2 out there. Been reading, working at hobby & just losing track of time. I know there are a few of you checking for updates & for that I apologize. But as you imagine a mound of sand is more interesting. & I can tell you living in here has & is changing me for the better & simply for what is. Some of us can see a fire & understand. Some of us walked singed- burnt. Any guess where I stand?

Just received a letter from Noah, from Kelly. Most would sit back & savor the moment. I want to go screaming thru the trees. Yes, even at 50 I am grateful, overwhelmed by the love & support of my family/friends.

Reading Tropic of Cancer, (Miller is my captain), Bio of Vivienne Eliot, Balzac’s short stories and a book of H.D.’s cultural poetics. Just finished Henry Louis Gates’ Book of Essays. Thank you Julie R.

Thank you Stacy for “Orizaba: A Voyage with Hart Crane”. A stunning chap.
And thank you Richard Hell for “Psychopts” – his collab with Christopher Wool. Amazing images – a stripped yet vast concrete. The line between words/image so blurred it creates a new. Anew color. Contrast. Proof when 2 artists meet & truly work together Earth’s gravity has to stand up & take notice. What I mean is, it’s a kick ass book & you should/must check it out. Selections will be in Flagrant.

I end with this, I never want to forget. I don’t want to forget where I am. I don’t. I want my life to be John Muir strapped to a Redwood midst of tremendous storm- unblinking.
Yet you, you with words or images or books or thoughts allow me/make me forget I’m in prison. Image that. Image that.

Later.

2008-06-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

61708

John is also doing some work with leather.
Here is Justin & Reed showing off some more of JT's work:

2008-06-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

61708

I recently ran into an old friend of John & mine. He commented to me that it is so nice how I keep JT up to date with everyone and with everything that is going on out here. I replied to him - He's my friend. How could I not?

I do get rewarded. The following are pics of some ceramic work JT did for me and another friend of ours. The 3 small ones are mine.

2008-06-10T10:51:00.000-07:00

61008

Transatlantic

called home together
so they went

one charged – the other raced

Miller-Guinness-Jameson

Religion
Gaols

Ghosts -Patrick -Temples

Blarney

Revolution
Resolution

the girl now knew it was time for her & the father to part

no need to look back in anger

so hold your head up woman
because the sadness swims in the river Liffey
and was washed away
when you put your soul in that water and where baptized
again.

2008-04-29T08:53:00.000-07:00

42908

From the introduction to a book of Irish short stories - intro written by Anthony Burgess

"One of [Freud's] followers split up human psychology into two categories - Irish and non-Irish. The Irish, like the Neopolitans, are not sure what truth is, and they have a system of logic which defies logic. They have something in common with Chekhov's Russians, and it is no accident that many of the stories here will seem Chekhovian. I was taking a bath in a Leningrad hotel when the floor concierge yelled that she had a cable for me. 'Put it under the door,' I cried. 'I can't,' she shouted. 'It's on a tray.' There is a deep logic, or epistemology, there which is far from absurd. The Irish and the Russians have one way of looking at entities (the entity in this instance was a cable-on-a-tray) and the rest of the world another."

There is a sense that Freud had, too, that the Irish, when in psychic trouble, go to poetry, go to storytelling, go to escapism - they have no interest in picking apart their own brains.

2008-04-24T10:59:00.000-07:00

april 24

my depression 2:00 am
the saturday night session

broken
am
I

rootbeer & vodka’s
victim impact statements break
deadlock

damages
intended collateral

what had the rage to
stomp
my spirit to death?

then something a little odd happened –
karma report said I was alive during the ministry of JC

do I think I am who they say I am

do sins of the father have to impact the suns?

made it home every sunday morning to drag all to church
I went last night
how do I know?
I didn’t see you whoring around last night but I know you were

nails too long hair too short belly too big laugh too loud never satisfied
whore still living with that spick

I bought flowers for myself for the first time in months
campanula pink

any where I am not is best

being called home with the father by the Father is most interesting
&
unexpected
who is forgiving who?
Why?
& for how long?

twelve years with no parents trying to be a parent = no children

50 years of marriage out dates grandsons

lessons of what not to do are learned so pay no attention to that
mick in the corner

you can always tell how drunk I am by my bangs

first there was a girl,
then there was no girl
and then she left

look at me all clean & boring

2008-04-08T09:46:00.001-07:00

32908

REM, Rolling Stones, Armory Show, all on This Morning on CBS. Wonderful. Great letters this past week from my younger brother, Richard H. Joel, Hauser. Earlier Lopez, Julie R. & yesterday a perfect visit from Kelly. Not perfect for her. She wasn’t feeling great – that I felt bad for but her courage, humor, loyalty & vision – that’s what’s gret. Kelly is a gift. I & those who know her are grateful!

Kelly & I are finishing up a few of my chap books. Barren is good to go. Contact her for 1.

My brothers & a few friends can’t always read my handwriting. They say slow down. I try but I can’t. I’m running out of this prison as fast as I can. Your letters, poems, books, thoughts, are the flames that inspire & propel.

Michael, Peter & Mike were/are amazing men, artists. What a great preview of what’s to come: A new REM album – hurray!

Rolling Stones looked great & I’ll see Martin’s movie when I get out. The Armory Show – what fun. Switched channels & the Round Table on ABC This Week called for an end to corporate welfare – Yes! Yes! Yes!

Later

If you would like to recieve a copy of Barren please contact Kelly either by leaving a comment for the blog or email me at sisterweezer@yahoo.com.

Barren is free but I am asking for $5 for postage and handling.

Thanks!

Kelly

2008-04-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

32108

Spring & a longer day. Not much compels me to write for this blog. I’ve tried to give you all a picture/vision of this here – some might register. Some not really important. I live with the same “kind” of people that you do – some down for a minute. Institutionalized. Some still same. It’s what it is. Lots of snitches. Guys who can’t be alone. That need to be a part of something. Well something of nothing is still nothing. So snitching to gain acceptance/some power is oh so fucked. Cowards. No way around it, cowards. Do your time, I’ll do mine. This is my conversation. These my friends. No need to be jealous just don’t be a freak. Be your own man/woman. Live your life. Don’t hide behind the cops. Another man’s name. Come out of the shadows. If it comes from your mouth. Actions. Be responsible. Be accountable. Stand for something. No need for another Benedict Arnold. Without question I broke the law. Without question I take responsibility. My questions, concerns, have always been about where are we going. As a country – a society- a people. There’s so little difference between what’s in here – out there. Look at the Democrats. What the fuck. No complaint. Just an observation. Move forward. Address the needs at hand. The more we tear our brothers/sisters down – the harder it is to stand. & keep in mind the ones with no knowledge, idea of vertical movements. Of any balls – guts. Dignity.

2008-03-25T09:03:00.000-07:00

3908

Sunday brings a quiet most humbled thru. I would compare prison to a desert but that would be fraud. The sun, the life, the movement of the desert is far from this truth. Prison is sucked out from. Vapid desolate beige flat white bread toast. Sure it’s what you make of it but that point of departure is so flat. So flat it’s beyond comparison. But you build from & it will collapse. Yes, it will collapse & it can crush. So you move as flame. You dig fro color, humor, humanity, humility & as your fingers get tired you use your feet, your mouth, your ears. This morning, on Sunday Morning Gustave Klimt. Way too short of visual but what there was I ate. I sucked. I licked the tv screen as one might love a beer. Such wonderful paintings. Such a fantastic inhale. Now as I write, 3 Tenors on PBS. I just survived “Nessun Dorma”. Anything I write will not do justice to. Not just Pavarotti, but Pavarotti in here. It was/is so delirious my back against the wall sound all the way up. I was launched into space. “Ground control to Major Tom” & like a naughty Dutch boy I pulled my finger from the dike. I refuse to die in here. Chop off my roots, deny sunlight, water. I will grow & thrive from that I may attach to. Not parasitical rather practical. Received a great letter from real friend. He’s doing a collab with one of my favorite artists. Sent me example of. I’ve read that letter 5-6 times? He felt bad hadn’t written for a while. Fuck that! God I needed that letter. Found my sea legs. Great packets from Kelly. Some money from my brother. I think these guys are singing Edith Piaf. It’s in Italian. She’s French & I’m mad. Delirious & so happy. Not only not losing oneself, it’s bringing something back.
Later

2008-03-18T11:23:00.000-07:00

or minus you

you can’t see it but he really was a good man
first kind word heard all day
said he’d pray for us and that i loved him
punished us all so we’d feel his loss
had an audience
thought it was tv but this was a new twist
you, who always come back, be here for
a personal triumph

me birthday

drank with james’s son
& now cry
overwhelmed by
loss
love
legacy
memory.

threw out all the old
never to be revisited
life times are piling up
trying to kill what is
trying to kill.

biggest mistake was making a friend
who writes law and order
now it is just contrived.

proven right but by letting
all come out
hurts more.

3-1-08 wave length

until today didn’t realize it spelled out

CO-EXIST

not embarrassed because
i was with you and
you said
me too

2008-03-17T08:36:00.000-07:00

3308

In less than ½ breath. Consider. Watch a feather drop.snow flake. A kiss to dry. Word to say. Hello. Goodbye. All fleeting. All so fast. Super fast. Perspective. Yesterday I did nothing but within that nothing was everything & then the next thing, today soon tomorrow. I wish those words never existed. Created. I’m sure main reason was man’s attempt at control of the universe. So if that big light goes up & then down & up again, what does that signify? Mean. Hmmm. Movement of light suddenly means time & time means money right? Hmmm. I got nothing but time & so little money it’s silly. I get paid but $.12 an hour. Obviously labor unions do not have a voice in prison. Any way, this was about fleeting nature of time. & oh boy am I lost. I still think like Jefferson. That we have to water the tree of liberty unlike the powers that be, who use it for a place to take a leak. It’s only when I think of the “Patriot Act” that I remember/realize that Tom is so dead. So very very dead & without that blood the old tree is next. It’s those milestones that prove that time does move forward. One day you give birth, next you two are walking down the street. Amazing. See. Because I got nothing but time & believe me that silence or attempt at, stirs up this dude’s noggin. Thoughts fly like bats – crows in cornfield.

2008-03-17T08:33:00.000-07:00

3208

A new day. A new month. Though still stuck within ice, snow and now rain, spring is on horizon. A few notes, check out Eugene Kane’s Milwaukee Journal column from today. He is so right, not only thru MSDF but quite a bit of this prison system. Start looking around count 100 people – 1 in. Though it doesn’t sound high, it is. Kane’s column goes into a part of what it’s all about. http://www.jsonline.com/story/index.aspx?id=723841
I think it was Thursday on Ellen. She told of a heart breaking story of Larry, openly gay high school student who sent a valentine to Brandon, who later killed Larry. I don’t think I need to go on. A thank you to Ellen for letting us know. We need to realize & take control of our hatred. Of our judgements. Our actions. Please keep Larry in your hearts, prayers & please allow Brandon in. These are our children. Think.

My celly told me I have balls. Walk with confidence. I thanked him. I thank the universe for this experience. Just Thursday when I broke down he was so cool & now today. A part of it he said was how I’m so up front with my crime. With my life. It’s a two way street. Rick’s a great guy.

Great seeing Wilco on SNL. Dylan on PBS. Kelly is finishing up Barren & I’ll be giving her something new in the next week. Don’t you love her poems? You know you don’t need to be so silent. Warm morning, soon freezing rain. Out walking with no socks. Felt so free.

No work out today – so sore, tired. Sunday’s are a day of just being. The week isn’t but just nothing. That something of nothing. Life on a raft floating. A long shower. Perfect cup of coffee watching the snow. Following the wind. We walk literally in circles here. Fascinating. No need to worry. This personal trip.

Later.

2008-03-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

22208

Folsom Prison covered by D.O.A. playing right now on radio. Earlier, Radiohead, Dick Dale & some amazing techno. Big time flashbacks. Evan, Noah, taking turns on the turntables. Avenging disco Godfather even further. Labor the Rave in Milwaukee. Tons & tons of late late night eves hauling out crates & crates of records. The smell, sweat. The beautiful mornings crawling home. All for sake of the music. Their drive. Their vision. We as family addicted. Between Reed’s letter today & the music I was/am geeked. My buddy at dinner called me speed freak. Great letter Reed. Solid, funny & oh, so sad. Not “Oh God life sucks” but so wild & full I got to bite a tree. Terrific letter. Kelly – thanks for the great news and then cool ass poem. Keep it up. Check out Avoided’s My Space page, Reed’s band www.myspace.com/avoided & listen to W.R.S.T. Radio. It’s streaming on the web - http://www.uwosh.edu/wrst/
A terrific radio station. My life raft.

Now for some serious shit. Gary Gilmore. Almost finished with The Executioner’s Song. Heavy in more ways than one. A few more books this size in a pillow case is great for curls. Anyway, “You could easily do away with a lot of jails. They’re shit. They breed. They don’t deter crime. Right now I’m a prisoner of my body. I’m trapped in myself. Worse than jail!”

So many amazing moments – thoughts-statements in this book. Gilmore killed 2 men, after he robbed them, point blank in the head. In & out since a teenager. He was cold. So you think. A vastly intelligent man sentenced to death. He chose firing squad in Utah. Strange huh? Mormon Land. Bring your 10 wives & have a cook out. Which came first the Christian or the lion? Eye for Eye. Love this country. Anyway, a great point is that prison is a complete socialist way of life. Told when to go to bed. What to wear. Eat. When to get up. Total control. Right now Dick Dale (radio). Fuckin amazing. Sitting on my bunk cross legged, books open all over my, my radio blasting in my ear. Thinking of Gary & my/our/his brothers & the fuckin fuckin hard soulful guitar just banging, singing away reminding me that, yeah, yeah – everything is going to be alright. There’s nothing like a great song. Great kiss. Painting. Empty star filled night. Rebel Without A Cause on in a few minutes. Some Black Flag coming up. So prison is basically socialist. Everything in theory is equal. Sometimes you get shorted but the next day you get a huge piece of cake.
So that’s a huge crash when you get out. Sad but true. Who reminds us when to piss? amongst other things.

“Things that are harsh and unkind are here on Earth and they’re temporary. They don’t last. This all passes. That is my summation of my ideas and I might be all wet.”
-Gary Gilmore
Not wet, me thinks. Truer than rain.

“Let’s do it” besides some Latin, Gary’s last words.
“Don’t mourn, boys. Organize” Joe Hill’s last words.

Utah & her executions. This country & her lies.
Eye for an eye.
Why do we ever bring children into this world?
I’m sure we do because of our selfish nature. Our sand fly mentality. Our vision lost in the romanticism. Ruby glasses & the fight for our right to party!

Later. I’m off to see the lizard. The wonderful lizard of OZ.

2008-03-07T07:15:00.000-08:00

This Sunday, March 9th at 3:00 pm on WRST Radio they will be playing one of the most amazing bands of all time - Velvet Underground! So keep in mind daylight savings time & listen.
Our/the circle is as large as we choose. Pull that string or release that tension. We are the circle and like the moon & sun that connects now, finally music! I will request a song for all you - you also if you choose, my friends!

http://www.uwosh.edu/wrst/

Later.

2008-02-29T09:11:00.000-08:00

about A
to: J

I hate the nights I drink myself sober
rather feel sting of hangover
than pain you cause
in the end I keep my deal with God

drunk or sober I feel the same
- is that the right line JT?
enter a new Muse

this story ends with a grand homecoming
I say forget book – think tragic comedy

the year I die
I win
Best Actress
for starring in
my life

2008-02-29T09:10:00.000-08:00

you said

you said
tell me about yourself

well

i prefer

whiskey to wine
rain to sun
God to devil

favorite color green
magic number 3

heart palpitations
& panic attacks

during the awards i watched cartoons

abandoned cars on the hwy make me nervous

enjoy me
today because
tomorrow another
storm
warning

2008-02-29T09:08:00.001-08:00

22108

The first time I encountered a burning building was next door to my house. Opened their door & yelled upstairs to my friend. He already knew ‘cause he started the fire. The smell was delirious. So intoxicating. Second time – Ponderosa in Chicago. Near Colette’s grandmother’s house. Out walking with Melissa (her sister). Black smoke & silence. Ran right in. Wall. Knocked me on my ass. Heard yelling like “Get out of there. Everyone’s gone”. I crawled back out amazed at the force. How did smoke build a wall? & why did I run in? Well the thought of someone trapped & the idea of confronting that sight overwhelmed. The third time – I created by accident in basement of our house in Bayview. I refinished furniture & was doing a small cupboard. I had the top covered with stripper. Well it was taking forever. I had just borrowed a heating element from my painting boss. It’s like the coils from an electric stove – heats up paint/gunk & you scrape off. Well needless to say – Poof! Instant crazy fire that proceeded to jump across my work space covered with cans filled with denatured alcohol, steel wool & tons & tons of saw dust – cobwebs, junk. So within like 2 seconds I was deep within a fire. So I yelled up to Colette “Basement on fire. Give me a few minutes & call fire department”. At this point the fire created sound & rafters were starting to burn. So I grabbed this fantastic thick brand new cotton rug, got it soppy wet, unplugged all tools & slapped that baby on the cupboard then proceeded to swing that run & knock out the flames. Over in seconds. The basement was black. I was beat. Yelled upstairs, “it’s out”. Broke out a window & cleared the air. I realized I made the right decision. If we would have called the fire department we might have damaged our lives. If I had never confronted fire before I might have backed down. I looked at those flames the same as thugs in an alley. I’ll be damned if I was going to back down. The next morning when the boys woke up – 2 floors up – Colette noticed that they had black snot. Unsettling. What’s the point? Know your enemy? Know & confront your fear? Act first think second? Perhaps. For me it was the fight. Actually wrestling – feeling every inch of me struggle – fight – succeed. Today I am 50. In some other blog I’ll talk about electricity. The times I’ve been hit by cars – jumping thru a plate glass window. Count my 9 lives. But this is about prison. The newest chapter.

I was out walking with a buddy today. Great guy – not really talked about him before. Smart & honest. When he was 22-23 he had sex with a 14 year old a number of times. He had been in trouble before. Bottom line – he received 2 in & 6 out. I chat with a 14 year old & have no contact even though a meeting was arranged & I get 2 ½ in & 5 out & yes I broke my bail by being on internet. So no question I broke the law. So I ask him did we get the similar sentence because of my age. He replies “No. To them it’s all the same.” I reply “so talking & even arranging to meet is the same as sex”. “yes”. I was stunned not shocked. But I understand. Now if I contact you & offer you money to kill someone am I charged with killing that person? No. It’s conspiracy. If I plan out a bank robbery am I charged with bank robbery? Now if I ask these questions here in group they’ll jump all over me saying I’m a denier. I’m not a denier. I gave the cops the keys to my apartment. I signed a confession. I’m open & honest to this whole “thing”. He said he was gay & had no one to talk with. He said he was 14. He asked for me to talk about sex. I did. He said I did it well. I said I like to write. It’s not hard. It was a few days we chatted. I talked of losing Colette – death of Evan- hard to talk to friends. He said he didn’t know what he would do if he lost his mother or sister. I said you’re either a cop or an old man jerking off or you’re who you are & I’m fucked. Said he wasn’t a cop. Said that was fucked up. Wasn’t until he sent a picture that I freaked. Said you’re so young. This is wrong. He was hurt. Thought I was turning my back. Asked me to talk dirty again. Said we should meet. I was on the fence. Said he lived on the south side. Said I could send a cab. I did. Cops came & this began. I ask myself over & over again – What was I doing? I didn’t & still not sure. What I remember is vague. I want to be honest. I want to tear off scab & look at wound. I pick & pick. Sometimes I’m embarrassed. Then I ask myself “do I desire children?” & I ask myself how was a 14 year old so smart – so considerate- so together. I relax. I do not desire. I was & still kind of lost. Not just what I had been through. I was tired. I was giving up. A few days before my 2nd arrest I chased a guy out my apartment with a hammer. I was going to split open his head but I had no shoes on. I forget what he did. But there was a lot of things going on. First, I feel I need to be clear about my crime. I thought by now some one out there would have asked me. No one did. Perhaps it’s not important to you. But it is to me. Justice is not blind & it is not true that 10 guilty men go free rather than 1 innocent man is found guilty. It’s about plea bargains & getting elected & keeping this system working. Taxpayers are charged $40,000 - $75,000 a year for us. Do the math. Wisconsin has moved from dairy state to a prison state. When the cop told me there was an actual victim I freaked. I asked to write an apology to him. His mother. Everything collapsed. “What have I become?” How could I, after everything, turn around & create such devastation. I was broken. The cop was satisfied. He knew everything I had gone thru. & now this collapse. The devastation. The torture. Don’t ever wonder why men commit suicide in jail. I was too numb to think. The next week a blur. I was stuck in holding for nearly 2 days. My blood pressure was to high. Why I didn’t have a heart attack or stroke with arrest was/is beyond my comprehension. Some how people found me – my sister – Colette – my boss. They hired a lawyer. He appeared out of no where. All would be okay. He asked why the confession – the letters of apology? Because I couldn’t live with myself if I created any more hurt. I truly had/have no idea where I was. Who I was/am. Everything became a blur. “John, there was no kid. You were chatting with a cop”. At that moment everything froze. I was totally fucked up. First he was this, then this & back again. Everything was twisted. The agony. Why did he have to lie? I was so clear. So repetitive. It’s like it was never enough. We believe what we want. I was grateful my actions didn’t include a kid. Though I broke all the hearts who surround me.

Why did I start with fire? Those were not metaphors. They were/are my life. Even in chaos I was clear thinking. Even with limited knowledge I knew what to expect. What to accept. Fire is living breathing entity. It’s incapable of lying. It’s agenda is simple – to consume. That cop, this system is hypocrisy. Inconsistent. Consistent inconsistent.

My mother-in-law always said difference between cops & cons were they (cops) had the right to always carry a gun. They are basically the same. True but right now after all this, I’d rather be with the cons. Within all there is a level of loyality/brother/sisterhood that is quite amazing. I’m reading Executioner’s Song. A profound book – amazing author. Norman Mailer & Gary Gilmore, quite the men. I guess they right now are helping me thru. Though I’m not on death row soon to be executed & even though I’ve not taken a life, I’m a lot closer to seeing out of Gary Gilmore’s eyes.

Kelly seems concerned when I bring up my crime. Maybe it’s because it seems like I’m trying to explain too much. I need to experience. I need to be honest. I need to transcend. If I were the only one to be going thru this I would shut my mouth. But believe there are monsters in here & there are those with questionable behavior. There’s drugs & drink & in time they’ll arrest for your thoughts. How does that go “First they came for the gypsies & I did nothing ‘cause I am not a gypsy. Then they came for the fags & I did nothing ‘cause I’m not a fag, & on & on ‘til finally they came for me”. I think you got the idea. Before you can stand up & fight for your rights, you need to be standing.

Enough already. I now spell it Amerika!

Later

2008-02-29T08:58:00.000-08:00

21208

I can’t tell, it’s not that I won’t, I will, what was/is about Ted Berrigan. Either I never met or when I did I had already read the poet. Ted was the first & as far as I recall the poet who I met first & as far as I recall, the poet who I met with no true “introduction”. No one I knew either knew nothing of his work or just never mentioned him to me. So when I first saw him, heard him, I was knocked on my ass. No question. Here was the large solid buck of a man commanding everyone’s eyes/ears. Rapture. I assume thoughts in the most comforting engaging way. As if we’re a vaudeville magician – comedian-m.c. It’s like when you go to a museum exhibit & they have this huge ancient sculpture or tomb in a room that’s all wrong but somehow after a second or so, it’s perfect. & it was perfect. I hitch-hiked to Naropa with a buddy, Kevin. We were such dorks. I had just fallen in love & my whole life was climbing out & I ran. Ran to see Ginsberg & to get to the bottom of this poetry thing. Well we had some time to spare & if I remember right, Berrigan was doing a class & Kevin & I split up. The class was basically Ted talking non-stop. A few questions. A word-statement-something, would set off this avalanche. I was so confused. So fucking amazing. I remember stealing Red Wagon & On the Range. Later getting them signed at which he told me that On the Range was a strange book. Yes it is. Needless to say between love & Ted & a tremendous amount of very cheap tequila, I ended up chasing Kevin down some main street in Boulder with my knife threatening to cut his head off. I woke at the door step of a Dr. No glasses. No shirt. As I stumbled my way back to our camp I found my glasses & Kevin asleep. I would compare all my energy & emotion to the sensation of being electrocuted. But it was better than that. Electricity mellows you out. I was dazzled. I remember that Ted died the same month/year that Noah was born & I clipped his obit from either Time or Newsweek. Either way he is to me probably the greatest. He took everything, whether working class intellect Asian poetry Trisian Tzara – Frank O’Hara to baseball-pills-love & slapstick. A true descendant of Whitman – Ginsberg’s cousin. Pound’s nephew. I can’t stop from being amazed. Here are a few of my faves:

She

She is always two blue eyes
She is never lost in sleep
All her dreams are light & air
They sometimes melt the sun
She makes me smile, or
She makes me cry, she
Makes me laugh, and I talk to her
With really nothing particularly to say

Something to Remember

Caesar’s ghost must be above suspicion.

Radio just played Misfits. Now the Ramones. Again I forgot where I lay my head. I would put Ted alongside Li Po without question.

I would be insane not to add 2 poems from Frank O’Hara:

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldbergis starting a painting. I drop in."Sit down and have a drink" he says. I drink; we drink. I lookup. "You have SARDINES in it." "Yes, it needed something there.""Oh." I go and the days go byand I drop in again. The paintingis going on, and I go, and the daysgo by. I drop in. The painting is finished. "Where's SARDINES?"All that's left is just letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines.Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven't mentioned orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
(1971)

The Day Lady Died
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille Day, yes it is 1959, and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in East Hampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don't know the people who will feed me I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega, and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatere and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a cartonof Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing.
1964

As much as this prison wears me down & separation breaks my heart, I feel as if this amazing, though sad, parade has just passed by & the streets are silent with no one but myself & some idea of others though so far away. I stand in the middle of the street staring into that space where only a short time before it was glorious. & now Social Distortion on radio. Lopez seconds the motion that Mike Ness is a God. So again I ask myself “what is prison & who defines?” Thanks, Joel.

So this morning it was 9 below & wind chill around -20. Work wasn’t called off so I go in & start breaking my pallets & this guy asks me “how cold is it?” I tell him & he goes “what does the weather have to be not to work?” Well I’m not sure, but I know where this is going so I go “Look, we’re in prison. It’s their rules now.” I mean how clear does it have to be? If you can’t vote you have no power. It’s 1+1. Basic political math. It wasn’t that cold. My boss told me I might get yelled at for not wearing my coat (wearing sweatshirts). I explained you can’t tear things apart wearing a jacket & it was for like 20 minutes. Reality check. Did Bright Eyes get a Grammy?

2008-02-25T13:19:00.001-08:00

anything else

brutus & I watch lunar eclipse from window
think about tomorrow’s quiet 50

unexpected developments confuse

explain why one in OCI
and Papa goes to Ireland

2008-02-25T12:15:00.000-08:00

2908

The talk seems to be of weather and murder. 24 people shot lately through out the country - what’s with that? Is there any reality left? This will be my first election since ’76 that I can’t participate in. But it’s also one of the few that the choices aren’t all that bad. Frankly it’s the first time I’d even consider a Republican. I see McCain as definitely as a person of compromise. A politician in the true sense. Drawing opposites together. The 2 Democrats are alright. Either way we seem to be moving away from Bush. The ragged broken scrub Bush. The lying bastard of embarrassment. Now perhaps – get out of Iraq – health care reform & solid environmental reforms.

We’re still working on Barren. I threw in a wrench & gave Kelly a strange little broadside to enclose. She sent me a proof & except that it’s rather large it looks great. It’s slowly coming together. We’re still moving ahead on Flagrant (remember from a # of months ago). Well we need some poetry & sometimes getting poetry is like pulling teeth. Some are ready some you tear & tear ‘til you get what you need. Richard Lopez is helping edit along with Kelly & I . Cover done & got some poems in. Then I need to re-type Killing Time and get that to Kelly. I think my favorite part of this new broadside is this great pansy dried out on the page & the last line I stole from Faulkner – “You sweet son of a bitch”.

Reading an amazing must have book in order to have any true decent understanding of this/our world – our America. Everything from tales of Mose Tolliver to d.a. levy. The name is The Outlaw Bible of American Essays. Fantastic. When I received 3 books in property this book was glanced at. Put aside. I received the other 2. She walks over to the “Forbidden” list. Like a dog waiting for a bone all you could hear was my tail banging on the ground. The anticipate was exquisite. It passed. I believe the word “outlaw” set off an alarm. I wonder if Thomas Paine’s tracts would have gotten same response or Sam Adams. Carrie Nation. Emma Goldman. Bobby Seale. I’m addicted to chaos but I think my real trip is tension. It’s not totally a getting away with. It’s that silence. That land of distinction. Like a fraction before a fight. A kiss. A birth. The rain. Where you can taste. Hear. That dizzy tension. Watching another’s pupils dilate. The lip curl. Eyebrows steady. Well this book is a must. I read their Outlaw Bible of American Poetry on the outs & I guess there’s one of American Literature. So I wrote the publisher – Thunder’s Mouth Press. State my joy & of course asked for the other 2 parts of this amazing trilogy. I’m waiting. So go out now & buy these books. Tell me or a friend, enemy of what you think. It only takes a spark to ignite a prairie fire. Yeah the 60’s are dead & the 80’s fade into dust. Every day should be our revolt. Our joy. Our statements. Our reality checks. Our respect. Of each other of the Earth we tred. Of the universe we sleep. Of the time & culture. Of our/each other’s words. Paint cement stone. Rocks that become this America.

My celly, Rick, lost his sister this past Friday. Please send out your thoughts and prayers. Good love & blessings for a truly wonderful woman, her son, husband, mother & father. Rick & brother. For all the joy she brought. All the hearts she touched. I believe the main reason I’m close to Rick is his honesty. His devotion to family, friends. His sister had a fear of being forgotten & this morning at breakfast I told Rick he brought her into all our lives & for all that I will never forget. And please send all that good to that wonderful woman who Rick placed his heart, his girl, S.

Remember we’re in prison not hell. We made mistakes & for the most part alright guys. So we feel good & oh so bad. We help each other when we can & remind the idiots that this is oh not so cool. I take this experience as another turn on the road. A place to lay my head & get back to that city where my heart deserves to reside. Until then I remain a slightly broken thought still an alright solid kind of man. & thank you Julie-Wild-Lopez-Reed-Stacy for all your fantastic words. Julie for music, we wait. Crazed. & Kelly, Kelly for all this, this!

Later.

vanquished/decipher

melt you in extraneous fashion. candle. chaos forsaken.
compose, stand upon avenue. pilgrim disguised. ignorant.
of failure. stiffen subtle. branch reason. delightful couches.
forget that yes

I am
still
here,

so like, good-bye, Johnny
all hair, silver.

2008-02-21T08:24:00.000-08:00

22108

Happy Birthday John!

2008-02-13T12:02:00.000-08:00

on the eve 2-5-8

another winter storm warning
20 inches this time
stocked up on Mexican food, pizza
water, bread, vodka, juice
read letter from you

it’s a night of election results, purring Max
Jail, The Last King of Scotland

this storm better produce ‘cuz I just got really really drunk

snow-you-me falling

-kc

2008-02-13T11:59:00.000-08:00

2208

Another month. Winter as strong as ever. Walking today I followed sound of crunch. Echoed with voices. Distant traffic. For moments my eyes glared at the dull calligraphy. Everything reinforced panic. The prison moment. So glad no one spoke to me. I sailed that yard for an hour then back to cell. Nothing to look forward to and only memories behind. Indulgence just doesn’t jive. Turning 50 in a few weeks. 49, 50, 51. My years in prison. I think this will be one of my last rambles. Masturbation. Anger is teaching me Zen lately. Taste is of Tao. Fucked existence. Oh yes it can get worse & yes is not bad. But what’s the point. My tiptoes thru fences barb wire redundant babble of fucking hos & getting over again & again & again. No I choose solitude without tongue. Pen.

You know that joy when you do your taxes and find an additional $200 - $300. Then the blow to the gut when it’s you owe. Friday I realized after a year that my additional subtraction was off. Way off in terms of my release. I need to serve 85% of my sentence not the 75% I thought. So when I thought I could apply in November it’s really not until March. So that was a relief knowing I get to hang out here for another 3 months or so. & I know it could be worse. That record is on auto-pilot.

Seriously I want & need to thank those of you who have not only stood by but have done so much to make this better. I never forget that. Frankly I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I received a wonderful letter & a Columbia Law Review from Martha Grace Duncan. The review published a work of hers & I’d like to hit on a part of it & give my slight perspective. Part of it deals with teenagers convicted of crimes & how their lack – seemingly lack of remorse is held against them in a huge way. Now I’m just skating over the depth of this article because I want only to address my perspective. In it these “kids” are judged hard because for one they can sleep after their arrest. They make odd jokes & the aren’t running around crying & begging for mercy. Strange. When I get stressed – heavy stressed – I fall asleep. I pass out. The few days in booking I was driving everyone crazy cause I could not stay awake. With my bologna sandwich pillow or sitting backwards I slept probably 18 out of 24 hours if not 20. & emotion. I gather you figured out that I allow my emotions full reign. But as Kelly as my witness another John took over at sentencing & that John seems to be driving this truck. True for a few rare moments. First seeing Stacy or Kelly or relating stories of Evan’s death or how I miss Noah – I’m straight & yes there are a few decades between me & these teenage killers. But call it what you want – something takes over. You don’t yell fire in a crowded theater. Perhaps it’s a survival instinct. Perhaps it’s understanding the bad ass. Perhaps it’s shock. The beginning of the sleep walk. Perhaps it’s because they themselves are dead. You have to be dead in here. No matter how soft the prison I suggest if you ever venture in this area – kill your heart. Do not allow anything to reveal that you feel. Kill it. Stomp out that fire. I walk that tightrope & I’m exhausted. Tired of dreaming of remembering. & this is only 1 year for me. So I’ve elected anger as my governor. Let’s see some new laws. & speaking of such, this past summer 1 & 2 other poet buds were approached by a poet/publisher to do a book of ours. When he found out my crime he dropped it. No nothing. Over. Not only does he know nothing of me or what got me here but to me he represents that new American. Actually I call them pussies. Judgment holier than thou & think with facial hair & new beer or adopted child, that they’re cutting edge – hip- outlaw. No discussion. Believe the government is never wrong & put all bad things in a box under their bed.
My point is not to bitch but to thank those of you – my friends-family-strangers that even I with the new title of convicted sex offender isn’t the new disease – pariah. & I thank you for your words, support, thoughts. I deal with it myself in here men who have raped their children, neighbors. Men who have slaughtered their families. Ate next to them. Slept in the same cell. It confuses me. But right now I have to shut off the switch & listen & understand there has to be a reason. Right? Doesn’t there? & thank you Martha Duncan for all your work, kind words & opening my mind.

Saw Julian Schnabel on tv Sunday. What an amazing artist – director. Can’t wait to read The Diving Bell & Butterfly. You all should go see it. I’d love to get your opinions on.

I wrote the above earlier today. Stuck in the muck that makes me me. Even I need to get away from self. Walk & sleep. Try to forget. To remember Spring. Pizza. What a kiss sounds like. A magician I do best to conjure realize muck too thick & time stops. As evening moved to 9:00 pm turned off distractions. Supped on “Little Steven’s Underground Garage”. Said fuck you to the universe & stop dumping tons of bad karma at my feet. As I turned on radio prone for attack Johnny River’s Secret Agent Man. Who needs pizza.

Later.

2008-02-13T08:04:00.000-08:00

12508

Friday morning it’s been nearly 2 weeks since move to front yard. Rick, friend from back yard new celly. I sit at a desk window to left Aerosmith on radio way too much coffee within. If I had my glasses on I could see those on way to work, but I don’t. Hammett might have said it best, in The Dain Curse, “Put enough people in jail, and cities wouldn’t have traffic problems”. Could it be better said? In college and slightly before discovered Cain, Hammett, felt better than Columbus. Some knob in gay ass column dropped statement that this weekend he’ll be reading H Miller in some bookstore. Dude, that’s like letting your loved ones know how many times you shake it, off. This world kind of sucks. Never use H Miller as some prop as some jack off in mirror. Why, first you sound major dar-dar, then as if dignity remains by some one else’s accomplishments. Never use Henry’s name in vain. So anyway finished Capote. Found out dear James never met, but got as close to Edmund White, which is double-barreled. Letter from my mother brings everything home, drifting towards death our words the blanket we grasp. Father still hanging in there though. Sounds he’s truly a trooper. I wish we could eliminate the capacity to think. Just imitation. No question heavy deliberations. I see my name on envelope, her handwriting brings me right into the room sitting next to or across from & we talk & all “this” evaporates. Mom writes nice letters, a Polaroid. Instant, though she wrote over 2 days. She works so hard. My mother & I have a strange but I think great relationship. In one moment I can hate her with all my blood & then next seeing the world thru her eyes or an attempt to. Without question I got my hang up about honesty from her. Well, both my parents. Dad worked a lot anyways. They grew up rough & we grew up less rough therefore our children less er. Eventually our family genes will create bliss. Until now, just honesty. You could and can ask my mother anything, anything and expect not just that she’d answer but answer completely. We grew up Catholic. Upper middle & lots & lots of booze. Anxiety. We were cats in brown paper bags. Frankly Dylan Thomas could have sat at our table. When I first saw Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? I was so happy. I guess we weren’t so strange. The best and fairest assessment is we embraced, ate and wrestled passion & we were taught how to pin & possess that hot little demon. So my point I guess is nothing doesn’t or can’t make sense to me with the exception of mowing the grass. I was, to I’m sure your surprise, a rowdy child. Rowdy is an understatement. So I would escort my parents at a very early age to antique stores auction houses. Dust dirt grime are major turn-ons I love ancient wood, brass and crystal
chandeliers. Love funky barns & basements. So either I’d deal with antiques or become a serial killer. The verdict is still out. Ha! Anyway this is a long way of saying fuck is it cold outside. Like grab that frigid monster and put all bad memories on hold. Wander eyes out the window & relish your skin. Lap your coffee kitten & remember your existence matters. Seal all you love as envelopes mail carbon copy to self and spend morning sockless. I dreamt last night of Colette. Woke up 10yrs younger. Remember the first time she laughed & drank state coffee, alone. I’m blessed. Terrific friends, the most perfect family & memories that make me laugh at birds as peers. I don’t like it that my father is dying. I don’t like it that I’m here & can’t hold him. I don’t like it that I’m weak. That I give into stupidity. That with all “this” knowledge & experience I still fall down the stairs. Like a bug on my back. Squirm in the darkness & Kafka says, “Stop your belly aching” ha!

I wish the press & public would let people grieve & I wish that they’d realize that perhaps it’s better to leave some things alone & sometimes not. I’m saddened by such another young death. I’m saddened by the paper time newscasts to broadcast & knit-pick every detail. As an artist you are given a certain fame in life & this country seems to drag endlessly way beyond. At the end of the day we need to honor we need to allow a certain process to exist. Are we?

I started this ramble petty. Let the guy with strange glasses proclaim his plan to read Tropic of Cancer at local bookstore. Not only who am I, but anyway to get Henry’s work into another’s hand is cool. Sorry.

If any of you are near Oshkosh hit up the college radio station with some requests. Nice station. Not enough true punk though they are doing some sweet new wave. No Belle & Sebastian. I know that’s a strange stretch. But.

So my celly is great & it’s cold as hell.

Later.

2008-02-04T10:33:00.000-08:00

12108

conversation with Evan Henry

they complain
when it’s freezing
& again as it snows
when they come
to prison &
when they’re released

i’m bugged

now i get
appreciate
Tom Petty
Pink Floyd
ramen noodles

the old minister
got a point
why MLK day on his birth?
why not murder. assassination?
we sweep too much
under
we owe that man
honor

2008-02-04T10:32:00.000-08:00

11808

After count, prison is like dumping a lb of sugar on an ant hill, pure chaos. Imagine alphabetizing yr mother’s underwear. Pure strange. It’s freezing here and I’m reading Capote by Gerald Clarke. What a brilliant writer/life. Capote that is. Clarke writes a solid book but Truman is a gas. Can you imagine he & Tennessee Williams sitting around and drinking or just traveling the high seas with “that” crowd. Anyway, that life read in here is so dreamy such a marvelous escape. When I was reading the Ginsberg bio I was dragging my feet. It’s as if I didn’t come to the end he wouldn’t be dead but not it’s alright. Just another fact of.

I got moved Monday. Why don’t know about 20 +. I was as you might remember across from program 3 which are the guys straight from seg. But Slim didn’t want to move and I didn’t care so we stayed & got moved anyway. I’m in the front yard. Major adjustment. No toilet in my cell. I kept getting up and peeing in the corner. ( just kidding). This more of ½ house/crazy bin. Very low-key. Quiet as hell. Guys are cool. Remember Rick from way back? He’s here so we asked to cell up, perhaps Tuesday. Rick is the reason, like Aaron, why I get pissed in here. They both are aware of their actions, both considerate, looking out while so many of these inmates can’t see the forest thru the trees. So I’m here with Rick, Mike & ole Frankenstein. Cool, cool. I get to see Aaron at leather and when we bead. Bittersweet. The great thing is that we actually get along. Don’t look that gift horse in the mouth. Got a desk in here & window that opens. When I saw Kelly last Saturday I mentioned a guy cutting himself with a soda can & she was like, “you can have soda?”. Yeah, this ain’t medieval England. It’s prison not the dark ages. In here they want you to be accountable. Work on identifying & hopefully “changing” your “bad/anti-social” behavior. First day here Rick introduces me to a bud. We talk and I blahh my crime. We talk, laugh at my stupidness. Today Rick tells me another bud asked about my crime. He knew. Word gets around. It’s what I want. Use the system that’s in place. Less introductions. Be blunt. Lay it out. Lay it down. Brother. So it goes. So we go.

Got my first issue of Vogue. Yep, here I am reading Vogue. Is that queer or what? Smells great & reminds what it was what it can be…the torture. Got some letters. Need to catch up. Don’t panic. We’re getting out some poetry, BARREN, poise swill. A SERIES OF # LITTLE POEMS. Kelly will get them all run. You can get a copy for postage $$, ok? Probably $3. I’ll leave it all up to K, ok.

Turning 50 next month. My brother Mark wants to visit with his sons. I think it’s great but I don’t want them to feel bad. Mark suggests bringing Noah. I’m not so sure. It would be amazing but only if…I learned a while back with all my hospital bs that it’s harder for the visitor than the patient. Only once was I truly dying but I had no clue, so in here I’m kind of broken in. Used to it. But if something good can come out of it, sure. A song , a story, a reunion. But no heartbreak. At least not for me. Relatively speaking I have no time. There’s guys in here that watch their children become adults and bring their kids. That sucks. I’m not in that boat.

Getting some books shipped in. Very excited. Want to read The Diving Bell & Butterfly. Julian Schnabel is a God. Love Love his work. His mind. Now there’s someone to piss in your fireplace! & I ant to get, Other Voices, Other Rooms. Capote’s first. I adore his words. My mother always said “Only a fag could write a book like In Cold Blood. Such pain such beauty”. Is true.

Well we lost a few great ones, Mike Goldberg, painter friend of the poets. Sweet guy & Ettore Sottsass. Amazing designer. You might remember my orange typewriter earlier. He designed that. A true sword.

Later.

2008-01-29T12:46:00.000-08:00

1908

6:00

6:00 and still working
12 hour days are really getting old
Is my job my life?
It seems to be the majority of it
I need to get ahead, bills need to get paid
What else would I be doing anyways?
I have no one to go home to
Not much of a life to live
I could be feeding the poor
I could be helping the elderly shovel their walks
I could be helping little kids find their missing pets
I could be spending time with those that need a positive role model
I could be saving the world
But would that really happen?
Not likely
I’d probably just be sitting at home, thinking about how bored and lonely I am

6:00 and still working
What have I become?
There’s so much more to life than this
Do I really need the money that bad?
There’s places to go, people to see, lessons to learn
Yet here I sit
The good employee, the one who stays to make sure all gets done
The one who fixes other’s problems
The one who is always here
Staring at numbers all day
I thought I would do so much more
Thought I would help others, would make a difference in the world
What difference am I making staring at numbers all day
Spending my life behind a desk?
It’s time to wake up
And take my life back

-tc

2008-01-23T08:46:00.000-08:00

1808

Elvis’s birthday. Whether the word is sung, mumbled or sprayed, it’s what we got. Separate from silence. The monkey’s fish, elegance. If I could I’d spend my life distilled. Reduced. Common denominator . Truth. If I wanted I could describe prison. Invite you in. Participate. But I’d rather make into wine. Soup. A stew. Fry your tears. Simmer your joy & shake & stir your anger overwhelmed desperation. Sometimes I need same from friends, no gory details. Then I need a 4 page description of rain and the puddles outside their yard. How does this relate to Elvis? Let me attempt explanation. Mother. Southern birth. A hip melody. A military haircut. A lack of regard for electronics. A love of peanut butter sandwiches & wrestled strange girls in undies. Priscilla. Lisa Marie. Drugs to wake you up. Drugs to put you to sleep. The Judy Garland regiment. American. & the breath of the Atlantic. Died quietly on a toilet. A boy’s life.

Prison isn’t so different. Sometimes I crave the cuffs. The quiet. The get away with. The brotherhood. The everything you want/need reduced. Count on a finger while your ship vast & glorious. This an iron-clad row boat. Sure it keeps afloat. Struggle to remain. On-center. Either you become Zen Buddhist or anarchist. River or basement. Window or door. Breath or gasp. Spit or shiver.
The college rock station in Oshkosh seems to be back from Christmas break. I heard Bright Eyes last night. Like my first shower in weeks.
Think of your Elvis.

In continuing with Romantic Outlaws, “we too use criminals and prisons to exalt our lives, to comfort ourselves in the face of our finitude, to defend against despair.”
“Criminals readily lend themselves to the category of greatness because they are, by definition, people who refuse to be limited by the rules and scruples that circumscribe normal lives.”
She, Martha Grace Duncan, then goes on to “other” kind of criminals, “who attracts us by his exotic qualities also embodies an intriguing mix of difference and similarity.”
I really enjoyed this book. She’s rather poetic though not so lofty to be lost but enough to engage & provoke. She got me to read Great Expectations. My relationship to Dickens was, how you say, “stay the fuck away”. Paid by page or paragraph the dude’s language is thick. Not glorious as the pain of Kerouac or Farrell or the French. But now after wrestling with this rather solid tome. I can say I danced with Dickens and though I’m not the first for next dance I will not shy. The story is wonderful. A child comes upon a criminal. The criminals of then as some now, were/are of the boogey-man kind. He actually delivers the next morn, mincemeat, pork pie & brandy. That vision itself compelled me to finish I guess for me Dickens is a packed closet. Look & linger for treasures reside. Thank you Duncan. Wow – just thought of Robert Duncan. Now there’s some sideburns. Poetry. Jess & Wallace Berman. I digress.

Outlaw, notorious or habitual criminal, weakness of the state. An outlaw was one because of “acts” was placed outside protection of the law. Now you sell dope & write poetry. For me it’s Merle Haggard. Neal Cassidy. Genet. Brendan Behan. Not some college punks who smoke dope stolen from mother’s underwear drawer. “Beauty” I suggested, is a positive aspect of life that is unaffected by penal confinement.” I think some of my favorite comparisons are that of criminal to child, “Criminals are, of course, free in their refusal to abide by the laws that other people obey, whereas children symbolize freedom in their incarnation of limitless potential.” I’m bouncing around a bit. So much of what I read applies to myself, to others within here. The strange & sad part I need to admit so so often, prison is not a deterrent to crime. It is truly a lifestyle. A belief system. A reality. Whether it be the flaws of man’s laws or the temper(ment) of the criminal. Whether social, political or individual. Outlaws. Criminals. Inmates & convicts dictate more of life then some want/can admit. Sad truth though, is some could be avoided/prevented. For now we remain. Off to the library.

2008-01-14T09:20:00.000-08:00

1308

I can’t help myself. I think constantly. Words bombard as bats in a barn. Most of the time a distraction appears & I’m off in la-la. Now it’s different. Reading a brilliant book. Romantic Outlaws, Beloved Prisons by Martha Grace Duncan. I mark & remember words, sentences, thoughts, paragraphs for later recall. I can’t now. She just quoted John Brewster’s the use of solitude in prisons. “It has been recommended, both by the practice and precept of holy men, in all ages, sometimes to retire from scenes of public concourse, for the purpose of communing with our own hearts, and meditating on heaven.” Wow! Then Solzhenitsyn –“Rejoice that you are in prison. Here you can think of your soul.” Mind-fucking blown. Early after work I went out in the yard. It’s below zero & I and an older guy who’s jogging are the only ones out. It’s beautiful. Cold enough to breathe deep. Warm enough to feel as if your blood has been replaced by love. The horizon white silent. Awe. ½ hour I wander. When was the last time I ever went walking in freezing weather to enjoy/worship her beauty. Never. I’ve never. Well sober. Sure I’d be in my Li Po mode and wander thru blizzards with a bottle of wine but today I was/am totally naked. I’m sure me exclaiming about the beauty/positive of prison is odd. Sorry but that’s the truth. Strange thing, as a younger man I turned my back on poetry & monastic life. Now look at me. Can we truly run from ourselves. Don’t get me wrong – I adored & adore my life. Raising a family with a wonderful woman. Having the 2 glorious sons never would I change that. Yes, I’m greedy. I will serve on my terms. I dedicate my life to love and poetry. But for awhile it was without written document. Love of a man & woman. My path perhaps a bit winding. This is not a monastery by name but in function, truly. This is not the kind of information for the authorities but even Thomas More claims in A Man for All Seasons “Except it’s keeping me from you, my dears, it’s not so bad.” So then lets ask ourselves what is prison & who is in it? The guards or the cons? You or me? Reality obviously me but here I am – fed, clothed, watched. I have a library, crafts, a computer, typewriter, human contact, a cell. I can stay “here” or I can “leave”. More is so correct. Not all inmates have this kind of “view”. Many burn with anger, injustice, denial. Others, this is better than the outs. It’s an amazingly complex situation. Perhaps romanticize it. Not my intention. I question it. I question everything. But now I have to accept the fact that this is a part of my destiny. Whether to have kept me alive or to “live” thru. To force a separation to prove to myself that “that” only exists on a physical plane. I hear your voices. I feel your lips. I can hear you chew. I like you, are a part of each other’s dream. Dreams. Words as electricity carry impulses. Delivers information. Yes I crave your arms, Your stupid talk. Your complaints. Someone who I was reading (can’t remember) made a comment that when Thomas Merton “left” and lived his monastic life that was harder because he made a choice. As the true “man”, Jean Genet proclaims “ my good, my gentle friend, my cell! My sweet retreat, mine alone. I love you so! If I had to live in all freedom in another city, I would first go to prison to acknowledge my own, those of my race.” Now you getting my drift?

Got some wonderful cards, letters, gifts. Thank you Joel. Such a perfect! Elaine, forever in awe. Julie & Jonathan, you read my thoughts. And Julie, I post my “downs” because I want you all with me. I’d be a liar to say this is a carnival. It’s a circus and sometimes clowns are depressed. With all your love I feel quite selfish. & Kelly without you this “this” would not exist. I think how important words & their meanings mean to me so with total consciousness, I thank you.

This thing I’m writing is in 3 parts. 1st is Strike Hard Old Diamond. 2nd is Killing Time. 3rd not sure of title, perhaps Only Sky? What do you think? The whole pie is called Circumambulate. What a fantastic term, means to circle on foot. A part of a ritual. Something Ginsberg was known to do. Something we prisoners do. Something existence calls for.

I know this is all heavy so I will end with stupidity. At breakfast an inmate said I suffer from gluttony. I think my weight is around 150 now. My body fat ratio is amazingly low. I can count my ribs. I’m happy to tell you the truth. He was pissed because some buddies offered me their food. Yes. I said I’d end with stupid. Since there are no fat singers here’s something I wrote a while back. Later & love.

morning prayer
for the faggots the cons

Genet, our holy patron saint
pluck those brinks & cinders
from our blood-soaked vision
mend broken fingertips
& we shall scatter blossoms.

pithy memories.

impossible multitudes.

2008-01-14T09:11:00.000-08:00

1108

First year of incarceration almost over. The yard is frozen as was my face. Tomorrow things back to normal. I don’t really get into things here, a # of reasons, why bore you & why let you into the secret, criminals are stupid. Well, the ones who get caught. I’m amazed at the ones who narc on each other. Unsolicited. Just wander up to the desk, blah blah. Or the guy a few cells over asks a CO, “do I seem gay?” How stupid can one be? But a # of days ago a few of us sitting around the table drinking coffee. One is reading a book on the “Enforcer”. I ask if he read “Brutal”. He did. Matter of fact he’s from the area & was in one of those gangs from there. We talk a while. He’s got like 15 years. Mentioned he dealt coke. Was the reason for all this time. No robbed a bank vault. He got $7,500. Did he get away with it? He did it because his kid was losing his home. There are a lot of justifications for crime. Both good & bad. I have to admit here’s someone I respect fully. The kind of guy you want living in your unit. Like my buddy Aaron. Smart. Great talent in leather, beading. All around solid guy who lost way too much of his life here. I told him today he’s truly someone who got fucked. He’s remaining positive. Turning 30 doesn’t look or seem a day over 23. A rarity to remain so clear headed. You have to pick or choose in here or you learn how to make silk purses out of sow’s ears.

Enjoy the eve?
I was in bed by 11. Listened to Emmy Lou Harris.
This book ( I Celebrate Myself ) & the life of Ginsberg is amazing. When you think about all the social, political, poetic changes because of him. From his relationship to WC Williams, Ezra Pound, Neal Cassidy, Kerouac, Robert Frank, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, on & on. His travels. His openness. Support of young poets. His lust. How he would exist in these times. This is one of those rare books that you welcome distractions. Slow down take your time reading. An inspiration. By Bill Morgan. I think he wrote one about Gregory Corso. Reading in here is strange. I really focus on my failure then I get to his travels to Cuba where he has an affair (one-night) with a 17yr old. Castro’s Cuba. Not only is he with some one under age in a communist country but it’s 1965. Now, he’d be in prison for life.

Just finished a little thing with 3 poems. BARREN-poise-swill. I have no idea what to think of it. It was nice to write. Layout. I’m in a vacuum here. No one to discuss much. Definitely not poetry. Everyday I think I’ll never write again then something kicks my foot & another poem. It’s rather consistent. I just don’t know what to think. Get it? There are some nice lines I have to admit & I’ll end with a section from BARREN

why I could

named his mouse, soup
kept a yr
every shakedown
knew where to hide

how many yrs later
we sit, imagine
our hero
smaller than glove
more important than cap

we sit serene
surmise he’s
dead.

The “why I could” is a series of poems that play with the notion & early poem in series, “why I don’t fuck in prison”
As strange as one might think, sex is an odd character within. And my boss told me the story of soup.

Just got Ron Padgett’s New & Selected poems. Super. If you haven’t gotten it get it. & thank you.

I’ve never liked January. I can’t imagine it being much better in here. Then again I have experienced some amazing things I wish you could touch my temples and all this could/would be revealed.
Yeah?

Oh & this is not a blog. It’s a blot. From a distance. Up close it’s scribble. A night time drool. Never certain & rarely smooth. Though I remain. Here. & you, there. How far? You to decide.

To a good year. Later.

2008-01-11T07:50:00.002-08:00

122607

False Starts, Malcolm Braly. Memoir of San Quentin.

“The trouble with these jails”, Mick was saying, “is I can never figure whether I’m sleeping in the can, or shitting in the bedroom.”

“We walk and talk and the months pass. I seem neither to change nor to suffer very much. I am only waiting for my life to begin. But I am one of those who keep a tight lid, and underneath a lot is going on. I’m learning I’m mortal.”

“Anything could happen at any moment. The logical prediction was bullshit. The true nature of reality was madness.”

“If we depend on God for justice and mercy it’s only because we know He has all of eternity to straighten out His files.”

“The hardest part of serving time is the unpredictability. Each day moves like every other. You know nothing different can happen…..a month from now, six months, a year, you will be just where you are, doing just what you’re doing, except you’ll be older.” (kind of like living in suburbia)

About a certain though general C.O…“Our humor was made from our suffering and he wanted to share the joke without sharing the pain”…later he writes, “the only quality we admired in any bull was consistency.”

Great book. Check it out. I’m ½ thru.

Later.

2008-01-11T07:50:00.001-08:00

122507

Christmas and my gift. Silence & I refuse to talk with anyone annoying. (Eliminated my celly amongst a few others). And magically cold November rain appeared on the radio. Nothing lasts forever…hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain…sometimes I need some time alone. Amazing song. Prison has truly turned me on to Guns & Roses. Metallica. Heavy metal. I guess. And cake. I adore prison cake. Stale, thick and reminds me of a wedding. Sweet. Way too sweet frosting. I have no idea why. You? It’s quiet today. The snow. Hush of crunch. The ice & sadness lingers. I meander on this gravel road. Realize in more ways than not, I’m blessed. When the boys were little Christmas was huge. After Colette left I agreed she could have the boys on the actual holiday. For me it’s never the day/date. It’s the practice/sentiment of. I love giving gifts early. Hated to wait. Colette would do the tree/the food so it’s natural what’s left for me. So being in prison on Christmas means nothing. It’s the distance all the other days. Well you know what they say – no pain no gain. ZZ Top on radio now. Stretching me a tad. We visited Muddy Water’s birth/home place years ago. Just a square of 4 walls. Log. No roof. Someone was going to restore (guy @ Stackhouse records in Clarksdale told us). He also told us one of those bearded guys – Billy? got himself a part log and had a guitar fashioned. I prefer happy Christmas to merry. That & a few random gifts I’ve been mailing out is all I have to add.

I’ve lead a good life. Crazy marriage. More insane childhood. 2 fantastic sons. Traveled the south parts unknown with them. Shared their dreams/nightmares. Loved with all my soul. Then turned a corner & another chapter. Met most of my heroes. Saw Johnny & June at Grand Ole Opry. Smoked dope with Ginsberg & Burroughs. Won a sex-discrimination suit (it was settled). Published some if not my favorite American poets. Make breath with beauty. Fell in/and in love more times than can count. Shook Jessie Jackson’s hand. Got shot at. Some amazing concerts. Bowled wit Bob Mould. & opened my heart & home to so many. Fell off the horse way too many times. Saw the exact moment when both my sons became men Saw them love. Saw them hurt. Saw them perform. & had my ass kicked so many times. My regrets are only 2. Leaving Noah in this time & Evan leaving instead of me.
Sometimes I need some time alone.

Bless & keep you.

Later

2008-01-08T06:28:00.000-08:00

122307

Shaved to Sweet Child of Mine. Kelly got her unc k fob. Soon Stacy with “hold fast” bracelet. My broken radio. Noah. Amanda. Evan Henry & my box of prison leather. A will a way. I prefer black. Leather. Morning. Coffee. Elaine sent journals (refused by institution. You can’t have things from home. I have no home. Besides it’s from NYC). I do get her letter. Both in my hands and in my heart. She’s great. A call for Genet. REM on radio. I prefer to sit & wait. Freedom? Define and make strong argument and perhaps I could love you. See you. Rain & snow. We’re stranded. I need a fire. Smell of smoke. Chard memory. I keep them here (point to pocket). Nothing is necessary. Needed. Pancakes. Just like my mouth in Key West. Pancakes & red wine. Caught a crab. Thought Tennessee Williams tried to pick me up. More than likely. Regret not sleeping with Ginsberg. But had just fallen for Colette. No mixed metaphors. He taught me to meditate. Fell asleep while he read Blake. Corso shared his brandy. Burroughs called my friend by the wrong name. Many years later Ginsberg in Milwaukee. Me, Evan, Colette, Noah & Bill D. went to pick him up at Mitchell. “Hi” I said. “We’ve met in Naropa”. “Yeah”, I remember”. “No you don’t”. “Yeah, you were skinnier”. Sadness. I guess we did love each other. See each other. Recognize. He had that talent. Remember, Evan was into his movie camera. Filmed Ginsberg coming down escalator. Zoom in. Out. Dizzy. Gently. Ginsberg reaches to Evan “Let me show you what Robert Frank taught me”. “Steady”. When poet becomes father. Gentle God. Beyond tongue. He knew. Me. My sons. My/this/our life. Share(d). Alice Notely told me years later, later. That summer of Naropa, her sons Anselm & Eddie tormented Corso. She had such warmth in her breath. I can still feel it. Mother. Poet. Example. Goddess. I adore women. The capacity of. The miracle. With/without birth they remain. Perfect. Perfection. I an ant at their picnic. I seek that flame. Gentle. Silent. Music. Sleep. Never silence here. Unless a storm. Yes. A storm. From that I’ll wander. Later in the white.Rain. Thickness.

I had fallen asleep after we ate. In my dream Evan came to me. Reminded me that he’s still dead. It’s good I’m in this cell. It’s like I’m within my within. Otherwise? Alex my therapist said you’re insane for 6 months after a death. I think Noah, Amanda, Anna, Emily, Tim, Jason, Miggs, Reed, Jackie, Danimal, Jimmy all wandering mad following Colette. Our confusion – anger – bitterness – sadness, parasites chewing breath. Never answer. Never. Never answered. After count I screamed in my celly’s face. I realize I need to go outside. Ice & snow dictate my wander. Snow blows as smoke rises. Smoke steam all illusions. All illusions concede to madness. I look over the yard and there were winter has conquered I recognize the sea of Japan. Grey and ignored she rests miniature. Japanese ghosts float from her water. Sound of dripping. Dripping. Plucking. There are no birds out. Where have they disappeared. To. From. Another why. Because I slip slide along. My face burns. Beard frozen I’ve become first & last in yard. I name this feeling after you. Youwhom. I’ll never know. Meet. Question. Feel heat. Give the tears I’ve saved in my pocket. You the only who knows the truth of this day. Yesterday. My tomorrow. You care? Or am I another accident. You slow take notice of. God I love Guns & Roses. Queer? Or am I just tired? Alone. Within. Without. Remain.

Asked librarian the other day , “queer books?” “What?” “Queer?” “Yes. You want homo-erotic?” “No, queer”. Anyway, it seems here they separate “certain” books. No Stein, Genet. Rimbaud. They do have Mann. Woolf. Anyway, I found some nice books – Winter Birds, Dream Boy by Jim Grimsley. Great reads. Very well written. Both heart breaking. Winter Birds sweet in it’s torture. Reminders. Just finished Edinburgh by Alexander Chee. One of my favorites. Hope I can find more by him. A must for anyone who digs a solid book. Great movements. Again, heart breaking. From here got a book on Deadwood and life in prison. Kind of like reading a book about drowning in the middle of the Pacific. These books were donated by an inmate. I’ll read them all (may 20) books like pancakes. Great against the palate. So sweet going down. Had no idea I adore both. Perhaps my love on the outs I’ll name pancake!

Well as Liddy says about the Irish say about this time, “the season is upon us”. Yes, we love each other. Homeless are grateful for a new used jacket and turkey. At least the day accomplishes something. Too bad America is more concerned with lawns not humans. Not all of course. But I see more kept lawns than needed.

Woodland Pattern is having their poetry marathon end of Jan, 2008. Check it out. Some amazing. Some sweet. Some whatever. But it’s ours. Community. Breath. Text. Use it. & It takes care of a large part of their budget. Do it & throw in an extra buck or 2 for me.

Hope all is well. Sweet. Desired. & warm. Love like there is no tomorrow.

Later & some love. Maple syrup
& Joni Mitchell.

2008-01-04T14:20:00.000-08:00

Pearls Before Swine

2007-12-29T10:19:00.001-08:00

121707

Yes, this depression is consumptive. It’s not surrender. It’s I really don’t care any more. Before I’m fired I quit. Tired of society. Tired of judgments. Tired of voices. Those who know better.
Of mistakes. Faulted.

Fuck.

2007-12-29T10:17:00.000-08:00

121607

My poetry becomes single words spread out like box cars. Early 20th century subdivisions. Reality here is such. If I didn’t appreciate Buster Keaton I fear I would have swung from sheet attached to some make-shift gallows a long time ago. In fear of redundancy & laughter there is truly nothing to write about. The comparisons, the explanations are pointless. There is & there will be no way for me to give you any perspective. Any reality. Any anything of what prison is but I’ll try to tell you what it isn’t/doesn’t.

It doesn’t taste like chicken. It isn’t a circus. It isn’t like sitting in a closet all day to get the “idea” of. It isn’t just flat. It doesn’t inspire. It isn’t insipid. Though it’s full of such Americans. It just isn’t. It doesn’t. It isn’t terror & it doesn’t move fast enough. If boredom was a basketball – the hoop exists between breath that you could only visualize when your mind was totally blank. Play one on one with yourself. Intrinsic self-flagellation. Well that’s my opinion. As Lewis & Clark tired & some what succeeded, I will attempt to document this wilderness. This urban jungle. This stepped on bag of chips. This shut the fuck up.

A dear co-worker from back in the 90’s at Citizen Action was gunned down & few weeks back. Chris Roberson, father of three. My time & experiences with him was really positive. A solid guy. My prayers & heart goes out to his friends & family, to his mother, Cassandra, a truly wonderful person.

Later.

2007-12-29T10:16:00.000-08:00

121507

There’s no question that prison is a “heavy” place. It’s rather ridiculous to even say it. It’s so obvious. But between the silence & the constant din of hostility you go blank. You allow yourself your death. Removal from this world for you have been removed. Isolated. Deemed criminal & shipped away. Not quite as scenic as Australia. We have a landfill in our back yard. The constant nothing. An empty nightmare. You only know it’s a nightmare because it ain’t a dream & it ain’t reality. It’s what’s been brushed off the table. Crumbs. Broken shattered dust bits of a once life. The remains of . Hibernation.

Just finished The Irreversible Declining of Eddie Socket. A solid book. Sometimes choppy but a great read. In here, salt in the wound. AIDs & the lives withing. It tells the story of one thru his & the lives of his lovers, friends & family. Heartbreaking. A must to read. This is how I spend my time. Digging a hole in society’s cancer & hunkering down. Society’s failure. i.e. that means us - all of us. America is dying slowly.

2007-12-29T10:15:00.001-08:00

121307

Near Wild Heaven – a tremendous subtle REM song. Mike Mills lead singer. Michael, Berry & Buck back up. A solid mansion Beach Boys happy American. Just a sweet song. Always had/have fond memories of. Some times you reach into snow & find a lost toy.

“Pee in the sink she said.
There dishes in the sink.
The have to be washed anyway.
But I found it difficult to pee in the sink because the idea excited me”

Kafka Was The Rage, Anatole Broyard.
“There was a sentence, for example, in a book or surrealism that stuck in my mind: “Beauty is the chance meeting, or an operating table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella.”

As Mallarme said, “if a person of average intelligence and insufficient literary preparation opens one my books and pretends to enjoy it, there has been a mistake. Things must be returned to their places.”

“The lonely poet, great wheel barrow of the swamps”. Tristan Tzara

2007-12-29T10:10:00.000-08:00

12907

It’s not that I have to. Rather want to. Believe piano as instrument of Sundays. Naughty. Angelic. Serious & quite light. The piano for me is mystery. An abandoned isle, hope. Something so large so profound. Confusing. Daunting & yes, overwhelming. I’ve always wanted a lover who could play the piano. Sit upon a stool & gaze. Befuddled. I guess that’s why they’re dreams. They exist in our quiet. Our true lonely. Our/that inward. A piano guts me as did my heart surgeon. After my surgery I couldn’t/wouldn’t come of my delirium. Everything was white light & so so slow moving. I couldn’t comprehend if I was dead or living. I truly didn’t care. So beautiful & their voices. The morphine drip straddling two worlds. Content with both. Either or.

A few tributes to John Lennon today & yesterday. How he came into how he left our/this world. A true artist. Magician. Strange how someone so far away, so distant, can & did take such a place with me. I know he struggled/worked/loved every day he was alive. Hero.

Reading a wonderful bio of Allen Ginsberg. Bill Morgan, author, begins chatting of Allen as a hero & yes, without question, he was a hero & like John, could transcend & change so much of this rather petty, corrupt world. Both not just strong believers of, but practitioners of love.

Thinking this weekend of what I truly miss. Of everything, what would or do I want. Frankly it’s so simple. Just those few – family, friends – without question. I wrestle every day what is prison. What is it to me? Truly digging down deep. Looking thru my eyes & attempting thru others. Prison is simply the attempt of removing love. Removing the individual practice. The belief of. Guys just babble here. Words are spewed worse than the exorcist. Words are rocks against windows. Against the walls. Society. Everything. Words are puke here. Wasted. Stupid & full of self-pity. Bitterness. It gets very frustrating. So in sorting out I have to dig thru all this bile. Stupidity. Bravado. Just to find or attempt to find some truth. A truth. & it comes down to love. Being forgotten. Forgetting. A surrender not to hatred but to hope. To love. Here, prison is a lie. Perpetuated by our & by our I mean the inmates, giving up. Rolling over. An un dignified surrender. This is not a judgment. It’s my observation. My judgment frankly, only matters to me of me. I will not give up on love or hope. On the light that exists. Has & will continue to exist. I know you are out there & to some extent that’s good. Alright. But frankly I’m talking to myself. Not to hear myself talk, never. But it’s out of responsibility. Out of my purpose. My beliefs. I grew up with some “odd” truisms. “Never say never” to this day, the word/thought never freaks me out. The other one was “never put it down on paper ‘cause people can hold it against you”. It is feelings, thoughts, observations. But I don’t want to know what it is, though I do. It is the “now we shall judge your stupid thoughts, your sad comments”. Your truth. This blog is not to educate. Entertain you. It’s my “fuck you”. My failures. My sadness. My humanity. My humility. My weakness. My joy. My love. When I emerge from this cell I don’t blink. Everything & I mean everything, has potential for disaster. For humiliation. For stupidity. All of life is such as this. It’s a trade off. I understand so much now it’s scary. I straddle that line between sanity & insanity every moment. I think I straddle it. Truly it doesn’t & it’s never existed. I talk to men who have raped their own children. & they talk of what the weather might be or of the fuckin Packers. They talk as if I care they are alive. That they matter. & I study how their eyes register & their mouths move & their fingers settle. & my wandering gets the best, the worse of me. I wonder & add my 2¢. Walk away & pray.

Prison is a remarkable experiment. One that will never work as such. Too many variables. Control subjects? Prison is stone soup. A shell game. A never saying never. A very fucked up situation. I watch myself change my face. My chest. My belly. My heart. My mind. What shall I give up. Give away. Hide away. I watched 2 friends talking today. The angle of their arms. The cloth that wrapped. The floor tile. The walls. The lights. A great photo. Reminded me of an asylum. Nursing home. A warehouse. Wander from one moment to next. Voices rumble as traffic. Shuffling of cards echo foot steps. Banter. Occasionally announcement. One might judge. Boredom. And at first, second glance, yes. But no. Within those mechanisms is a dance. A subtle ballet. Movement without question. Painfully reactive. Pure survival. No one looks like they know what’s going on. Everyone rigid. Ready to explode. To laugh. To cry. The convict’s drama. Concerted.

Later.

2007-12-21T07:15:00.001-08:00

120107

“Can music save your mortal soul?” Yeah, no question. Snow lingers in the wings. I wait for the fall as we all did as children. No school. No church. No stinky grandparent kisses. Big hunks of ham. Snow = silence. Helter skelter of the sweetest kind. An undressing of the universe dropping her sweet white bits of linen. Cotton. Butterfly flesh. Snow what a Godsend. What a tickle. “Cause fire is the devil’s only friend”. So we launch our love with snow cones & balls & forts. Ice skating. Prison is neither bleak or excited. Now it’s muffled. Sound travels a short distance. For that I thank the cold, snow, wind. Slip into the day. Co-conspirator & whistle “this will be the day that I die”. Ha! Yesterday the winds brought snow, snakes, as we were upon the desert. Perfect undulations. Hypnotic flat ground belly dancing. A magician. Fragrance. Nice remembrance. I was there. Totally. You know the scents. A slight closet off the side. Just big enough to slip in – out – before anyone notices. A perfect moist kiss & glimmer of eye, “hi”. I’m not an escapist. More explorer. Never a room I won’t enter. Exit stage left. Not much to read in Details.

Flat. Nice looking but at a distance. “That’s a nice animal” back to my world. DNA is a mixed bag. Tons of men in underwear. What’s with that fetish” My God. Either white briefs or nothing. Cotton. Remember to keep clean in case of an accident. Which is odd in this book Brutal. The author beats the hell out of a guy & interesting he totally evacuates. So much for mother’s advice. But in DNA they review a fantastic movie by a master, Querelle by Jean Genet. Rainer Fassbinder directed. Watched with Colette probably 20 yrs ago. She felt it “so depressing”. I was, “yeah”, kind of like when I was talking to my mother about True West by Sam Shepard. I thought that was a great play. My mother hated. Oh well. To each it’s own. Querelle is an adventure some consider it Fassbinder’s best. Either way see it. Brad Davis, casualty of AIDS is main character. Genet can do no wrong. Few more articles pretty good. But all this underwear. Like a Victoria Secret’s catalog with some great text. Kelly sent me a photo of Ezra Pound by Richard Avedon. Way cool. This weekend I’ll read. Catch up on letters. Wash clothes & yes, shower. I’m cutting back 2-3 a week now. Not that every day crap. Don’t really stink. More relaxed. Way relaxed.

Later.

2007-12-21T07:08:00.000-08:00

112907

Depression hits here like a retarded bat attempting to exist a closet. I’m stuck on a city bus from hell going backwards into time. Imagine if Jules Verne took that one toke too many. I’m that odd Frenchman in Hogan’s Heroes glued to radio. Though I can only accept messages on mine. No outgoing. Received an important message from Radiohead – “just like an angel, your skin makes me cry”. If I were you & you know me, perhaps you might not want to reveal yr present location. Just kidding. I’d be stuck on a street corner babbling, “they’re eating people, soylent green!” or perhaps I’ll tell all of thing 1 thing 2. Either way Dr. Doolittle my patron saint.

Reading Brutal. Relating to gangsters. Oh the joy of cracking heads. Wiping the world of fuckwads. Why isn’t there a movement against square people. Where do they come from? Too dull for circumstances. Not everyone needs to be out there. Some contrast. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s here. If it’s not on tv it doesn’t exist. I’m back in high school. So I will tuck my bat under mother’s hats & wait ‘til dawn to howl. Or dinner. “Ding dong bell pussy’s in the well. Who put her there?” Your skin does make me cry & just knowing we’ve touched…I do actually enjoy smashing pallets. Yuk. Now bad music. Oh well. I’m off to la-la land.

Later.

2007-12-20T06:39:00.000-08:00

112807

Broke apart 4 pallets this morning. Took less than an hour. Ate 8 hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Toast, coffee, oatmeal. Finished The Member of the Wedding last night. Slim was sleeping. The last delicate pages wrapped a truly wonderful book. Of course without question tore what was left of my liver out. Why am I reading such melancholic books? So heartful & crafted. Yet I try to respond to all that is given. I guess my luxury is the indulgence. The unquestionable losing of one’s self. McCuller’s writing is quite unique. A southern Nietzsche. “The show is over & the monkey’s dead”. John Henry quoted as he settle himself in the next to the last bus seat beside her father. “Now we go home & go to bed.” Much earlier in a fragment of a thought Frankie asks, “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that I am I & you are you?” Amazing conversations thru out this book. A twelve yr old girl, her black housekeeper & her little cousin John Henry which in my world ironic cause John Henry means Evan Henry. Any more & perhaps I might spoil this book. Just finished The Old Man & the Sea. Hemingway. I got one word for/of Ernest – Dignity. A profound writer. Maybe in this day & age hokey. Fuck that. He’s brilliant. So is this book. Never saw the movie with Spencer Tracy. Don’t need to guess Ernest wasn’t too pleased. The dignity of Ernest.
New Graham Parson’s I believe re-released. Can’t wait to hear that. What a musician. Poet. Legend. American. Rebel with a clue.

Later.

2007-12-19T07:29:00.001-08:00

112707

My good brother Reed asks me, is it better to love and lose or never love at all? Well I think you know my answer – yes. Eat at that table. Eat everything. Eat the fuckin table. Eat the chair. The chairs. Eat the air that surrounds & do not go gently. Love is the true – the only way/reason/decision. Fate. Destiny. It is THE. So yes, my friend. Where I separate is do we lose? How can you? It’s eating that fabulous table everything surrounding love. Sure you’ll shit it all out. Process. It’s the trip not the destination. Love ‘til you can’t then you better find a way to love again. Colette ate my heart, veins, Arteries dangled from her teeth. Her chin wet glistening with my blood. Our blood. I love her for that. That woman had balls. Stood up said “no more”. We move forward. Me slower. Retarded. Limping. Love & love again my dear brother. Hell, look what we’ve been thru. Would you want not have to have gone on this trip? Connected. 20+ years apart. 2 peas in a pod. Growing in that garden fueled/fed with beer. Rock & as much love as we can dig. A fuckin watermelon eating festival. Evan was correct when he backed up Mr. Thomas – Do not go gently. It’s ball to the floor.

Reed is a genius. He’s telling me about these stamps, of which are covering this letter & why is Barbara Streisand on them & her name. Well, I’m lost. Somehow he and his buddy mistakes a lion & the words “presorted standard” for “Barbara Streisand”. I lost it. Reed’s perfect. Had a great show @ Club Timbuk2. He & the son’s Highlonesome. Very nice. Reed carries an overabundance of pain. I feel bad at some point but I understand he’s a poet. A true bluesman. Carries the weight of the world in all her fucked broken horrid circumstances. Foot to teeth. Broken boned reality. My brother. More a son. Good man better than most. Hope you can hear his music. His vision. His beauty. You’ll be lucky. Luckier than most. This unsettled cruel existence. Sucked life from the roots. Roots trampled stomped nurtured loved in our-your truly distinctive way.

Got dizzy today. Way sick. Ready to pass out tearing apart pallets. Kept pushing forward ‘til that wall was like “settle down big guy”. I did. My boss called hsu. C.O. drove me there so fast. Was seen really quickly. Ran tests. Tons of questions. Not sure. Need more tests. I’m wiped out. Not my heart. Some sugar thing. Not diabetes. We’ll see. Point here is with so much going on with prisons/jails/hoc, here I got no complaints. They take this seriously. I’m grateful. Professionals. Over crowding is the problem but here there’s nothing that can be done. Again, look at the laws, solutions. You, the taxpayers, the true bosses. Don’t play the politicians game. Shell game. Get my drift?

Cool outside. Feels great. Got 2 more Hemingways from library. So much to do in 24 hours. You got same problem?
Guilty pleasure: that song, new song by Pink. Most of anything off new Wilco album. New Radiohead. What strange memories torment reality when I get out. Just don’t freak if when Radiohead plays and I ask in a polite “queer” tone: “mind if I sleep in your closet? Small empty room?”. Yes, my barrel is sailing over the falls. “Niagra”.
Later

2007-12-18T12:35:00.000-08:00

112307

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

For me the perfect story. The perfect writing.
It has it all – good vrs evil, a villain, a hero, religion, rich vrs poor, history, fiction, ghosts, horror, love, romance, humor, fantasy, memories, happiness, sadness, forgiveness, redemption, human nature. Hope & love. Makes quite the social statement.

“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”

The warning of ignorance & want has always stuck with me. It just speaks volumes.

The first time I actually realized what Scrooge meant when he said –

“If they would rather die they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”

I was floored. Decrease the surplus population. I still think that is such an evil statement and it makes me angry to hear it to this day.

This story- book – is a short, easy read. So if you have only seen the movie versions of it I encourage you to actually read it. Read it this holiday season and then read it again later on in the year.

Now for something unrelated -
I found this on the web and it made me laugh. It’s a quote from Bono – a small glimpse into the Irish attitude-

“Well in Ireland they have an interesting attitude to success. In America, you look up at the house on the hill, the mansion and say “One day that could be me”. In Ireland they look up at the mansion and go “One day I’m gonna get that bastard”.

2007-12-17T07:13:00.000-08:00

112207

Happy Thanksgiving.
Didn’t steal any land or screw over my neighbors. Steal ideas that would end a certain starvation. But what the hell – my history is of an America quite unsettling quite vile. But it’s ours. It’s what we got, baby. No. John Brown leads that brigade. Emma Goldman master of arms & with isn’t that Gertrude Stein. Hurray America of her blessed past. John Reed pass me a cigarette cause Mark Rudd ain’t old enough back then. Future. America our crazy uncle emerges from the laundry closet. Beautiful as a spring chicken. “Oh” mother cries. “He is so odd”. Between Agnew and Cheney who truly insane? Whose fence shall you perch. Ah, I ramble. Home on the range. Shelter from this storm.

Kelly just visited. Just left. Time so quickly. So spastic. So funny. “Oh, Virginia, leave those monkeys alone”. “I have the worst feeling”. Kelly, I’m sorry I digressed of certain people. Those questions of why & why because. I forgot. I need to “be here” (meaning present. – not I’m a horrid fish & need prison) I filled too much with complaint confusion. Forget that bs. Wonderful to see you. To share alone. Isn’t it strange how much fun we have in the midst of all that. “that” I couldn’t breathe. It was terrific. Thanks. I scream uncle & Tracy, shall we follow in Hamilton’s & Burr’s insanity? I will concede to vp only if you give me my Haig moment. ‘I’m in charge”. I digress. Ate too much turkey. Beautiful snow & a tight breeze. These are kind of letters from camp. (now creepy music) camp from hell. Northern WI hell. Not really. But a friend told me yesterday that these birds aren’t finches but snow buntings. Isn’t that sweet. Big clouds of buntings.

Out walking after lunch a number of guys I know have the same idea. Thanksgiving as a child sucked. Best one ever – my little brother gets drunk. He’s about 10, stands on his chair, “a toast to ham Lincoln”. Doesn’t get any better. Fast forward to my/our family. Colette worked like a scullery maid always an amazing dinner. Stress, yes, but rather silly. The boys & I gave her a hard time. Something she needed to do. Pizza & a movie. Perfect. After separation I agreed to let her have the holidays. The boys & I would get pizza & that movie. Our last Thanksgiving we made amazing hamburgers. Drank some beer & jack. Found a leather jacket for Noah which he later traded to Evan for a hat. It’s now mine. For me the holidays a day off. More craziness. Here it’s alright. It’s what you call a prison day. You know you’re here. I only mind the time not the holiday. When you start to live as every day the first & last. Perspective reigns. I feel bad for these guys though. Some very lost.

Stacy again reminds. Super. Hart Crane was a convict. French prison. So terribly delicious. Popped a cop. Oh how I envy. Instead I get a lecture from my brother of decency. Of demons. I’ve strangled all my demons. & look who America chooses to govern. Wake up.

I say goodbye as Hemingway, “I think Big Harry figured oblivion was some sort of a suburb. Probably an Irish neighborhood.”

Later

2007-12-14T07:13:00.001-08:00

112107

Well here we are again. Got some great letters yesterday. Lopez you’re a champ. Thanks. Will get back to you later. Kelly, thanks for the books. Mick is sold out. Typical luck of the Irish but just knowing you’re in my corner. Hell, I think you have your own corner. & letter from younger brother. Suffice to say thank you for the $$. Glad you got “whatever” off you chest.
Now let’s get crazy. “It started with a kiss how did it end up like this?” perfect summation of life. Of life’s rich pageant. Definitely mine, yours? They were stone steps. Placed mid-late 19th century. Later at night, perhaps 9? She was my “boss” instructing me in the fine art of printing. Offset. We had finished work. We lived in the same dorm. Bennett. Coed. We sat outside & leaned together. A kiss. Then the multitudes. Does love ever leave? Like a growth an extra limb. chop & move on. Ha! We talk of hate. We, meaning us: humans, citizens, society. Like if I hate you I purge you. Puke! Nope. No pukey for this mister. We don’t want hurt/pain. Oh the suffering. I disagree. We never to glance upon, speak to, of. What happened that evening? Was something planted. A collusion of comets. A rain to drought struck earth? It was joy. Bliss. & like Campbell suggests, we followed. Nearly 30 years. Not a yesterday. A yesterday left in a drawer- a pocket to be reached, held & examined. “oh, yes”. A warmth as full as harvest moon. As perfect as tomorrow promises. It started out as a kiss. Evan, Noah, Evan Henry. Results. Direct results of our limbs. How many as friends? Count sand baby. Our poetry. Collective success. So how & why does hate rear it’s horned head. I don’t know. She has fallen again & he seems to be a good guy. My happiness complete. I want my to dissolve. To resolve. To never turn back on & to pull those up from the ditch. Evan intimidated me. Even as a child he had no fear. None. Freaky. His love unconditional. Complete and refreshingly insane. I would not, nor never, be the man I am without him & his brother. Noah, the definition of solid. Firmly rooted & totally natural gifted musician. Poet. My lessons of love those 3. My masters. Sure I had wonderful ideas. Jacob another. My grandmother Vera. Books. Words strung as trains. Locomotives that brought word. Words of others. Love. The idea of the simplest things seem the most compacted. So complex. Here is my heart. My trust. My me. Total of what/who I am/can be. Please don’t leave in the rain or on that table at the post office. If you shall I will hurt. I will stand & I will walk backwards. How far depends on who/what we are to each other. It’s easy to write of love from prison. To pontificate. Fuck that. Remember not only am I a pirate but I know how to dig up treasures. For me to deny life’s bounty I would be a liar. A fraud. I am grateful for these vast & varied lessons. Humbled by the presence of.

I do have a good/odd habit of oversharing. I try to tolerate & mellow my opinion. Lopez writes these dense thinking letters of poetry & family. It’s a tight line to meander. He does it quite well. He makes me think. Of poetry. Of this. Life’s responsibility. Stacy also Joel. It’s a cozy room. I would like to throttle poetry. I resent the term. Some definitions. Some ideas of. But my mistake - I let Ginsberg & Berrigan have their say & fuck, before I knew it I was waging my ideas of. The beauty of self, self taught for me was that it came out of loss. Job wife husband limb mind. Not always. So to remain either in society as someone who produces either as selling or giving it away, people would visit/notice you. The intent at first was I need to produce something. I’m still here. I am. I am on the call. Well some amazing pieces were/are produced. It became very commercial. Very negative. But many did survive. Many did affect. It’s a long story and I’m not doing it justice. My point is, deep within, is our need not want to create. These people were forced(?) compelled. Poetry should - must – compel. Must not compromise. Must smash & must conjour. Must kiss & with fangs devour. I understand the perspective of the academy. But simply, for me, poetry is walking. Fucking. Spellmaking & human sacrifice. Splat we land from a fall. In our falls we strive to redeem. To sing. To love & do die, alone. Remembered. Honored.

I do struggle with definition of honor amongst thieves. Yes, I’ve encountered. Both here & there. Actually I could and probably am referring to you. But that’s okay cause it’s something good. Something very good. Not unlike wearing pajamas under suit pants or a very smart Chanel skirt. God I love a woman in a great tailored skirt. Women truly are the graceful beasts. Men angles. Sometimes a sharp sometimes not. We understand honor right? Think Michael Collins. Think Sam Adams. Just think tremendous scruples. An understanding beyond. A truly, truly profound “honesty”. A subjective. Now add thieves. For me Genet is that flower. That thief. I was disappointed cause so much behavior in here is rather ridiculous. The demands, expectations by cons – the inmates – Hello! We broke the law. This is the rug we weave. Keep your business to yourself & everyone else’s just doesn’t exist. These are the standards. The rules. The reality. You break and you deal with. This snitching is quite bizarre. Unbecoming. But in all honesty we all have our belief system. Some jive with current society. Some obviously not. Bear in mind. Choose your battles but stand complete in tracks you laid. Enough said. Do not go gently.

Stacy sent a new(ish) manuscript. God, it’s wonderful. Everyone seems to carry a bag of treasures. Hart Crane occupies big space in Stacy’s. She reminds of his genius total heart-break brilliant fuck the night. A wonderful little collection soon to be published. Everytime I read Stacy I get a nasty itch. I don’t want to sit still. I want to run or go for a walk. Write. Or steal a kiss. Rather difficult in here. My choice is rather evident, oui? I read Orizaba: A Voyage with Hart Crane, a number of years ago. Perfect. The problem is hear in my brain “more more”. We need these gentle nudges. I will write of th
is later when published.

So, I’m working in leather in a petite way. My friends don’t worry. For those either new or interested I’m making a few little trinkets for gifts. Free. Kind of sweet. Little odd. Not tremendously gay. Not gay-homo, gay- happy. What you need to do is drop me a line and request one. I’ll get asap. No strings. No worry about some crazy letter writing maniac. Just thought this might be fun. Again, not a lot. Way under 10. Ok?

Tomorrow Thanksgiving. Wish family & friends the best. Holidays are nice. A time out. I always think of John Prine going up to some homeless. Lost. Broken citizen. A pat on the back. A meal. A hello there. a little more

Later.

2007-12-13T06:51:00.001-08:00

111807

Week comes to a close. Figured I’m finished with Killing Time. Will type & get ready for finished product. Then wrap up the first part, Strike Hard Old Diamond. Then I’ll get going on the third and final part of this whole sleep walk. Been getting some fantastic letters. Julie R. brings is all home for me. We lost each other & now we’re found. She has a huge loving heart. Smart as all get out. Solid political mama. Her words tender my breast. Reflect again. Kelly found my older brother Mark. Again uncle Kelly solves the mystery. I’m so deep within this well. Should I be grateful for this imprisonment? If not could/would I ever understand blood of love, or would I forever wallow in self-pity. I do respond quickly to desperate situations. Not much of a toad.
Finished Mysterious Island by Verne. Perfect read for prison. Again, would I have had time to read outside. I’m a child again within that candy store. Now it’s O Pioneers by Willa Cather. I read My Antonia in Dodge. Fell in love with her there. Such a direct perfectly chosen document of America of true grandeur. Her people. Ours. Their courageous struggle. Subtle though oh so profound victories. I, like Capote, adore her. He though had the honor of meeting her, alas, I missed that boat with both. I have my own pocket of riches. Speaking of which, got a sweet delicious letter from Stacy. So I’m returning my thoughts. Mid-sentence announced Tom Waits on radio. Oh fuck. That monster in the closet. Sure enough, Time, by him. I’m trying to convey this/that pain that struggle wrestle with memories. Yikes. I turn off light & let that bitch out. I howl and tear my heart out. Everything falls out. I mean I’m sobbing. Sobbing like the bottom just fell out. It was great. Quite simply my river. Time begins ends with melody. With warble of chords. Stammer of aggression. At a very early, older brother & sister point me in that direction. Dance motherfucker dance. My release. I can’t sing so I spaz. Can’t quite spaz in prison so yes sometimes I howl. Caught last night by neighbor. “yeah, I have a horrible voice” “yep”. Life is a shoe make that little shit fit. It was/is great to have a dormant volcano within one’s chest. Except for a little steam, not a lot of warning before we blow. My addictions: chaos & emotion. That tight tight rope. Pull ‘til almost snap then just hold it. Thank you all for yr thoughts, words. Human contact.

Later.

P.S.

I wish all a Happy Thanksgiving. Please scratch below that surface & surprise one with your thought, word or gentle nudge. For today all we have. Need. Always.

2007-12-12T07:02:00.000-08:00

111307

I even have to ask myself, “what’s the point”. Point being large nature of complaint. Bottom line – accountability. Look, if you got in the bathtub dude, you got a problem. Selling rock on the street corner without question laws broken. Yes society weighs in. Tolerate weed, yes it’s moving in that direction. Rock smack selling pics of yr kids… you know what I mean, never. Should drunks be in prison, I mean there are guys who were busted car off parked in some lot. Questionable. The bottom line it’s your texture. Your stink. We all got it. In here everyone seems to be searching for that stank. How bad are you or how stupid. I call it a remote part of Mexico but it’s also another man’s house. “the man” a lot of these guys have no clue. Tickets for missing count in here is like not hearing a fire truck. Fire alarm. I thought I could blank out things. Well that’s a huge frustration. & then it’s the guard out to get me. No good old paranoia. Dardar paranoia. Like dud you’re an idiot. The best way of thinking life is a path on a damp beach. Everyone can see yr tracks and you think just because you’re walking away & can’t see behind you we can’t. as much as you might fall in the back ground you truly can’t. My ramble is simply do what you do realizing we all got to pay the piper. A day can’t go by without kicking myself. It’s just not me missing you it’s you missing me. It’s fucked. What brought this to the surface is yesterday I was called to property. Kelly had ordered some books from Hamilton for me; I thought “that was quick”. No. Stacy had sent me Alice Notley’s new book, In The Pines. I was so happy. Context: graham crackers are a treat in here. I just got a huge steak & a big ole cake. Case of PBR. Got it.
Thank you Stacy. Alice is a champ. A true amazing poet. A poet. Just a mountain. Her dedication is: for my sons and their friends. Now you understand? Poetry is not words. Words are rugs. Walk all over them. Shake it out and start all over again. Alice is a frontier blues traveling medicine boogie lover. They’re words from the peak. From birth. Teeth of death. Laughter of an intimate. She is quite frankly it. She’s it. She’s the kind of poet when I was younger I’d stop writing when I read her. Thankfully in an odd way I already had the addiction. Alice, I get so scared when I read you. I forget. You remind me. You teach me. I’m so happy to have this in my life. I believe my cell is comforted. Protected.

2007-12-12T06:56:00.000-08:00

111207

Years ago when as a family we traveled to the South looking, collecting art (mainly self-taught African American art). We were in this gallery. Conversation gets around to David Butler. A genius. Wife dies and he decorates everything in sight – his yard, windows – everything. Whirligigs – bright solid colors. So intimate yet a vast happy playground. I mean he had to put his love some where. So this gallery guy says, “yeah, David is alive living in a nursing home.” We find it. Go to visit. He’s over 80 – maybe close to 90. No teeth. No hair. The sweetest face ever surrounded by stuffed animals. I mean surrounded. The boys are like “what are we doing?” David remembers nothing of his house –his yard masterpiece. I’ll be damned if we leave there without some recognition. Finally after ½ hour or so his eyes glaze with a subtle joy, an almost “wait, something clicking”. His eyes just light up & tear forms. He goes “I remember”. We were knocked out. Can you imagine Picasso forgetting his Blue Period? Or Ginsberg forgetting Howl? It was our duty.

Yesterday, the radio on, this song strikes a chord, “wait” I think. I know this. It’s Hole. Holy mother my heart breaks & I remember. God I love Courtney Love. Her beauty, talent, balls, pain. Walk in her shoes for 5 minutes. People have been such assholes to her. She doesn’t give up. She goes forward. It was a big YEAH. My soul hovers over the fence.

Today in the library I notice an old bunky. Going home. His smile was “this” big!
Mine, same size. “Never want to see you ever again, except way different circumstances.” Another survivor. Realized the bros I hang with all for the most part don’t have a ton of time – under 5 – 3 years. See I’m alright. Another beautiful day. Wrote to Evan Henry. Hope when he is older he treasures our early communication cause grandpa is in prison. What tales to weave.

I drive Kelly crazy – used to drive Stacy. I edit & re edit and re - edit big time. “you edited the joy out”. I’m a butcher woodcarver. Bring that baby down. Down to essence. Sometimes, “nah, that’s cool” so here’s one from 102007 entry.

free range convict
for Jacob

I recollect, even in our sleep we surrender.
Virginia Woolf found every pebble
on that beach to make stone soup
Alas, forgot to switch coat.

upon these 10 toes I stand
determined. question & never define.
a good man better than some/worse for wear.
hell, even remember purpose of confederacy.

between greed & one’s prison is 3 squares
never to stand upon yonder.
chair with rope necklace.
never sleep in anything

but good
ole thermal
underwear.

What do you think? Yeah, free range is a reference to the yard & free range chickens.

Here’s a new poem –

(to continue the astronomic metaphor)

eloquence of silence
heady beer
distracted misconception
& we shall meet, again.

this prison rattles neither cage nor consequence
see before yr existence I staggered. roamed a
Spanish conquistador, of sorts
pirate? perhaps

point being everything was explained
complete & utter sense
detailed
it’s just taken nearly 50 yrs to regain.

now I do
& understand in a way to difficult to defend, so by way of
Jules Verne wasn’t just a tremendous author
& pigeons rarely have question of flight

a hand balled
becomes fist
open & extend(ed)
handshake

invitation. a greeting. perhaps, “there will never be a vast difference”
I leave with this thought, thought of space
coexists between here/there
negative space

we shall close
with silence
open
with love

Tootles – may all our joy be large. Large enough to share. Bring home to others.

Later.

2007-12-07T06:50:00.000-08:00

111107

I only have a few words about M.R.S.A. A number of news reports have discussed this. From my limited exposure I believe the state is on the right track. Like you all imagine there are some real pieces of work here. Some real pigs. Yes, there have been some instances of but keep clean, don’t share the body and it’s functions and you’ll be cool. Again, easier said than done.

Been reading some fantastic work. In Our Strange Gardens – Michael Quint. Simply breath taking. I loved the cover and the fact it’s bilingual. Beautiful production. That’s nothing compared to what’s inside. A tribute love story funny as fuck, sad as hell. Rip your guts and give you toast & honey. One sentence that stops your heart. A risk to read in prison. A must to be any kind of human.

Hunger by Knut Hamson. “Truth telling does not involve seeing both sides or objectivity; truth telling is unselfish inwardness”, Antonio Machado says, the writer should listen to himself and “ought to overtake by surprising some of the phrases of his inward conversations with himself, distinguishing the living voice from the dead echoes.” Tight, huh? Hamsun was diagnosed with terminal tuberculosis, 3 months to live. Friends raised money to ship him home to Norway to die. This guy takes a train to New York on top of the fuck’in locomotive the whole trip. His mouth open gulping air. HELLO! Dude, how big are your balls? So all this fresh fast speeding air on top of a locomotive – it’s not like his doctor goes “Knut, you’re a dead man. Go gulp some air on top of a speeding locomotive”. Who is this guy? Superman? The patient declares himself cured. Didn’t go back to Norway. Never a trouble with tuberculosis. So where did I discover him? Who else? – Henry Miller. Kate Millet’s boyfriend. Actually she dug him. Why go to college to write? Get a fatal disease come up with your own cure & write an amazing minute by second account of madness & starvation. Truly something not for the Paris Hilton crowd. Even in the weak library there are some sleepers. Also been catching up on Jules Verne Journey to the Center of…Around the World…. Fun. Solid storytelling. Got some Twain waiting in the wings. This Huck book was published in 1884. Cool.

So Kelly forwarded info about you guys. Not who you are but where. I’m impressed. We have some solid repeats. 75%. For me what’s so cool is the 2 from India. 3 from the Phillipines. Sweden. Turkey. Portugal. That’s so amazing. Small world. 6 from Germany & Italy. 11 from UK. I wish we’d get some from Ireland. Then a ton from here and Canada. Might I ask how you found this? As much as I live in a totally unsexy place I find this immensely sexy. Not sex sexy but kind of cool sexy. Like Rolling Stone sexy. Patti Smith sexy. Who are you from India? I have a dear friend from the North, Sandeep. A few dudes I knew from the Philippines. Oh, well. I’m sounding insane. Nah – just thank you. I’m really happy. Hope it’s working for you. Nice to know we’re not alone. That is the hard part of life. The silence. The “there’s no one here”, am I even alive?” “can any one hear me?” You get a lot of that here.
And here comes the big circle. Remember the first couple of entries? Write. Write a friend. A parent. A child. A prisoner. We’re losing contact. I know I just said we’re together & now I’m saying we’re losing contact. I mean personal contact. Letters. Phone calls. Knock at your door. I love human contact but hate stupidity. So I write. & you too. I get great letters. I give great letters. Now let’s be happy. To wrap it up – congrats Chris Martin on your book. (American Music rght? )
Thank you all for reading. If you’re in the Milwaukee area check out Highlonesome & Reed Avoided. 357 String Band, Holy Mary Motor Cycle Club & the Trusty Knives. Great music from a town that was made famous by a beer. A delicious beer. PBR. Even if you’re in Chicago come on over. & thanks again Kelly.

Later.

2007-12-06T06:08:00.000-08:00

111007

I started this yesterday in my heart after hearing Social D’s Story of My Life. I write first in my head then if/when I remember, paper. Evan & Noah with some friends took me to their show a number of years ago. Fantastic. While sharing a beer Mike Ness walks by. Evan pointed him out. I was impressed. True artist.
Yesterday drug ugly. I was tired, beat, depressed. A buddy told me of his brother’s arrest. Same as mine but in Florida & she approached him in an instant message. His celly was like “you come from a family of pervs”. I was more like, “my God the pain your parents are going thru. Your brother, his wife, you. I’m so sorry”. Why this response? Why not same as celly? First, I believe my friend. Am I gullible? – yes. Stupid? No. Second, his brother has never been in trouble. Third, who has been alone – lonely, displaced seeking a friend? Sometimes the grey area is larger than black or white, and yes, I know it’s hard to believe some truly innocent people are in prison. Yes, you never have to remind me to hurt a child is far from reason, but entrapment? I will be done with this shortly. My true concern was for my friend & his family. I’m not attaching self pity to this but I would be expressing a whole lot more anger if I wasn’t here. Perhaps this is the direction I need to go in when I’m thru here. Not just prison reform but the big picture. How crime is tied so closely to politics. The numbers aren’t getting any better because civil liberties are being swallowed whole. Believe me if I had some issue with children I’d be the first in line to correct. I hate going off in this direction because of the whole Shakespeare bit “"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Any way, our talk beat me. It took a while to figure out. Did like this inventory & I realized his pain became mine. I will be a friend he may lean on. I will not make it mine. Make sense?

I adore Kelly’s 2 entries. She is so terrific. It’s beyond everything she does with/for me. Her heart is so pure from my perspective. Everyone here who knows me asks about her because of the stories I relate about her. Like in this last letter – she knows my celly, Slim, draws/makes cards and she sent a bunch of printout illustrations of Christmas stuff. Ok now some perspective here – these are basic pieces of paper with goofy cartoon stuff on them. My celly is over 50, ok? I would have to buy you a bag of groceries, booze or music to illicit the same response. This guy becomes a child at his first Christmas. I kind of get embarrassed. – “Dude, it’s paper”. Wrong response. This is not an unusual response. Frankly & sad in the Kerouac universal way, everyone freaks. It breaks my heart. It’s not just the paper or what’s on it. It’s the fact that someone cares to take the time/energy/expense to do it & it’s not even their friend. It’s John’s Kelly. The untouchable Kelly. No one ever fucks with my friends in here. No one would ever think of referring to Kelly in some piggish way. Not just me but the minions of adorers would come with the wrath of Zeus. & no one is jealous (& everyone is jealous in here) because Kelly is someone who knows. Someone who doesn’t have to, but does care. “John, could I write Kelly?” “Are you insane?” Enough to say no doubt about it, I’m more than lucky. I’m loved. I’m loved without money. Without anything but my loyality. My love. Devotion. Kelly asks me about one I loved truly – Will I ever get over her? You don’t get over love. You surrender for it is the true conqueror. We surrender because it’s right. It frees and delivers. You don’t go backwards. Believe me I’ve taken extensive lessons on love. Evan, like his mother, was a master. & Noah, well, I can’t think of a greater way of spending one’s life. To be honest I was blessed at a very early age. My parents really wanted me, though it became too much & when that happened I had a grandmother who took over. She died suddenly when I was 6 & through a rather strange twist of fate I was introduced to John Lennon (not literally). I don’t want to go there now but perhaps some day. Some how thru all the pain I witnessed , experienced and delivered, the redeemer has always been love. That’s it. All you need is. Easier said than done. Kelly is an example of. Stacy another love & Lopez a man I’ve never met physically though communicates as a true brother, and dear James - Poet extraordinaire from Milwaukee. Dear dear Matt. & Julie from Baltimore & Julie, my surrogate daughter. Kim. Reed, a truly profound brother. Conroy. Jesse. It’s what we’re here for. My dear Amanda. A woman whose strength, beauty, courage & brilliance allows tears of joy to cascade when I think perhaps we are witnessing the same sun, sons, grandson.

So prison is a fence. Bars. A locked exit. There are rules. Serious rules. Real fuck’in serious rules. They’re not always the state’s rules. There is a code. And there is honor. And there are brothers. The guards are not always wrong. Frankly, respect is the word. Word to live by. Survive by.

2007-11-27T14:47:00.000-08:00

110907

Sorry “prison poet” people…

It’s not a secret any more. I am addicted to court tv shows. Judge Judy, People’s Court, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Gregg Mathis, Law & Order, COPS, The Shield. Could there have been a better show than Homicide: Life on the Streets? Now I am hooked on this new show called Jail (by the guys who do COPS).

I like rules. I think there is chaos without them. I believe that at the core our justice system does work. For every action there is a reaction. You break the law and you go to jail and get sentenced according to the law. How the laws & sentencing are interpreted is another story… I am fascinated by this show Jail. It works for me on so many levels. It shows society at its worse and in some ways at its best at the same time. It shows how people react to each other under stressful and unpredictable situations. It shows respect, restraint, great psychology at work. It teaches the viewer about how this part of the justice system works. It shows how people can hit rock bottom & what desperation is. You see every type of person on this show. It shows the training & the professionalism of the prison staff.

Some of the drunks, prostitutes etc are very amusing. Some defy, some accept, some are terrified, some cry and some take it all in stride or as “a matter of fact-ly”. I love hearing the comments of the guards about the prison population. What they have seen. The conversations and interactions between staff & inmates are always very interesting. Everything in jail is so unpredictable. Everything can be running smoothly and then the next second the whole place is under lockdown. Everyone in that place has to be able to react in a second’s notice. Stress, stress, stress. A lot happens in this half hour show.

A story that sticks in my head is about this kid – probably 20-21. He was in the holding cell just waiting for his release paperwork. He was there for just a few hours. Something happened. Some one provoked him Next minute blood everywhere. He went off and attacked someone – or he was defending himself – who knows? Now he is being sentenced for a felony and may get 10-15 years. The guard said the kid was probably about 20 minutes from walking out the door and going home. WOW!!

So much of what John describes in his entries and letters is played out right before my eyes. It is amazing. Not that I need a show to remind me where John is. Believe me I know. I know he doesn’t tell us everything that happens and I am sure we don’t really want to know. I used to joke to him about how he is on vacation in there. Living an easy life. I don’t anymore. I call it our social experiment. He is doing the undercover work.

-kc

2007-11-21T09:35:00.001-08:00

110507

I did get to visit John on November 3. It was my first visit since Labor Day. It was great.
I was an hour late but no matter. He looks good. Has a beard now. New glasses. A job.
Was in great spirits. Lots of smiles and laughter as usual.
Very nice. As always the time goes by too fast. When it was time to leave he said come back when you can. I said I will come on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanksgiving. My favorite holiday. (I know being Catholic that Easter should be my top holiday but honestly Easter is way too emotional for me – it challenges my faith, beliefs, brings back beautiful memories). Thanksgiving. The forgotten holiday or rather, the most over looked holiday. I love Thanksgiving because it is a day of just being together and being thankful that we know & love each other. There is no 2 month build up. No pressure of buying gifts. No big cartoon turkey popping out of the oven to bring gifts to children. No mythical creatures. No religious affiliation. It’s not a candy day. It’s good food, good company.

Last year I had two Thanksgiving dinners. One with John & his coworkers and the other I cooked for John & me the next day at my house. I invited him but then his boss invited both us over so on the day we spent it with new friends. It was fun. A mixed crowd.
All new people to me. There was a great family there with 2 high school aged boys who seemed so bored. I have nieces & nephews ranging in age from 29 to 2. I know how to talk to teenagers. I still know what’s cool with the kids these days (don’t I?) I engaged them in conversation. We were all laughing. Then add John and his special brand of humor – well it was hilarious. I think those kids thought I was on drugs because I was crying I was laughing so hard and at things they would never understand. (never told you this JT )On the way home it was so foggy I took the long, cautious way home. Once again John had me laughing so hard - while I was driving- totally sober mind you- I don’t know what he said or did but I couldn’t stop laughing that I actually peed my pants.
(JT -That’s the real reason I didn’t go into the house where Noah was and just waited in the car!) Day after I cooked. John mashed the potatoes with a fork. I was amazed at his culinary skills. I think we ate, drank and watched Mind of Mencia.

Every year I get several dinner invitations. I tend to stay home and do whatever I feel like that day. A couple of times it was just pizza & wine writing out Christmas cards while watching Holiday Inn. This year I am making a pumpkin tiramisu to take to my sister’s when I get home from Oshkosh. I will skip the big dinner. I think I will make myself a most delicious meatloaf and big bowl of mashed potatoes and green beans.
It will be a perfect day.
I wish a perfect holiday to all of you.

-kc

2007-11-21T09:32:00.001-08:00

110407

My celly is pissed I’ve flushed orange peel down toilet. He freaks out at any disorder. He talks to walls but in truth he’s talking to me. Really odd. I told him he’s crazy. Ah Sunday. Laying here waiting for count. Listening to the classical station. Decide to change. Hear some older Dylan. Turns out to be a tribute. Shelter from the Storm narrated by Patti Smith. Holy fuck can it get any better? Patti Smith the rock goddess. My fuckin idol. God I love here. When “Horses” came out I was working/living at the Desoto Hotel in Galena. Great historic town/hotel. Well listening to “Horses” on my close and play in this tiny room in a very small town. I realized what could be on that horizon. Then she introduced me to Arthur Rimbaud. I was already writing to & reading Ginsberg so I knew of the beats. This album. This Patti Smith knocked my on my ass. She played in Chicago in the late 70’s at the Aragon Ballroom. I went with some friends. Tripping & way drunk decided wander back stage. I was thrown out. Called home. We lived in Waukegan. Called Colette & our friend Cathy was over. “I got thrown out” “Where are you?” “At a Jewel.” “O.K. Stay there, we’ll be there Asap.” So I asked Cathy to call information & get the Aragon’s #. I say I need to talk to Patti Smith.
“Who are you?”
“I’m William Burroughs”
“okay, wait”
“Hello”
“Patti Smith?”
“yes”
“no you’re not”
“yes I am”
Somehow I hang up the phone. Remember I am drunk/tripping. Call Cathy back. “What’s that #?”
I call back.
“This is Hunter Thompson. I want to talk wish Patti good luck. Hello Patti, yes, well it’s me again. I’m neither Burroughs nor Thompson”
“I know”
“Well I just got thrown out and was beat up by the bouncers.” (which was true. They knocked me around and literally threw me in the street. My hat was run over. A perfect tread mark across it. I’m an idiot). So she’s very concerned. Believe it or not I hang up again. Call Cathy again. Call box office. I’m Burroughs again. Patti gets on again. I explain as if she didn’t know I’m messed up. She tells me about her performing at the Rock Against Racism show. She tells me to meet her there. Colette & friend pick me up. Not too pissed. Tell about calls. Now she’s irritated The truth is between hang ups I explained to Cathy the jist of the calls so the next day we went back but no Patti. Lenny Kaye announced an apology to the person who was to meet Patti. God’s truth. Fuck up thing they got their sound equipment ripped off that night. Only Cathy confirmed that night & that little thing from Lenny Kaye. So if you know Patti see if she remembers or am I truly insane? Anyway I didn’t bring up Bob Dylan to tell that story. But Patti Smith is so totally without question the quintessential poet musician god I spaz at mention of her name. Ask Stacy about her reaction to her presence. Anyhow, the show was great. Got to hear One More Cup of Coffee from the album Desire. Fantastic song & Dylan is truly the master. Now I switched over to the college radio station. Punk & surf rock. Dick Dale, Link Wray. Great station. Always something fantastic. Playing music from Twin Peaks right now. I truly realize take my freedom away – not my music.
Thanks for reading. Go outside and kiss someone on the way out. Snow is coming. & there’s no one here I can kiss & life is too grand & short. P.S. – thanks for the hugs & kisses Kelly. They keep me alive. You all be good. Love.

Later

2007-11-21T09:26:00.000-08:00

110307

The weekend. No work. Hurray! (just kidding)
Quiet 2 days & Kelly is coming for a visit. Anticipation.
Yep, she arrived & tremendous visit. She’s got her stories I got mine. So cool. So sweet. Mellow & sincere. She should give workshops on positive prison visits. Some make it way too heavy. Got back lunch of polish sausage & oatmeal cookies. Buddies asked, “How’s visit?” “Great.” Smiles color. It’s all good. If only every moment so perfect. But then no contrast. No battle. No glory. Then mail. Hip hip hooray! Jonathan, Julie R. Chrisanne & Matt (fantastic artists, dear, dear friends). God, so blissful. Great letters. Long soak in the bath. I don’t want to forget I’m in h ere but when you can write a letter that lessens this blow, you’re all right. You’re amazing. Thanks all. & no, Chrisanne, no swimming, some yoga my own. & pilates. But good old cell workout. & Kelly, I adore you. I look like hell. Lost so much weight in my face. So gaunt. Kind of like I got the hiv. Scary. After visit I had to take a piss. Saw myself in a mirror. We don’t have mirrors. We have polished steel. I freaked myself out. I lost a lot of weight but I feel great. So that’s the payoff. But I do love these letters my loves. Thanks. Running out of ribbon but after all today’s joy I can handle that.