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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.